Angel's Baby

by Pamela Browning

  “Well, that’s it,” Stuart said to Angel, and she managed a little half smile in reply. They walked slowly down the aisle toward the door, afraid to look at each other.

  To Angel’s surprise, the Popsicle man and the children were lined up in front of the church, and they pelted them with rice as they ran down the steps.

  “Good luck!” called the maid of honor.

  “Goodbye, goodbye!” called the children.

  The voices echoed in their ears until they turned the corner and stopped abruptly to stare at each other.

  “Well,” Angel said.

  “Yes,” Stuart said, loosening his tie. He pulled it off and stuffed it in his jacket pocket.

  She stared at him for a moment longer, trying to keep the idea of the baby in mind as a kind of justification for the marriage. For once she couldn’t imagine the baby’s little face or the small fingers that would curve so sweetly around her own. The baby wasn’t at all clear in her mind; what was clear was Stuart, staring at her as if he had never seen her before.

  “We should have hired a car to take us to our hotel,” Stuart said finally. “I didn’t think of it.”

  “We can walk,” she said.

  He took her arm and drew it through his as they started down the street.

  “Mrs. Stuart Adams,” he said, trying to sound jolly.

  Angel tried to laugh, but couldn’t. She couldn’t think of anything to say at all; she felt bereft somehow, and her mind was a blank. She had an idea that this was how zombies went through life, without a thought in their heads, mindlessly putting one foot in front of the other.

  “How do you feel?” Stuart said.

  She thought fast. “Married,” she said, though she didn’t at all.

  “Don’t you feel a sense of completion? Of taking the first step toward your goal?”

  She didn’t. Maybe she should. Maybe she did but didn’t know it yet. “Something like that,” she said, hoping Stuart was also in a state where he couldn’t think, couldn’t comprehend the enormity of what they had done.

  “We should have dinner. A wedding feast,” he said.

  “That’s not necessary,” she said, even as she realized that, having completed the first step, it was time to move on to the second one. It was time to go to the hotel.

  He was looking down at her with an appealing earnestness, and she thought that he might be as reluctant to go to the hotel right away as she was.

  “I’m sure there are wonderful restaurants in Key West, and how often do you get to go to them?” he asked.

  “Almost never,” she admitted.

  “And isn’t Nouvella’s considered the best restaurant in town?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “That’s the word I picked up at the Miami marina,” he said. “I think we should go there and have a leisurely drink and dinner, maybe dance a bit—”

  “Stuart, you don’t have to do any of this,” she interjected.

  He looked hurt. “I know, Angel, but it’s my wedding, too. We’re going back to Halos Island tomorrow morning, and who knows when we’ll get back into town?”

  Suddenly Angel saw this situation from Stuart’s perspective. Halos Island was the most fascinating place on earth to her, but he probably found it boring. When they returned there, she would continue her work, while Stuart would have nothing to do but... Stuart would have nothing to do but be her drone.

  “Angel?”

  The thought of Stuart as a drone buzzing around her honey almost made her laugh, but there wasn’t anything funny about it. While he was waiting for her to get pregnant, he would probably miss being around other people, going out for a drink and eating in good restaurants.

  “All right,” she said. “Nouvella’s it is. I am hungry.”

  He grinned. “So am I. And not only for food.”

  Angel’s stomach seemed to take a dive, and suddenly she wasn’t hungry at all.

  * * *

  NOUVELLA’S was quiet and elegant, and they were solicitously seated at a choice table on a patio overlooking the ocean, probably due to the fact that Stuart slipped the maître d’ a sizable wad of bills. Angel ignored this byplay; instead, she listened to the floating strains of show tunes and dance classics played by the band inside. She could see dancers moving in and out of the candlelight, dark shadows ebbing and flowing with the music.

  The wine steward promptly trotted out a bottle of Moët et Chandon, pouring both of them a generous glass.

  “To...our baby,” Stuart said, holding his glass up to hers.

  At least he hadn’t toasted their marriage, which would have made even more of a mockery of it.

