by Sandra Brown
Impatiently they grappled with buttons and zippers and hooks until they had loosened their damp clothes and were touching skin to skin. First his hands and then his mouth did things to her she found both thrilling and shocking. When he entered her, her conscience couldn’t be heard above his ardent professions of love.
That initial passion hadn’t abated. If anything it had escalated during their stolen hours together. Now, she turned her head and looked at him over her shoulder. Her full lips fashioned a shy smile.
“I’m not ashamed enough to end our affair. Even though I know it’s a sin, I’d die if I thought I’d never make love to you again.”
With a groan of renewed desire, he pulled her back against him. She twisted her body around until she lay on top of him, her open thighs straddling his hips.
He thrust himself deep inside her, then raised his head off the pillow to nuzzle her breasts. She pressed her large nipple against his lips. He caressed it with his tongue, then greedily drew it into his mouth.
This position was still a novel and exhilarating experience for her. She rode him hard until they enjoyed another explosive and simultaneous climax, which left them weak and panting for breath.
“Leave him,” he rasped urgently. “Today. Now. Don’t spend another night with him.”
“I can’t.”
“You can. Thinking of you with him is driving me crazy. I love you. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” she said tearfully. “But I can’t just walk away from my home. I can’t desert my children.”
“Your home is with me now. I don’t expect you to desert your children. Bring them. I’ll be their father.”
“He’s their father. They love him. He’s my husband. In the eyes of God, I belong to him. I can’t leave him.”
“You don’t love him.”
“No,” she admitted. “Not the way I love you. But he’s a good man. He provides for me and the girls.”
“That’s not love. He’s merely fulfilling his responsibilities.”
“To him they’re more or less the same.” She rested her head against his shoulder, willing him to understand. “We grew up in the same neighborhood. We were sweethearts in high school. Our lives are entwined. He’s a part of me, and I’m a part of him. If I left him, he’d never understand why. It would destroy him.”
“It’ll destroy me if you don’t.”
“That’s not so,” she said. “You’re smarter than he is. More self-confident and strong. You’ll survive no matter what. I’m not sure he would.”
“He doesn’t love you the way I do.”
“He doesn’t make love to me the way you do. He would never think of…” Embarrassed, she ducked her head.
Sexuality was still a secretive subject, closed to candid discussion. It had never been openly acknowledged, either in her family when she was a girl or in her marriage. It was done in the dark, a necessary evil tolerated and forgiven by God in order to perpetuate the human race.
“He’s not sensitive to my desires,” she said, blushing. “He’d be shocked to know I even have desires. You encourage me to touch you in ways I would never touch him because it would offend him. He’d think your sensuality is wimpy. He wasn’t taught to be giving and tender in bed.”
“Machismo,” he said bitterly. “Do you want to settle for that the rest of your life?”
She looked at him with sorrow. “I love you more than my life, but he is my husband. We have children together. We have a heritage in common.”
“We could have children.”
She touched his cheek, feeling both affection and regret. Sometimes he was like a child, unreasonably demanding something he couldn’t have.
“Marriage is a holy sacrament. Before God, I pledged my life to him until death—and only death—parts us.” Tears formed in her eyes. “I’ve broken the vow of faithfulness for you. I won’t break the others.”
“Don’t. Don’t cry. The last thing I want to do is make you unhappy.”
“Hold me.” She snuggled down next to him.
He stroked her hair. “I know that being with me violates your religious convictions. But that gauges the depth of your love, doesn’t it? Your sense of morality wouldn’t allow you to sleep with me unless you loved me with all your heart.”
“I do.”
“I know.” He wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Please don’t cry, Judy. We’ll work it out. We will. Just lie with me for the time we have left today.”
They clung to each other, their misery over the situation as absolute as their joy in their love, their naked bodies joined seamlessly.
That’s the way her husband found them a few minutes later.
She was the first to notice him standing in the doorway of the bedroom, quivering with righteous indignation. She sprang up and groped for the sheet to cover herself. She tried to speak his name, but her mouth was arid with fear and shame.
Muttering vicious deprecations, lavishing them with lewd epithets, he lurched across the room toward the bed, raised a baseball bat above his head, and swung it down in a deadly arc.
Later, even the paramedics, who were accustomed to seeing gory crime scenes, had difficulty keeping down their lunches. There was an unspeakable mess splattered on the floral wallpaper behind the bed.
Meaning no disrespect to the blood-spattered crucifix on the wall, one whispered, “Jesus Christ.”
His partner knelt down. “I’ll be damned, I feel a pulse!”
The other gazed doubtfully at the lumpy matter oozing from the split cranium. “You think there’s a chance?”
“No, but let’s haul anyway. We might have an organ donor here.”
Chapter Three
October 10, 1990
“Is there something wrong with the pancakes?”
He raised his head and gave her a blank look. “What?”
“The batter mix promises lighter-than-air pancakes every time. I must’ve done something wrong.”
