Murphy's Child

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Murphy's Child Page 8

by Judith Duncan


  From the stifled sobs and the wetness along his neck, it was obvious she was doing exactly what he’d prescribed, but she managed a little nod. Murphy closed his eyes and swallowed hard. Lord, but he wanted to wrap her up in a tight embrace, and he wanted to stroke her hair, and he wanted a whole lot of other things, as well, but he forced his mind to go blank. This was about self-doubt and old, painful baggage. It was a mother thing. He had to deal with it without getting all tangled up in his own feelings—in the male thing.

  She finally wiped her face against his sweat top, then took a big, tremulous breath. “It’s just that he’s so little, and I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  For the first time in days, genuine amusement altered Murphy’s expression. “Hey. Look. We get them little because we don’t know what we’re doing. Just think what a hell of a mess we’d be in if we got him at six foot and two hundred pounds.”

  He felt her smile, and he also felt some of the tension leave her body. “That might be so....” She hesitated, then she took a deep breath, as if fortifying herself. “But don’t you worry if you’re doing the right thing or not?”

  Some of her hair had sneaked into his mouth, and he used that as an excuse to smooth the rest down. A familiar fullness was expanding in his chest, and he knew that he had to be plumb level with her. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do. I worry about things like this damned colic, and I’d worry if he got sick. I’ll worry about him making the right choices when he’s older, and I’ll worry about getting through adolescence.” Needing to satisfy a deep, aching need inside him, he stroked her hair down one more time. “But do I worry about him growing up well-adjusted and self-confident? No. I don’t. Because I know you’re going to give him all the emotional security a kid could ever want or need. I know that, Jordan.”

  She lifted her head and looked at him, a strange assessing expression in her eyes. He didn’t let his gaze waver from hers for even a second. And then, just like the baby-book incident, she pulled back into herself. Only this time, whether she realized it or not, she had taken a little part of his reassurance with her. She straightened up, carefully disentangling herself from the baby, leaving him with Murphy. “I think I’ll go to bed,” she said, her voice uneven. “It’s been a long day.”

  Closing his eyes, Murphy cradled his sleeping son’s head to keep from touching her, trying to disengage from the longing racing around inside him. And it was going to be a damned long night.

  It was odd, the effect that one tiny encounter had had on him. A whole lot of feelings had gotten geared up again, and he had to make a conscious effort not to think about what it was like before, when they were lovers. The images were just too vivid; consequently, he stayed out of her bedroom at all costs.

  But something else had happened, as well; a whole lot of other feelings had geared right down. Like the constant low-grade anger. Like his damned wounded pride.

  And the guilt was the worst. Those awful hot rushes would nail him at the most unexpected times. Like early one morning on the way to the job site, when he’d spotted a thin, waiflike, blond-haired young girl waiting alone at a bus stop, her shoes and dress too big, her sweater two sizes too small, her eyes big and solemn. That image was burned into his brain, and it haunted him like a bad dream.

  But after a couple of days of mentally beating himself to a pulp, he finally realized he had to give it a rest. Yeah, he’d been a self-centered bastard. And yeah, he shouldn’t have to have a load of bricks fall on his head before he figured things out. Or at least think he had things figured out. But no matter how much he hated himself, or how much he wished he could go back in time and do it all over again, he couldn’t. He couldn’t fix the past. He could only deal with the present. As his mother said, he could only work with what he had.

  But the image of that thin little girl—probably no more than ten and standing there all alone—drove him crazy, and there were times it would take shape in his mind, only it would be Jordan’s features on that drawn little face. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that kid. And the need to know gnawed at him.

  And it was gnawing at him now. His hand braced on the aluminum window frame, Murphy stood looking out the dirty window of his construction trailer, his expression grim. He kept spinning his wheels—and he tried to rationalize digging into her past. It wasn’t that he wanted personal details. He just wanted to know the facts—to know if he was right or not. He’d made nothing but mistakes with her before, but this time his gut told him that he was right on the money.

