Nightwing
Page 22
Unlike most evenings with his father-in-law, this one passed almost pleasantly. The man actually smiled twice, once when he shook his hand and wished him happy birthday. Sometimes he wondered if Whit Senior sensed something, if he knew, deep inside, what he was—or what he’d been—if he remembered on some subliminal level the Christmas Johnny had followed him around in spirit form and made him jump.
“Thank God they’re gone.” Willie sighed, snuggling into his arms as they stood on the porch and watched the taillights of her father’s Cadillac wink away into the darkness toward the road. “Thank God I talked Mother out of staying over for our anniversary tomorrow.”
“Indeed,” he murmured, nuzzling her hair, his nose filling with its wondrous green-apple scent.
“Tonight’s the night,” Willie said in a singsong voice as she raised her face to his, her eyes dancing. “Tonight you get to see Bertie’s wedding present.”
“At last,” he said and grinned, lacing his fingers together in the small of her back, feeling himself harden as the soft curve of her belly pressed against him.
“Wait right here,” she murmured against his mouth.
“I won’t go anywhere,” he said.
Never again, he thought, leaning his shoulder against the roof post at the top of the stairs when the screen door slapped shut behind her. The swing creaked in a soft breath of wind and he smiled, remembering sitting here with Betsy in the warm summer dark listening to the whales sing.
Callie the cat jumped up on the porch rail, blinked at him and said, “Brruup.”
“Yes, he’s gone.” He smiled and held his hand out. Callie rose, purring, and arched her back beneath his palm.
The cat was waiting for them when they returned from Sardinia, sitting on the porch step with her tail curled around her paws. Willie had burst into tears, jumped out of the Corvette and swooped the cat up into her arms. Over Willie’s shoulder, Callie had laid back her ears and hissed at him.
He vaguely remembered sending the cat away to save her from Nekhat’s wrath; still, she’d been skittish around him for weeks. Cats know things, Betsy had told him.
One morning in late August he’d wakened with a weight on his chest, opened his eyes and saw Callie, her gold eyes slits, peering at him, her nose inches from his.
“Brruup,” she’d said and licked his whiskered chin with her sandpaper tongue.
A trill of whale song broke through the still night, springing gooseflesh on the back of his neck. If he thought about it hard enough he could almost see his grandfather’s face, could almost feel the rough scrape of the old sailor’s hand around his. He rubbed the hook-shaped scar on his index finger, closed his eyes and felt tears slide past his lashes.
Oh, God, it was good to be alive.
“Happy birthday, Johnny,” Willie said softly behind him.
He wiped his eyes hastily and turned around. She stood in the half-open door, the spill of light from the living room lamps outlining her slim body in the voluminous folds of a plain white nightgown with a lace hem and beribboned neck.
“It’s, ah—lovely,” he said haltingly. “But isn’t it a little on the big side?”
“For now.” Willie plucked the front of it between her fingers and gave it a tug away from her stomach, her eyes shining. “But not for long.”
He cocked his head at her in puzzlement. “You plan to put on weight?”
“Oh, Johnny.” Willie laughed, flapping her arms and making the scooped neck slide off her shoulders. “It’s a maternity nightie. I’m pregnant, you darling dunce. Two months and counting.”
“Oh, my God,” he breathed shakily. “Oh, Bertie, you wise old devil.”
It had been a year, almost to the day, Willie thought, since she’d watched such a glorious smile spread across Johnny’s face. He laughed, leapt across the porch and swept her into his arms.
“I love you, oh, how I love you,” he said fiercely, then held her at arm’s length and said, with tears in his voice as well as his eyes, “Wanna play pirate?”
Copyright © 1995 by Lynne Smith
Originally published by Harlequin Temptation (0373256426)
Electronically published in 2009 by Belgrave House
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.