Murphy's Child

by Judith Duncan

  Except it hadn’t been that easy. He’d spent a lot of time walking around with acid eating a hole in his gut. But eventually he was able to stuff his personal grudges into cold storage and focus on the baby, and then he could deal with Ms. Kennedy with a kind of guarded neutrality. He had gone with her to every one of her doctor’s appointments, and he had attended every single Lamaze class. They’d gone shopping for nursery furniture and baby supplies together. And he had even wallpapered the nursery for her. But every time he left her upscale condominium, he’d wanted to punch somebody’s lights out. And then he’d spend two hours in a gym, pumping staggering amounts of iron before he was fit to be around another living soul.

  His stomach started churning, and Murphy dragged his hand down his face again. His nerves were shot. And he wasn’t sure how he was going to get through the next couple of weeks.

  The baby was due in eleven days, and he was on his way home from the big annual trade show in Toronto. And he was so damned tired, he felt as if he were half-dead. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in months, and it was even worse while he was away. Every time he thought about getting the call that it was time—that she’d gone into labor—he’d go into a cold panic.

  Once the baby arrived, he knew he’d be fine. He was the second-oldest of six, he was an uncle several times over and he’d been lugging babies around since he was practically big enough to walk. No, it wasn’t the baby that terrified him. It was the actual birth that scared the hell out of him. He just could not visualize the prim, perfect, always-a-lady Ms. Kennedy all hot and sweating and grunting. It was a picture that just refused to compute.

  Murphy had actually planned on skipping the National Home Show this year because of Jordan and the baby, but she’d insisted that nothing was going to happen until he got back. And he had to believe her. It was as if she had orchestrated the entire pregnancy on her own terms. She hadn’t had morning sickness; she hadn’t had swollen feet. She hadn’t even had heartburn. All because, he was dead certain, she’d made up her mind she was simply not going to put up with any of it because she didn’t have time in her busy schedule for the unpleasant stuff.

  The doctor told her she shouldn’t gain more than twenty-five pounds. She gained twenty-three. She was so on target that it was downright scary. So if Ms. Kennedy said the baby was not going to be born until the fifteenth of August, he was pretty darned sure he could bet the farm on it. No one would dare defy Ms. Kennedy.

  He just wasn’t too sure how he was going to make it through the next eleven days. And when the baby finally did arrive, he was really going to have to face the music. Because the only people he’d told were his parents and his big brother, Mitch. He just hadn’t been able to face it, trying to make reasonable-sounding explanations to the rest of the family. He didn’t dare think about what the clan’s reaction was going to be. His insides went berserk every time he even considered it.

  It was just after nine in the evening when Murphy picked his truck up at the Park and Ride. The streets were slick from the recent rain, and city lights were reflected in the wet pavement. The overcast sky had broken, and the clouds crowding against the jagged outline of the Rockies were thick with the vivid colors of the setting sun. The clean, damp smell of a recent rain wafted in through his open window, clearing away the last of the jet lag. This was one of his favorite times—a summer evening after a rain. If he were at home, he’d be sitting out on his veranda, enjoying the sunset with a cold beer in his hand.

  And as tempting as the idea was, he made a spur-of-the moment decision and bypassed the off-ramp that would take him to his place. He was going to check on Jordan first.

  Resting his elbow in the open window, Murphy grinned to himself. He was very well aware that Jordan hated it when he checked up on her. Maybe that was one reason he’d made a habit of doing it over the past few months—just to get her nose out of joint. The other reason was that he worried himself sick if he didn’t. But Jordan didn’t know that. And that was okay by him.

  Her upscale condo was in a small complex in a trendy part of town, where huge trees formed block-long arches overhead. He found a parking spot right in front, and he killed the engine, turned off the lights, then got out. Fingering through the ring of keys in his hand, he isolated the right one. She had given him a key last summer, when he had fixed her garbage-disposal unit, and he had never given it back. Another twist of amusement surfaced. Something else that got her nose out of joint.