He’d been toying with his breakfast for five minutes without taking a bite. He poked his fork into the syrupy mush on his plate and smiled apologetically. “There’s nothing wrong with your cooking.”
He was being kind. Amanda was a terrible cook. “How’s my coffee?”
“Great. I’ll take another cup, please.”
She glanced at the kitchen clock. “Do you have time?”
“I’ll make time.”
He rarely allowed himself the luxury of being late for work. Whatever had been preoccupying him for the last several days must be vitally important, she thought.
Awkwardly, she rose and moved to the Mr. Coffee on the counter. Bringing the carafe with her, she returned to the table and refilled his cup.
“We need to talk.”
“Conversation will be a welcome change,” she said, resettling into her chair. “You’ve been in another world.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” A frown formed between his brows as he stared at the steaming mug of coffee, which she knew he really didn’t want. He’d been stalling.
“You’re scaring me,” she said gently. “Whatever it is that’s troubling you, why don’t you just tell me and get it over with? What is it?” she probed. “Another woman?”
He shot her a retiring glance, clearly conveying that she knew better than even to suggest such a thing.
“That’s it,” she said, slapping the tabletop. “You’re disgusted with me because I look like Dumbo’s mother. My water-retentive ankles are a turn-off, right? You miss the small, pert tits you used to tease me about. My inny is nothing but a fond memory, and you find my outy repugnant. Pregnancy has robbed me of all sex appeal, so you’ve got the hots for a sweet, young, slim babe and dread telling me about her. Am I warm?”
“You’re crazy.” He reached across the small round table and pulled her to her feet. When she was standing before him, he splayed his hands over her distended abdomen. “I love your belly button, inny or outy.”
He kissed it through her loose co
tton nightgown. Some of the coarser whiskers of his mustache penetrated the sheer fabric and tickled her skin. “I love the baby. I love you. There’s no other woman in my life and never could be.”
“Bull.”
“Fact.”
“Michelle Pfeiffer?”
He grinned at her while pretending to ponder it. “Gee, that’s a tough one. How’re her pancakes?”
“Would it matter?”
Laughing, he pulled her down onto his lap and wrapped his arms around her.
“Careful,” she warned. “I’ll crush your privates.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
They kissed deeply. When he finally released her mouth, she gazed into his worried face. Despite the early hour and his recent shower and shave, he looked haggard, as if he’d already put in a full day.
“If it’s not my cooking, not another woman, and you’re not disgusted by my bloated figure, what is it?”
“I hate like hell that you had to put your career on hold.”
Fearing that it would be something much more serious, she felt a deep sense of relief. “Is that what’s been eating you?”
“It’s unfair,” he said stubbornly.
“To whom?”
“To you, of course.”
Amanda peered at him suspiciously. “Or were you planning to take early retirement, become a couch potato, and let me support you?”
“Not a bad idea,” he said with a half-smile. “But honestly, I’m thinking only of you. Because biology strongly favors the male—”
“Damn right,” she grumbled.
“You’re having to make all the sacrifices.”
“How many times have I told you that I’m doing exactly what I want to do? I’m having a baby, our baby. That makes me very happy.”
He’d greeted the news of her pregnancy with mixed emotions. First, he’d been shocked. She’d gone off the pill without discussing it with him. But once the shock had worn off and he’d become accustomed to the idea of parenthood, he liked it.
After the first trimester, she had alerted the partners in the law firm of which she was an associate that she would be taking a leave of absence to stay at home with her child during the critical bonding months. At the time, he hadn’t questioned her decision. Now it surprised her that he’d been harboring misgivings.
“You’ve been away from the office only two weeks and already you’re antsy,” he said. “I recognize the signs. I can tell when you’re restless.”
With a gentle touch she swept errant strands of hair off his forehead. “Well, it’s only because I’ve run out of things to do around here. I’ve washed the baseboards, alphabetized the canned goods, sorted both our sock drawers. I’ve completed my list of prebaby projects. But once the baby arrives, I’ll have more to do than I can handle.”
His remorseful expression didn’t change. “While you’re playing Happy Homemaker, the other associates are getting the jump on you.”
“So what if they do?” she asked, laughing. “Having our baby is the most important thing I’ve ever done or ever will do. I believe that with all my heart.”
She took his hand and laid it on her belly. The baby was moving. “Feel that? How can a lawsuit possibly be more awe-inspiring than that? I made a decision, and I’m at peace with it. I want you to be peaceful, too.”
“That may be asking too much.”
Silently, she agreed. He would never be totally at peace. But he did find surcease in his love for her and in knowing that his child was soon to be born. He rubbed the spot where the baby had just landed a healthy kick.
“I thought the masculine ideal was to keep the little woman at home, barefoot and pregnant,” she teased. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I just don’t want the day to come when you regret putting your career on hold.”
She reassured him with a smile. “That’ll never happen.”
“So why do I feel like there’s an ax hanging over my head?”