  “Our baby,” Angel agreed, and promptly sneezed from the champagne bubbles tickling her nose.

  Stuart smiled at her across the table. “Do you really feel married? I certainly don’t.”

  She shook her head. “Maybe we never will,” she said, with a certain amount of wistfulness.

  “Maybe not,” he agreed. “Although maybe after we—”

  Her head shot up. “I doubt that the sex act itself is what makes people feel married,” she said.

  He watched her steadily. “Then, in your opinion, what does?”

  Angel considered this. It wasn’t easy to think with the way he was looking at her, his eyes never leaving her face. She looked away to give herself a chance to summon coherent thoughts.

  “I think people must feel married when they’ve lowered all the barriers between them,” she said. “When they’ve achieved real intimacy by sharing every detail of their lives, past and present, and by beginning to think of themselves as a unit. As a we, rather than two separate Is.”

  “Ah” was all he said, but he was still staring at her.

  “Is anything wrong?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “You’re a beautiful bride, Angel, you turned heads wherever we went today,” he said.

  “Only because I’m wearing a long-sleeved dress in the middle of May,” she said. Her glass was already empty, and a waiter came by and refilled it.

  “No, Angel, it was because you’re so pretty. I hope our baby inherits the shape and color of your eyes.”

  “But not my vision. I started to wear glasses when I was a kid.”

  “You don’t wear them now,” he pointed out.

  “I wear contact lenses. Glasses got in my way on the island, always sliding down the bridge of my nose, or falling off, or getting smudged.”

  “Okay, our baby will have my perfect eyesight,” he agreed.

  She smiled at him, pleased that he was referring to the baby as theirs and not hers.

  Dinner, broiled Florida lobster and tiny new potatoes and a big green salad, arrived, and Angel watched Stuart from under her lashes as they ate. Later, over after-dinner drinks, Stuart pushed his chair back and regarded Angel with a half smile. His dark hair gleamed with blue-black highlights, and his white shirt was open at the neckline to reveal a mat of dark, curly hair. His blue gaze took in her flushed cheeks, the low neckline of her dress, and finally her finger with his ring on it. She was unnerved by the air of pure possession that she detected in that look.

  He shoved his chair back. “Let’s dance,” he said imperatively, and before she knew it, they were swaying to and fro on the tiny dance floor, separated by only an inch or two of space. Other people were watching, noticing, and in that moment, Angel felt proud to be seen with Stuart. He was a handsome man; she was the envy of every woman on the dance floor.

  Stuart guided her skillfully past other dancers on the floor. His sure sense of rhythm made him easy to follow, and he held her with assurance. She tipped her head back to look at him.

  “Where’d you learn to dance like this?” she asked.

  “At Boston’s best dancing school. Dancing lessons at Miss Beatrice’s Junior Cotillion were de rigueur for members of our social set.”

  Angel inadvertently stepped on his foot, and he winced.

  “I didn’t have the advantage of
dancing school, in case you haven’t guessed by now,” she told him. In her social set, in the scrubby little town in north Florida where she’d grown up, the only lessons outside the classroom had come from the school of hard knocks.

  “You’re doing fine. Relax a bit.” He swirled her around so that her skirt rippled around their legs. “That’s it, that’s better,” he said.

  “I’ve never been a good dancer,” she said, thinking of Howard and how he’d always scoffed at her for having two left feet.

  “You’re light on your feet, and you’re easy to lead. That makes a good dancer in my book. With a little more practice...” he said, his voice tapering off as he drew her closer.

  It was easier to follow his lead when he held her so close; she was able to detect nuances in the direction of his body before his hand guided her. For a moment, she closed her eyes, letting herself enjoy this experience. The champagne was singing softly in her veins, the music played gently in her ears, and, with her hand resting lightly on Stuart’s shoulder, she could admire the way the unwanted wedding ring looked on her finger.

  She should be happy. And it was odd, but she did feel a slight intimation of happiness, as if it were right around the corner, eluding her. For a moment, she could almost believe that this was the real thing—a real marriage and a real husband—and not the farce that it actually was.