  Bending his head, Murphy wearily massaged his eyes. He was going to have to either fish or cut bait, because he couldn’t keep this up much longer. He was slowly driving himself crazy.

  Heaving a sigh, he raised his head and stared back out the window. He toyed with the idea of hiring a private investigator, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do something that sneaky. He didn’t want to dig up a bunch of old dirt; he just needed to know. Because he couldn’t afford to screw up again. He’d been so wrong before, and for all he knew he could be dead wrong now. She could have fifty million relatives, six ex-husbands and have murdered her parents in their sleep.

  Murphy straightened, a tiny flicker of humor surfacing. If he kept this up, he’d be a babbling idiot by the end of the week. Expelling another heavy sigh, he picked up a sheaf of papers clamped together with a bulldog clip and saw several Post-it notes with messages to call his mother. On top of everything else, his family was driving him crazy. He’d had so many calls from assorted kin that he couldn’t count them all. Everybody wanted to know when they were going to get to meet this new baby, and most of them stepped over the bounds of good manners and prodded him about when they were going to get to meet Jordan. As if he could answer that. He riffled through the various work orders and delivery slips, then tossed them back down on top of his battered metal desk. He couldn’t have been less interested if he tried.

  He glanced at his watch. It was seven minutes after four. Making a split-second decision, he snagged his jacket from the back of his chair. To hell with it. He really didn’t want to be here. He was going home.

  Murphy stopped at his house, grabbed a shower and got some clean clothes, then headed to the supermarket and loaded up on groceries. It was just after six when he arrived at the condo. The apartment, which now looked as if it had survived a recent earthquake, was dead quiet. Silently closing the door behind him, he went into the kitchen and set the bags of groceries on the counter, trying hard not to make a sound.

  With the same carefulness, he went to check on mother and child. He found them both in Jordan’s bedroom, which also looked as if a wrecking crew had gone through. But it wasn’t the clutter that caught his attention; it was the two curled up on the big bed. Jordan had fallen asleep on her side, her arm encircling the baby, her body curled protectively around their son. In spite of the sudden contraction in his throat, Murphy couldn’t help but smile. J.J. looked just like a little old man sprawled out on his back, his arms by his head, his mouth open. And sound asleep for a change. Still smiling, Murphy shifted his gaze to Jordan, and once again, the specter of the girl at the bus stop superimposed itself, and his expression turned somber. He wondered if he would ever know the whole story.

  Deciding he had picked at that enough for one day, Murphy closed the door and tiptoed down the hall, also closing the pocket door behind him. What he needed to do was stop thinking and do something productive for a change.

  By seven-thirty, he had the living room and kitchen mucked out and tidied up, and he had started dinner. He was in the kitchen, slicing vegetables for a salad, when he heard a soft sound behind him.

  The chefs knife still in his hand, he turned. Jordan was standing at the entrance to the kitchen, her hair snarled into the worst case of bed-head he’d ever seen, the pattern of the quilt imprinted on her cheek. She looked as if she’d just come out of anesthetic. She staggered a little and caught herself, opening her eyes really wide. “You cleaned up,” she said,
her voice croaky from sleep.

  He didn’t grin, but he wanted to. “Yes,” he said, “I did.”

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  He gave her a long pointed look, then went back to slicing mushrooms. “I did have to do. The board of health would have come in here and shut us down if I hadn’t.”

  There was a faint raspy chuckle and the sound of a chair being dragged across the tiled floor, and Murphy turned. She’d already sat down at the kitchen table. But it was as if her spine wouldn’t support her, and she flopped across the tabletop, her head on her folded arms. Her eyes closed, she spoke. “They would have never made it through the front door.”

  Grinning, Murphy scooped up the mushrooms and tossed them on top of the other salad fixings. “Tough talk for a zombie.”

  “I think somebody drugged the water supply.”