“Because you always look at the glass like it’s half-empty.”
“And you see it half-full.”
“I see it full to the point of brimming over.” She made an elaborate gesture with her hands, which made him smile, tilting his mustache in the way she loved.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m the eternal pessimist.”
“So you admit it?”
“No. It’s just that we’ve covered this ground before.”
“Ad nauseam,” she said.
They smiled at each other, and he drew her close again. “You’ve already sacrificed so much for me. I don’t deserve you.”
“Keep that in mind if Michelle Pfeiffer ever crooks her finger at you.”
She settled into the crook of his arm as he leaned down and kissed her with increasing passion. His hand waded through the fabric of her nightgown and found her breasts. They were taut and heavy, ready to lactate. He fondled her, gently pinching her nipples.
Then, pushing down her nightgown, he caressed her breasts with his lips and tongue. When he nuzzled their stiff centers with his mustache, she moaned and said, “You’re not playing fair.”
“How long do we have to wait?”
“Minimum six weeks after the birth.”
He groaned.
“We’d better not start something we can’t stop.”
“Too late,” he said, wincing.
Laughing, she readjusted her nightgown and slid off his lap. “You’d better get going.”
“Yeah, I’d better.” He stood, pulled on his jacket, and moved toward the door. “Are you feeling okay?”
She cradled her large belly between her arms. “We’re fine.”
“You didn’t sleep well.”
“You try sleeping while someone plays soccer with all your internal organs.”
At the door they kissed goodbye. “What would you like for dinner tonight?”
“I’ll take you out,” he offered.
“Chinese?”
“You bet.”
Most mornings, she waved him off at the door. Today, however, she walked with him arm in arm to the car. When it came time to release him, she felt unaccountably reluctant to let him go. It was as though his pessimism were contagious. His sense of foreboding must have rubbed off on her, because she had an urge to cling to him and ask him to call in sick and stay home with her that day.
To cover what was probably nothing more than a temporary, pregnancy-related emotional imbalance, she teased him. “Don’t think I’m going to martyr myself to motherhood. Once the little one gets here, you’re going to change your share of dirty diapers.”
“I look forward to it,” he said, grinning. Then he sobered, placed his hands on her shoulders, and drew her close. “You make it so easy for me to love you. Will you ever know how much?”
She tilted her head and smiled up at him. “I know.” The sunlight was blinding. Maybe that was why tears suddenly formed in her eyes. “I love you, too.”
Before kissing her, he held her face cupped between his hands and gazed into it for a long time. His voice was gruff with emotion when he said, “I’ll try and be home early.” As he got behind the steering wheel, he added, “If you need me, call.”
“I will.” When he reached the corner, she raised her hand and waved.
Her lower back began to ache while she was washing the breakfast dishes. She rested before making the bed, but the dull ache persisted.
By noon, she was experiencing abdominal twinges that couldn’t be ignored. She thought then of calling him, but held off. Contractions could occur weeks before actual labor began. The baby wasn’t due for another fourteen days. This could be a false alarm. His work was demanding and difficult, and she didn’t want to distract him unless it was absolutely necessary.
Shortly after four o’clock her water broke and labor began in earnest. She phoned her obstetrician. He assured her that there was no need to rush, that first children sometimes took hours to be born, but advised her to check in at the hospital.
>
She could no longer delay alerting him. She called his office but was told he was currently unavailable. That was okay. There were still things she needed to do before leaving for the hospital.
She took a shower, shaved her legs, and shampooed her hair, not knowing when she’d have another opportunity. Her suitcase was already packed with nightgowns, a new robe and slippers, and a unisex sacque in which to dress the baby for its homecoming. She added her toiletries and last-minute items, then latched the suitcase and placed it near the front door.
The pains began coming harder and closer together. She called again and asked for him. “He’s out,” she was told. “But I can track him down for you. Is this an emergency?”
Was it an emergency? Not really. Women had babies in every conceivable circumstance. Surely she was capable of getting herself to the hospital. Besides, it would be out of his way to drive home and then backtrack to the hospital.
She desperately wanted to speak with him. Hearing his voice would bolster her. Instead, she had to settle for leaving word that he should meet her at the hospital as soon as possible.
She realized that there was no sense in being noble and driving herself, but no friends or family were available. She called 911. “I’m in labor and need a ride to the hospital.”
The ambulance arrived within minutes. The paramedic checked her over. “Tricky blood pressure,” he said as he removed the cuff from her upper arm. “How long’ve you been in labor?”
“A few hours.”
The pains were severe now. The breathing and concentration exercises learned in the childbirth classes they’d attended were less effective when done alone. She tried them, but they did nothing to lessen her pain.
“How much farther?” she asked, gasping.
“Not far. Hang on. You’re doing fine.”
But she wasn’t. She knew that when she saw her doctor’s frown after his preliminary pelvic examination. “The baby is in a breech position.”
“Oh God,” she whimpered.