  He used the key to unlock the front door, then entered the luxuriously appointed lobby, noticing the fresh-flower arrangement at the front desk. No doubt about it—it was first-class all the way.

  The elevator was empty, and Murphy leaned back against the oak paneling, studying the security camera fitted in the corner. He wondered how many people were even aware that it was there. Smiling to himself, he thought back to a couple of times that things could have gotten totally out of hand if it hadn’t been for that camera. But that was before. Now when they rode the elevator, they stayed as far apart as possible.

  Jordan’s apartment was on the fourth floor, and as the elevator door slid open, Murphy thought he heard a baby crying. Giving his head a shake, he stepped into the thickly carpeted vestibule. Lord, this baby thing was driving him stark raving crazy. As if the recurring dream wasn’t bad enough, now he was hearing things, as well.

  The tastefully decorated vestibule was designed into a large square sitting room, with four apartment doors leading off it. The dark green walls, the winged chairs, the large silk flower arrangements and recessed lighting gave the space a sense of mtimacy, as if it were part of the individual units. It definitely added class. But then, Ms. Kennedy was big on class.

  He reached Jordan’s door and rang the bell—and he heard it again. Only this time, the volume was turned way, way up. The bottom dropped out of his stomach in a sickening rush; this was no figment of his imagination. This was a real live baby.

  Alarm shot through him as terrifying images flashed through his mind—visions of Jordan trying to deliver the baby on her own, visions of her unconscious in a pool of blood on the floor. Swearing over his clumsiness with the key and lock, he finally managed to get the door open, his heart trying to clamber right out of his chest.

  Fear streaking through him, he charged in and came up short, as if he’d slammed into a glass wall. For a second, he thought he’d broken into the wrong apartment.

  Except it was the right decor. And the right furniture. Decorated in subtle shades of cream and taupe—taupe walls, cream suede leather sofas, a lighter taupe-colored carpet—the wrought-iron, green-marble and beveled-glass tables, the mottled ceramic lamps with the ivory silk shades, the lush green plants—that was all Jordan’s stuff. Even the subtle watercolors on the walls, the cream-colored lacquered table and chairs in the dining room and the bold Spanish-styled candelabra sitting on the lacquered sideboard—that was right. That stuff belonged. But it was the condition that was all wrong. There was clutter everywhere—in an apartment where there was never so much as a magazine out of place. It looked as if it had been tossed in a drug raid—or vandalized by a gang of thugs.

  Another surge of panic shot through him, and he strode through the foyer and into the once elegant living room, his chest so tight he could barely breathe. Maybe it had been vandalized. If anything had happened to her...

  The crying got louder, and Jordan appeared in the archway, a tiny, howling, dark-haired form clutched protectively against her shoulder.

  God, it really was a baby. Struck totally dumb, Murphy stopped dead in his tracks. For one insane instant, he thought again that he was in the wrong apartment. The woman was disheveled and rumpled, her hair a total mess, there wasn’t a single trace of perfect grooming—and there was pure panic on her face. On top of all that, it was dead obvious that she’d been crying right along with the baby. Prior to this instant, he would have bet his life that Ms. Kennedy didn’t have a single tear in her.

  Jordan took on
e look at him, and pressed a hand over her face and started sobbing. “Oh, Murphy. Thank God you’re here.” She dropped her hand and held the back of the baby’s head, her terror making her overflowing eyes almost black. “There’s something terribly wrong with the baby. I was just going to call a cab—we’ve got to get to the hospital.”

  Feeling as if he’d just been shoved out of an airplane with no parachute, Murphy stared at her for a split second, unable to take it all in. But one thought surfaced. She’d been wrong. The baby hadn’t waited. Realizing he was numb with shock, he made a massive effort and pulled himself together. Knowing, without a single doubt, that he was not going to get a coherent word out of her until the baby quieted, he dredged up a reassuring smile and used his soft-talking tone of voice. “Shh. It’s okay, Jordan. It’s okay.” His heart doing a crazy barrel roll in his chest, he took the incredibly tiny screaming baby from her, his heart doing another wild loop as he held his kid for the very first time. Feeling as if he’d run through a high-voltage regulator again, he looked down at the howling infant in his arms. This was his kid. His kid!