  She was utterly aware of Stuart’s arm around her, of his hand holding hers so strongly and so surely. He held her close, her body barely touching his, but it was enough contact to make her aware of the heat emanating from him. Her breasts brushed his chest, sending flash fires of excitement coursing through her, making her nipples tender and tight. Without warning, he pulled her closer, so that she was pressed against him from chest to thigh.

  The champagne sharpened her senses, making her notice the tangy fragrance of Stuart’s after-shave, making his face seem brighter, making his eyes more blue. She moved in a haze, feeling light-headed and weak, and she knew somewhere in the dim recesses of her mind that Stuart was caught up in the same feeling.

  She heard him sigh, his hot breath fluttering against her ear, as he released her right hand and slid his arm around her waist. Her free hand crept up his arm until her fingers linked around his neck. They found themselves in a dark corner of the dance floor, where they danced with their bodies gently swaying, their feet barely moving. They were caught up in the music’s spell, and their own.

  “Angel,” Stuart said, his voice a mere murmur, “let’s get out of here.”

  It took only a few minutes to pay the check, and before Angel knew what was happening, they were outside the restaurant and Stuart was hailing a cab. On the way to the hotel, she caught herself up short, thinking about the next step.

  He might find her performance in bed wanting, but she could always fake her pleasure. That was easy enough for a woman, and, in Angel’s limited experience, most men seemed to fall for a few well-spaced gasps and groans, especially if in the process, the woman managed to cry out the man’s name. So, okay, she could manage a phony orgasm, but what about pleasing him? What if she made a fool of herself? What if she didn’t do everything the way he liked it? It took a long time to establish a satisfactory sexual relationship; some people never managed it, as Angel well knew. What if the experience turned out to be, well, an ordeal for Stuart?

  If it happened that way, could she bear his disappointment, even his scorn? Well, she’d have to, wouldn’t she? If she wanted a baby.

  Maybe they would get it over with quickly. Maybe it would be nothing more than a mechanical juxtaposition of body parts, signifying nothing and meaning even less.

  Think about the baby, she told herself sternly. She pictured the babies on baby food jars, in magazine ads, on disposable-diaper packages. She pictured babies in pink organdy dresses and babies in blue denim rompers and babies wearing nothing at all.

  She pictured Stuart Adams wearing nothing at all, and she almost melted with anticipation.

  Then they were at the Kapok Tree Resort Hotel, one of the nicest and newest in Key West, checking in amid a flurry of activity. She stood silently as Stuart signed the check-in form, somehow surprised and yet not surprised to see him write, “Mr. and Mrs. Stuart Adams.”

  She was Mrs. Stuart Adams. She was. She hadn’t thought that the ramifications of her new status would affect her at all; to her, the married state had seemed peripheral to the real reason for marrying Stuart. She stood beside him, feeling one step removed, trying not to worry about what would be required of her once they were alone. When the bellman conducted them to their room, she kept her eyes focused downward, afraid that he would guess that they were not typical honeymooners.

  Their accommodations turned out to be one of the hotel’s honeymoon suites. The two rooms and a bath overlooked the point where the waters of the Atlantic Ocean and the Gulf of Mexico were seamed together by the silver path laid across the faintly rippling water by a three-quarter moon. While Stuart adopted an air of nonchalance, the bellman flipped switches and adjusted draperies. Angel, feeling more curious than bridelike, peeked into the bedroom to see a huge king-size bed swathed in silken draperies; the living area ended in a series of steps to a walled terrace, where a heart-shaped sunken hot tub bubbled invitingly. It was a scene of pure luxury, and she hadn’t expected anything like it.

  “We don’t need such an elaborate room,” she protested after the bellman had completed his seemingly endless chores and left.

  “I know, but I told Toby to request a honeymoon suite when he delivered our overnight bags. I wanted it to be special,” Stuart said.

  “It wouldn’t have had to be,” she said.

  “For you, it did,” he said, his eyes bright.