  He grinned again. “Sleep will do that to you.”

  She shifted her head and forced her eyes open. “Please tell me you’re going to share that. I’m starving.”

  He dumped the dressing over the salad, set the bowl aside, then glanced back at her. “Well, you’re in luck. We’re doing it up in style tonight—T-bone steak, baked potatoes, spring squash. I was going to steam some broccoli, but that was on the baby’s no-no list.”

  She opened her eyes again and gave him a wry smile. “I think everything is on the baby’s no-no list. I think water gives him gas.”

  Murphy responded with the required smile, but his gaze was thoughtful. It wasn’t that it mattered one way or the other to him, but he knew she’d feel a whole lot better after a shower. But he was afraid if he suggested it, it could be taken as a criticism. He mulled it over in his mind and turned back to the counter, trying to put it as tactfully as he knew how. “It’s going to take a few minutes for the steaks to grill. So if you want to grab a shower while I’m here to watch out for Ivan the Terrible, now’s your chance.”

  He checked the squash in the built-in oven, then tossed the fork on the counter. Folding his arms, he leaned back against the cupboard. He could tell from the way she was lying there with her eyes closed, as if she didn’t have a whole bone in her body, that she barely had the energy to breathe, let alone drag herself into the shower. But he knew she would feel so much better after. Knowing exactly how to get her moving, he watched her. Holding back a smile, he spoke, trying his darnedest to make the offer genuine. “Would you like me to carry you?”

  There was a lapse, just a split second, then her eyes flew open and her head came up like a clumsily activated marionette. Keeping his expression deliberately bland, he raised his eyebrows in query.

  It was enough to launch her out of her chair. She was weaving like a drunk, but she made it to the hallway, disappearing around the corner. A smile tugged at his mouth. It was astounding what total exhaustion did to a person.

  But what was even more astounding that evening was that Baby Face cooperated. He woke up just as Jordan got out of the shower, and she nursed him first. Then she put him in his car seat on the floor, and he was content to make guppy faces. He was waving his hands around, that intent look on his face, as if he was trying to get his eyes to focus.

  Jordan was a whole new person. Freshly scrubbed, clean clothes that even matched, her wet hair pulled up into some kind of knot on the top of her head. Although she didn’t look totally rested, she looked refreshed, and that was the best either of them could hope for.

  One hand braced on her thigh, she bent over the baby and softly smoothed down his thick black hair. J.J. made more guppy faces at her. “He’s so cute when he does that.”

  Murphy brought the perfectly grilled steaks to the table and gave his son a dry look. “Are you sure it’s him? I don’t recognize him without his face all screwed up.”

  She gave the baby’s head another soft caress. “Daddy’s making fun of you, J.J. So you be sure and keep him walking the floor all night, okay?”

  Thinking she was just a little too cute for words, Murphy slapped a steak on her plate. “Come and get it. We’ve probably got seven minutes to wolf it down before he tunes up.” This was their first sit-down meal together since J.J.’s arrival, except for the lunch on the patio the day they went to the doctor’s, and he hoped the tadpole would let them enjoy it.

  Straightening, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “Oh, God. This smells so good.”

  She pulled out the chair and sat down, and Murphy dropped a baked potato on her plate, giving her a scrutinizing look. Maybe someone had pulled a double switch. Or maybe she’d gone blind. He hadn’t set the table the way she set the table. And he certainly hadn’t come close to her meticulous standards. He’d more or less scattered the dishes and silverware around, the place mats didn’t match and the unfolded paper napkins were simply tossed on top of the cutlery. The old Jordan Kennedy would have straightened everything up behind his back. But this new Jordan Kennedy acted as if she hadn’t even noticed. She didn’t square the place mat or center the plate on it. She didn’t line up the silverware like little stainless-steel soldiers, nor did she make one single comment about the paper napkins. She placed the napkin across her lap and tucked in as if she hadn’t seen food for a week.