  Wanting to sing and dance—but mostly wanting to grin—and knowing this was definitely not the time, he snuggled the baby against his neck. Driven to touch her, he reached out and tucked some of Jordan’s wild hair behind her ear. “Hey,” he said softly, trying to reassure her. “This sounds more like a Munroe temper tantrum than anything else. I’m sure the baby’s fine.”

  Jordan immediately covered her face with both hands, her shoulders quaking. Her awful distress, her absolute vulnerability, nailed Murphy square in the chest, and a surge of heavy-duty feelings for her made his whole body hurt. More than anything, he wanted to gather her up and comfort her. To hold her and assure her that everything was all right. But that was a line he wouldn’t cross.

  Holding the back of the howling baby’s head, he caught her arm and guided her toward one off-white sofa. Settling himself and the baby, he pulled her down beside him, then drew her to him. As if she didn’t have an ounce of fight left in her, she sagged, and he could feel tears soak through his shirt. He couldn’t ever remember feeling as topped up with emotion as he did right then.

  Closing his eyes, he clenched his jaw and tightened his hold on mother and child, resting his head against hers. It was as though everything he’d ever longed for, everything he wanted, was right there in his arms. As if sensing the circle of completeness, the baby quieted, its tiny face tucked against Murphy’s neck.

  His throat so tight he couldn’t even swallow, Murphy pressed an imperceptible kiss against her hair. He felt as if he’d been totally upended.

  Finally able to ease the ache in his throat, he gave her shoulder a little shake. “So,” he whispered gruffly, “when are you going to tell me what I’ve got here?”

  Quickly wiping her face with the heel of her hand, Jordan took a deep, shaky breath and sat up. She wiped her face again, then looked at him, even managing a very wobbly smile. “You’ve got yourself a son. Seven pounds two ounces.”

  A son. He had himself a son. Another rush of overwhelming feelings surged up in him, and Murphy closed his eyes and tightened his hold on the baby. She had given him a son.

  It took several minutes before he could get rid of the big wedge of emotion that was stuck in his throat. And it took another ten minutes to get the whole story. That Baby Munroe had been born seventy-three hours ago. About her waking up with labor pains in the middle of the night. About her trip to the hospital in a cab, and her quick labor and even quicker delivery. And that she and the baby had been discharged the day before. And from the quaver in her voice, he suspected that Little Stuff had been giving her grief ever since.

  As if collecting herself, Jordan moved to the other end of the sofa and drew her legs up, clasping her arms around them, strain and fatigue etched into her face. She had on a light blue shirt and wrinkled gray slacks, and there was baby spit-up on one shoulder. She looked like hell. And she looked positively battered. She looked marvelous.

  Fishing a tissue out of her pocket, she blew her nose, her eyes immediately filling with tears again. “I’m so afraid something is wrong with him,” she whispered brokenly.

  Slouching down in the comfortable corner of the sofa, Murphy watched her, lightly rubbing his cheek against his son’s downy head. “You should have called me, Jordan,” he said, quietly chastising her. “I could have come right home.”

  She wiped her eyes with the soggy, balled-up tissue, then took a deep, shaky breath and met his gaze. “I did call—this morning.” She looked away and swallowed hard, then started fiddling with the tissue. “But they said you’d already checked out.”

  An odd feeling settled in Murphy’s belly. She’d called him. That was almost as big a shocker as coming home to a son. Suddenly wanting to erase the awful anxiety in her eyes, he gave her a small grin. “So,” he said, looking right at her, “do you suppose I dare take a look at this kid, or am I going to have to wait until he’s old enough to ask for the car keys?”

  It was a small smile, and definitely a shaky one, but it was full of maternal pride. Shifting her position, she moved closer to Murphy, caressing the baby’s cheek with one finger. “Under the circumstances, we’ll just have to risk it.”

  Supporting the baby’s head with one hand, Murphy sat up, then placed his other hand under the tadpole’s bum. Feeling suddenly awkward, he carefully lowered the infant, then placed him lengthwise on his legs. The baby made a little whimper, then began to suck noisily on his hand.

