Happy New Year--Baby!

by Marie Ferrarella

  Unlike Marlene who had anticipated the delivery with some trepidation, Nicole couldn’t wait to give birth and be done with it. She was passionately looking forward to shedding this elephantine weight she was struggling with. Naturally thin, she had never carried any excess weight until now. And as for her emotions, they had never been in such a state of constant flux as they had been these past months. Minor things taxed her patience and as for the major ones, it was almost beyond endurance. It was a struggle just to get through the day.

  Rising, Nicole saw her reflection in the chrome trim on the stove. A pregnant woman was supposed to glow. If that was really true, then someone had failed to issue her the requisite mother-to-be glow kit. Par for the course. If her ship ever came in, she’d probably be standing in the airport at the time.

  Damn, she had to shake this mood.

  Nicole wandered back to the refrigerator and opened it again. There wasn’t anything in it that hadn’t been there that morning. It was filled with healthy food. Nothing tempted her. Marlene had asked her to stay for dinner but Nicole had taken a rain check because she wanted to be alone. Why, she hadn’t the faintest idea.

  Or maybe she did.

  Nicole dearly loved her sister, even though they had approached life from different paths, and there wasn’t anyone else’s company she enjoyed more. But Marlene seemed caught up in her child and even in Sullivan, the brother of the man who had donated his sperm to create Robby. Nicole felt as if she were intruding.

  She felt, she thought now as she listlessly shifted food on the top shelf, like an A-number-one grouch right now.

  Nicole let the refrigerator door slip from her fingers. It sighed shut, eliciting an echoing sigh from her. Maybe she’d just catch the news on TV and then go to bed, even though it was early. With any luck, she’d feel better tomorrow.

  She’d just walked out of the kitchen when the doorbell rang. Automatically, she glanced at her watch. It was past six o’clock. She wasn’t in the mood for visitors. Lately, she mused, she wasn’t in the mood for very much. Except for fudge ripple ice cream, and she was all out of that.

  The doorbell rang again. Resigned, she crossed to the door. Standing on her toes, Nicole looked through the peephole, prepared to send whoever was on the opposite side of the door on their way.

  She sank back on her heels. It was Dennis Lincoln. Now what?

  Nicole flipped the locks and opened the door. She left one hand guardedly on the jamb, unwilling to invite him in. “Hi. Is there anything wrong with the television set?”

  She’d been crying again, he realized. Her eyes were red rimmed and slightly puffy. Against all regulations and safeguards, something protective stirred within Dennis. He did his best to ignore it.

  Dennis shifted the paper bag he’d picked up at the Chinese restaurant. Filled with small cartons of different entrées, the heat radiated through the paper, warming his hands. Following Nicole over the course of the last week, he’d learned little except that she had a fondness for Chinese food.

  “No, the set’s fine. Great, as a matter of fact.” He grinned like a kid with a new toy, which was just the way he figured he was supposed to look, if possessing an oversize TV set had mattered to him. “Maybe you’d like to come over this weekend and watch something—with your husband if he’s around.”

  Every muscle seemed to instantly tighten in Nicole’s face. The profile he had on her said she and her late husband hadn’t been close in the past couple of years, but they’d obviously been close at least once in that time. He glanced at her stomach. Still, he could see that he had just pulled the scab off a raw wound.

  There were times when the job left a bad taste in his mouth.

  Nicole lowered her eyes. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

  The stillness in her voice underlined the awkward moment. He didn’t want to amplify her pain. Dennis glossed over the moment. “I guess he’s not much of a TV buff. Well, then, perhaps you’d like to—”

  He didn’t know, she thought. There was no reason for him to know, of course. It was just that Craig’s death had been such a part of her life in the last month and a half, she unconsciously assumed everyone knew.

  She cleared her throat. “My husband’s dead, Mr. Lincoln.”

  He let the appropriate concern register on his face. It wasn’t difficult. There was something about the pain in her eyes that drew it out of him naturally.

  “Oh God, I had no idea. I’m so sorry.” She was really devastated about his death, Dennis thought. Logan had been a damn fool not to have appreciated her. “When did it happen?”

  She took a deep breath, distancing herself from the words. “Almost six weeks ago. He was a professional race car driver. His car spun out on the track and hit a wall. They clocked him doing one twenty.” Craig had died just as he’d lived. Quickly. There should have been comfort in that, somehow. There wasn’t.

  “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to remind you, I mean—”

  Nicole waved away his tongue-tied words. There was no need for an apology. “That’s all right. The story only made page three of the sports page. There was no reason for you to know.” She lifted her shoulders in a halfhearted shrug.

  After all, it wasn’t as if her new neighbor had been an acquaintance. And not even Craig’s friends had come to pay their respects when Craig died. She didn’t recognize half the people who had attended the funeral. They were people who had populated his new life. Craig had changed from the darkly handsome, gregarious young man he had been when he had started out on the racing circuit. Success had changed him. Or maybe, it had just brought out the man he had actually been.

  All water under the bridge. It had been a long time since she had been head over heels in love with Craig. In her heart, Nicole mourned the man she thought she had fallen in love with, not the man who had died. There were times when she believed that the Craig Logan she thought she had known never really existed except in her mind.