  Suddenly she didn’t know where to look. If she focused straight ahead, she’d be staring at the cleft in Stuart’s chin. If she lifted her eyelids, she’d have to look directly into his eyes, which suddenly seemed like too great an intimacy. Instead, she looked away, her mouth growing dry, her mind groping for something to say. Nothing presented itself, and she realized that she wanted Stuart to touch her. To kiss her. To do something, for heaven’s sake.

  “Well,” he said. “Here we are.”

  “Here we are,” she agreed.

  “Married,” he said.

  “Married,” she repeated. A silence. “We’ve only known each other for three days,” she said into the void.

  “Longer than that, if we count the letter-writing stage.”

  “What was it? Two weeks? Three?”

  “Long enough for me to know that this is what I wanted to do,” he said.

  “Do...do you still want to?” she asked him, holding her breath. What if he said no?

  His eyes were the deep blue of sapphires. “I’ve wanted to make love to you ever since I saw you tripping your way down the dock when I arrived,” he said.

  “No regrets?” she murmured.

  “Not yet,” he replied. “How about you?”

  She swallowed. “The same,” she said.

  “Take those shoes off. You look like they’re killing you.”

  They were and she did, immediately becoming several inches shorter. “I suppose we should, um...” she said, indicating the bedroom with a wave of one hand.

  “Or we could, um...” he said, his wave indicating the hot tub. “You decide.” She sensed a barely contained impatience, but he held it in.

  She managed a tight little laugh. “I guess I could test the temperature of the water,” she said. She started toward the terrace.

  Tiny points of starlight danced in the dark ripples of the hot tub. She balanced carefully on the edge, and Stuart caught her hand to support her as she gingerly dipped a toe in the water.

  “How is it?”

  “Just right,” she said. She wavered on the edge of the tub, and he spanned her waist with both hands and swung her down.

  “Want to try it?”

  She shrugged. A breeze from the shore rustled the palm f
ronds overhead, and clouds scudded across the moon.

  “Don’t be nervous,” he said, his gaze locking with hers. “We’re going to make love, and it’s going to be wonderful.”

  “We’ve come this far, so we might as well finish what we started out to do,” she said jokingly.

  “We really have no choice,” he agreed, a faint smile touching the corners of his mouth.

  “In fact, in order for our contract to be valid, we must consummate the marriage,” she said, staring resolutely at the knot in his tie.

  “The contract be damned,” he said with feeling. He wrapped his arms around her and fumbled with the buttons at the back of her dress. “Aren’t you slightly overdressed for your wedding night?” he said.

  She reached around, her fingers encountering his as she slid the buttons through the buttonholes. In the meantime, his hands found their way to her outthrust breasts and caressed them through the fabric. His touch sent a ripple of excitement through her.

  Once she unbuttoned it, the dress fell away from her shoulders, and Stuart moved his fingers upward to hook them around the neckline. As he eased it down, she heard his sharp intake of breath at the sight of her breasts, contained in the wispy white bra.

  “You are so beautiful,” he said, cupping his hands around the lush lower contours of her breasts.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head in denial. A flutter of delicate petals from the orchids in her hair rained down upon her face, nestled in the hollow between her breasts.

  “Beautiful,” he said. “You are.” Her eyelids drifted closed as she let her growing arousal penetrate to the marrow of her bones. With one hand, he brushed away the soft strands of hair in front of her ear, threaded his fingers through her braid and loosened it from its pins. Her hair cascaded around her shoulders, releasing its scent to mingle with the fragrance of the nearby frangipani trees and the honeysuckle arching over the high terrace wall.

  His hand came to rest on the curve of her cheek. She instinctively tilted her head for his kiss. His mouth found hers, drawing her into a warm, sweet blending of lips and tongue that ignited a flame deep inside her, a flame that grew and grew until she felt consumed by its heat. Carefully he unhooked her bra and brushed it aside, along with a flurry of fallen flower petals, then unbuttoned his shirt so that her breasts grazed the curly hair on his chest. It was a delightful sensation, exquisitely arousing.