  Murphy touched his little fist. Lord, he was so little. And so perfect. With a head of black hair. Baby black hair. Awe and wonder and a purely paternal feeling filled up his chest, and he very softly stroked his son’s head, so amazed at this tiny, perfect being. His son. His tiny, perfect son.

  Not getting what he wanted from his fist and obviously not liking being disturbed from his cozy snuggle, Baby Munroe’s face scrunched up and he tuned up again, his tremulous newborn cry fierce and loud. Very loud.

  Acute distress immediately reappeared on Jordan’s face. “Something has to be wrong for him to be crying like that.”

  Suddenly very grateful for every ounce of experience he had with his siblings and nieces and nephews, Murphy cradled the baby against him and rose, then began pacing back and forth across the living room, rubbing the baby’s back. “Shh, little one. Easy, now. Easy.” He looked at Jordan, his expression altering when he saw the terrible anxiety in her eyes. He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Hey, don’t worry, Kennedy. I’m sure he’s fine. I think maybe he’s just hungry.”

  Looking very much like a forlorn waif with her hair held back with some scrunched-up sort of fabric, she stared at him, her anxiety turning to panic. “He can’t be hungry. I just fed him before you got here.”

  Murphy went dead still. She said fed. Which meant breasts. Jordan’s breasts. Turning abruptly so she couldn’t see his face, he tried to regulate his breathing. That was one picture that definitely did compute. Definitely. And it was something he just didn’t dare think about.

  Schooling his face into a careful nonexpression, and feeling as if he were about to tread across acres of eggs, he made another fast lap around the room. Trying for both nonchalance and diplomacy, he avoided looking at her. “Well, um... Maybe your, ah, milk hasn’t come in yet and, um, maybe we could try him on a bottle of formula and see how that works.”

  There was a hopeful tone in her voice. “You think so?”

  His child’s squalling rose to a new crescendo, and Murphy began to understand the source of her desperation. “I think it’s worth a try.”

  She got up from the sofa, absently pushing back the hair that had worked loose from the scrunchie thing. She still looked exhausted but she had definitely brightened. Her expression going all soft, she touched the baby’s head. “Poor little man.”

  Murphy had no idea where it came from, but he got this jolt of intuition. And for some reason, he just knew exactly what sh
e needed to hear. Jiggling the baby in hopes of finding the switch that turned the kid off, he gave her a somewhat amused look. “Poor little man, my ass. He’s been giving his mother nothing but a hard time.”

  She went dead still and shot him a startled look, then she looked away and swallowed hard. “I’ll go fix him a bottle,” she said, her voice uneven, then fled toward the kitchen. Murphy watched her go, his expression turning very thoughtful. Mother. One word, and it had totally unhinged her.

  Suspecting that she was very nearly at the end of her rope, and knowing that the kid’s cry could strip paint, let alone fray nerves, he carried his howling son down the hallway to the most distant room from the kitchen. Which just so happened to be the master bedroom. It was a room he was intimately familiar with.

  Navy walls with ivory trim and ivory carpet—with a huge antique walnut tester bed dominating the room—it exuded a kind of intimacy that seemed to wrap around a person. The furniture was sparse. Two round bedside tables draped in fabric that held matching brass-and-crystal lamps, two dusty pink wing-back chairs and an antique cherry-wood table that was centered between the two chairs.

  Experiencing a funny rush of familiarity, Murphy exhaled slowly. There were two things in this room that he was particularly fond of. One was a beautiful old hand-painted lamp with a tasseled silk shade that sat on the cherry table—it was all elegance and Victorian good taste, but it was the kind of thing that might have come out of a high-class bordello. The other favorite was a handsome old brass-bound trunk that sat at the foot of the bed—it spoke of adventure and mystery. And of all the rooms in her condo, this was the one that revealed the secret, sensual side of Ms. Jordan Kennedy. And it was a side that had nothing to do with a prim, stiff-necked accountant.