  This was the point where Dennis was going to be sympathetic. He had planned it this way. But as the words rose to his lips, Dennis felt uncomfortable with the role he was playing. Whether or not she knew about, or condoned, her husband’s involvement with the Syndicate, this had to be a rough time for her.

  “Listen, if there’s anything I can do—if you need anything—help around the apartment, something like that, I’m pretty handy when I find the time.”

  Nicole shook her head. “I’m fine, really.” If she needed anything, she’d call maintenance before she’d knock on his door. He wasn’t anything to her, even if he did have kind eyes. “Oh, before I forget.” She dug into her pocket. “Here’s your key.”

  He took it from her and she stepped back, ready to close the door. Her gaze fell on the package in his hands. There was a translucent stain on the bottom of the bag.

  “Well, goodbye. I don’t want to keep you from your dinner.”

  “You’re not, exactly.” He looked down at the bag. “This was my way of saying thank you for this afternoon. I bought dinner for two. You and your…” His voice trailed off, purposely lost in an implied apology. Dennis offered the bag to her. “Chinese food. Since you’re alone, maybe I could join you if I manage to have the feet in my mouth surgically removed.”

  The aroma was tempting. It had resurrected her dormant appetite and his manner was disarming in a soft, puppy dog sort of way. Still, she hardly knew him. Nicole shook her head. “I don’t—”

  He wasn’t going to give her the chance to say no. “I don’t have anything nearly this good waiting for me in my refrigerator.”

  “Then maybe you’d better take it.” She pressed the bag toward him, but he didn’t accept it.

  “Old custom, never take back a bag of Chinese food. It’s bad luck.” Then, before she could protest further, he opened the bag in her hands and looked in as if he didn’t already know what it contained. “Wonton soup.”

  She loved wonton soup. Nicole struggled to remain strong. She pushed the bag b
ack into his hands. “No, I—”

  “With sweet and sour pork, lobster Cantonese and Moo Goo Gai Pan.” He raised his eyes to hers. She was weakening, he thought. Dennis felt pleased, but there was a faint trace of guilt as well. “I’ve also got fried rice and appetizers.”

  Nicole could feel her mouth watering. What would it hurt? He looked harmless enough.

  “I wasn’t sure what you’d like,” he continued. “Other than the fact that everyone likes Chinese food.”

  She felt her mouth curving in a small smile. “You took a survey?”

  His grin grew larger. “No, but I never met anyone who didn’t.”

  There were probably people somewhere who didn’t like Chinese food, but she certainly wasn’t among their number. Nicole glanced at the greasy bag. “It looks as if your Moo Goo is trying to make a break for it.”

  The bag was threatening to tear. Dennis spread his hand protectively over the bottom. An edge of the carton was already beginning to protrude. “I need someplace to put this down.”

  She nodded toward his door. “Your kitchen comes to mind.”

  Dennis glanced over his shoulder. “Sure, if you’d rather eat there. My cleaning lady was just in yesterday, so—”

  That would account for the neat state of the apartment, she thought.

  “No, I meant that you should eat it in your kitchen.” She really didn’t feel like having company. Talking about Craig had brought memories back to her. Memories that hurt.

  He raised the bag. The blend of aromas was doing its own selling, but it didn’t hurt to push just a little. Obviously his attempt at conversation wasn’t enough to gain entry to her home or her confidence. And now he’d need to hire a cleaning lady. “It’s a lot of food for just one person and leftovers have a habit of turning a strange shade of green in my refrigerator before I get back to them.” One look into her eyes told him he had her. “Besides, I’d feel better about putting you out this morning.”

  She could almost taste the egg rolls. “Well…”

  He went in for the kill. “And I was raised to believe that neighbors should be neighborly. This will be my chance to do something neighborly.”

  It was becoming obvious that if she didn’t agree to have dinner with him, he would stand here, talking all night. She supposed that there was no harm in sharing a meal with him.

  Nicole stepped back, allowing him access to her apartment. Being on her own terrain would make her feel a lot better than being on his. He sounded like someone with small-town values, but you never knew.

  Neighborly. Now there was a word she hadn’t heard in a long time. “Exactly where were you raised?” The door thudded shut behind her and she deliberately left the top lock opened. It never hurt to be careful.

  If she’d employed that prudence earlier, maybe she wouldn’t be in this predicament now.

  No, her pregnancy wasn’t a predicament, she corrected fiercely. Just the beginning had been.

  Dennis placed the bag on the kitchen table just in time. The rest of it ripped away. The carton of fried rice in the bottom of the bag made unceremonious contact with the tabletop. His hand greasy, Dennis automatically reached for a paper towel from the roll above the sink.

  “I’m from Houston,” he answered as he wiped his hands. It was only one of many cities he and his family had passed through, but it was as good as any to tell her. He looked around for someplace to discard the paper towel.

  Nicole opened the cupboard beneath the sink and indicated the small pail there. “That would explain the twang.”

  He grinned as he tossed the crumpled towel away. “What twang?” he asked innocently, purposely thickening it for her benefit.