  Taking the first bite of steak, she closed her eyes again, clearly savoring every chew. “I don’t think I have ever tasted anything this good in my whole life.”

  His eyes glinting, Murphy lifted a glass of lemonade. “You’re a fake, Kennedy. You said that about the stew two nights ago.”

  She looked at him, a hint of a twinkle in her eyes. “I’m just trying to nudge you toward excellence, Munroe.”

  Bracing his elbows on the table, he rested his chin on his clasped hands and watched her. He couldn’t remember her ever teasing him before—yeah, she had a keen and very sharp sense of humor, and she could spar with the best of them, but this was different. This was—just plain old teasing. He continued to stare at her. “I’d watch it, Little Mommy. It could backfire on you.”

  She grinned and blobbed more butter on her baked potato. “No, it won’t. You’ve got your male ego to uphold.”

  Abruptly averting his gaze so she couldn’t see his eyes, Murphy picked up his knife and fork. She sure in hell had that right. And he found himself back on that old treadmill, wondering about the story of her life.

  J.J. started sucking noisily on his fist, and Jordan leaned over and gave him the soother Murphy had finally bought out of sheer desperation. All the humor was gone, and there was a mother’s concern and gentleness in her voice when she spoke. “Do you think he’s really going to outgrow this before he goes to school?”

  Murphy watched her, his expression thoughtful, then he looked down and carved a piece of steak. The only way he was going to find out anything was to try to pry it out of her. And the comment about school was as good an opening as any. Keeping his expression bland and his tone casual, he looked up at her. “Where did you go to school, Jordan?”

  It was like watching shutters close. She became intent on her food again, and the silence was so heavy, he wasn’t sure she was going to answer. Without looking at him, she finally gave him a stiff response. “I got my degree from the University of Alberta.”

  He continued on as if this was normal conversation. “What about high school?”

  There was a tenseness in her voice he could almost feel. “Edmonton, as well.”

  High school in Edmonton. University in Edmonton. Well, it was a start. High school was probably as far he could go without having her run for cover. He took a deliberate detour. “How did you find the program at U of A?”

  Murphy heard the relief in her voice. “Okay, for the most part. It’s like any educational institution—some good instructors, some bad ones.”

  He looked up, a glint in his eyes. “And just how high up did you place on the dean’s list?”

  Giving a discomfited shrug, she looked down at her plate, a definite flush creeping up her face. It was kind of interesting, watching someone blush who
was as fair as she was. She didn’t look at him. “I did okay.”

  Right, he just bet she did. He watched her, waiting for her to finish her steak. As soon as she laid her knife and fork on her empty plate, he pushed the limit. “Is your family still in Edmonton?”

  Her body went rigid with tension. Her tone was clipped when she answered. “No.” Then she abruptly turned to their son, her tone one of brittle brightness. “Oh, Lord, J.J. You definitely need your diapers changed.” She scooped him up and was gone in a flash. Pushing his plate aside, Murphy rested his elbows on the table and turned the tall glass around on the tabletop. Well, one thing was clear. He was never going to find out from her. Not in this lifetime.

  Angry at himself for his vast stupidity, he picked up the glass and drained it. No wonder she’d walked out on him.

  Chapter 5

  It was not a good night. The only time the baby didn’t fuss was when Murphy walked him. So they walked and walked, and Murphy thought and thought. On top of doing the endless colic shuffle, he had developed a doozy of a headache. And from ten o’clock—when Jordan went to bed—till two in the morning, he had eaten a whole roll of antacid pills. Murphy knew the acid in his gut had nothing to do with indigestion; it had to do with other things. Mostly the haunted look he’d put in Ms. Jordan Kennedy’s eyes.

  It was just after two when the baby started to squirm and make sucky sounds that indicated real hunger. He’d been so fussy that Murphy had tried feeding him just after midnight, but he only took a little—not enough to last very long. This, though, was the real thing. But he wanted to stall the kid for another half hour if possible.

 

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