  “Yours.”

  “I don’t have one,” he informed her with a straight face. “I’ve been in California for the last eleven years. Whatever accent I had has long since been washed out by the surf.”

  “You drawl,” she contradicted. “Just a little.” And she had to admit that she found it rather cute. He made her think of lean, tall Texans and other things long buried in childhood fantasies. “I think it comes out most when you say ‘ma’am.”’

  She watched, intrigued as he made himself at home in her kitchen. It would have annoyed her if he hadn’t done it so effortlessly, so guilelessly.

  Dennis took out the cartons from the bag one by one and placed them in a semicircle in the middle of her table. He laughed. “I’ll have to remember not to say it, then.” Carefully, without being obvious, he took in his surroundings as he worked.

  Her apartment was a true mirror image of his own. What was on the right in his apartment was on the left in hers. The only difference was that her apartment was a great deal more cluttered than his. Housekeeping was not a high priority for this woman. Somehow, it seemed to fit her.

  The bag emptied, Dennis deposited it into the garbage, then turned to her cupboards. Taller than Nicole by almost a foot, Dennis reached up and took out a stack of plates before she had a chance to stop him or do it herself.

  Nicole stepped back from the table as he began to set it. Wariness crept in. He seemed a little too comfortable in her apartment. She didn’t want him getting any wrong ideas. Men had a habit of thinking that widows were emotionally needy and vulnerable. The last thing she wanted was for a man to think of her as vulnerable.

  Turning, Dennis saw the look in her eyes. It was the same kind of look a hermit had when he discovered poachers on his land. He could almost guess what she was thinking. Dennis shrugged, making light of it.

  “Sorry.” Taking out the utensils, he placed a fork and a spoon beside each of the two main plates. “I’m used to doing for myself.”

  She just bet he was. Nicole stood behind her chair, keeping the table between them. “Even in someone else’s apartment?”

  She certainly wasn’t trusting, but then, maybe she didn’t have any reason to be. “It feels like mine, only in reverse.” As an afterthought, he drew out a napkin from the holder and tucked one beneath each set of utensils. “It’s like I tumbled through the looking glass.”

  Or through his camera lens, he added silently. He’d certainly seen this scene often enough in the last few days. He avoided looking toward the small transmitter he’d positioned on the far end of the top of her refrigerator. Through it, he could see the entire kitchen and part of the living room. There was an identical transmitter planted in the nursery, letting him see that room and the small hallway beyond.

  He gestured at the set table. “Besides, you look as if you’ve had a long day and you’re tired. My guess is that you could do with a little pampering.”

  She hadn’t done very much to speak of, but he was right about her being tired. Carrying this baby around made her feel as if she were working a twelve-hour shift in the coal mines. And it was nice to be waited on for a change. Usually, she just heated something up and ate it straight out of the pot.

  Rather than argue, she sat down at the table. Dennis got busy.

  Wisps of steam curled above the soup as he poured it into the two bowls. It smelled heavenly. It was as if he’d read her mind. She raised her eyes to Dennis’s face. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

  He conceded the point, but he added, “And you didn’t have to let those deliverymen in for me, but you did. One favor deserves another and this is the least I can do.”

  Counting the appetizers, there were six small white cartons. Carefully, he deposited the contents of each one on a plate, adding a fork on the side. Within minutes, the cartons were cleared away and the table looked as if it belonged in a restaurant. Only then did he take a seat opposite her in the small breakfast nook.

  He was waiting for her to begin. Feeling slightly self-conscious, she dipped her spoon into the soup. “You do that well.” She nodded at the table setting.

  Dennis grinned as memories returned to him. “Old habit. I worked as a waiter to put myself through college,” he added in answer to the question that rose in her eyes. That much was true. �
�There are times I look down and still expect to see one of those half aprons tied around my waist.”

  She took more than her share of lobster. Realizing what she’d done, Nicole began to place some of it back on the plate until he stopped her.

  “Enjoy it,” he urged.

  He made it difficult to resist. “How long did you work as a waiter?”

  “Five years.” Passing up the lobster, he took a spoonful of the fried rice and then topped it with a helping of spicy chicken. In her condition, she would avoid it.

  Nicole thought of how harried Marlene had been, going to college and working for their father in her so-called “off” time. “Must have been hard, working and studying at the same time.”

  He shrugged. At the time, it had been well worth the struggle. “When you want something badly enough, you find a way to get it. Obstacles don’t matter. Making the goal does.”

  Now he really did sound like Marlene. Nicole stopped eating and studied the man sitting across from her. “And what’s your goal, Mr. Lincoln?”

  He gave an exaggerated shiver. “Please, call me Dennis. When you say ‘Mr. Lincoln’ like that, I feel like I should be wearing a stovepipe hat and tugging at my beard.”

  Though he was tall, he was muscular and his hair was a dirty blond. He wore it on the longish side, which led her to believe that whoever he worked for wasn’t a stickler for decorum.

  She didn’t particularly want to be on a first name basis with him. That left the door open to becoming more personal than just nodding at one another in passing. And she had all the friends she needed. Or wanted.