Do You Take This Child?

by Marie Ferrarella

  “This one’s from Andy.” He held the card up for her to see. “I guess he must have gotten the word out after I called him last night.”

  Sheila looked at Slade quizzically. When had he had time to make a call?

  He read the question in her eyes. “I called him after you fell asleep. I told him I wouldn’t be in the office this morning. I said to give the last of my installments to Kennedy to polish.”

  She had no idea who Kennedy was, but she would, she promised herself. She was going to get to know everyone who was a part of Slade’s life. Part of her husband’s life.

  The thought brought a smile to her lips. Her husband. She figured she had about thirty or forty good years in which to do it.

  Sheila plucked a card from the midst of an arrangement of carnations and baby’s breath. “This one’s from Marlene. How did she... ?” There was an explanation for how his editor had known to send flowers, but she hadn’t called anyone about Rebecca. How had Marlene known to send flowers?

  And then she glanced at the florist’s name on top of the card and had her answer. “Erin.”

  Slade came up behind her, still holding his card. “Erin?” He had no idea who that was.

  Sheila looked at the card. The logo across the top was the same. “These are from Erin’s shop.” She tapped the top of his card. “ ‘Flowers by Erin.’ ”

  Slade read the address below the logo. The shop was located approximately three blocks from the hospital. “Andy must have called the closest florist to the hospital as soon as he was up.”

  “Which is Erin’s.” She’d used it herself on occasion and knew that Erin opened her shop at seven. “I delivered her baby on Valentine’s Day,” Sheila murmured, slipping the card back into its envelope.

  She picked another card. Nicole and Dennis had sent a chrysanthemum arrangement shaped like a large yellow dog. It had daisies for eyes and a flower she didn’t recognize for a nose. Sheila felt tears forming again. For a woman who didn’t cry, she was getting entirely too weepy, she thought, taking the handkerchief that Slade offered.

  “Erin must have gotten the word out to the others and they all sent flowers.”

  “Lots of others,” Slade commented, looking at the abundance of flowers.

  She’d read the rest of the cards later, Sheila thought. She laid her head against Slade’s arm. It was nice to have the support of friends. And even better to have a man she was in love with to stand beside her. She began to understand what her parents had to be feeling these days, what they’d felt after her mother’s test results had come in negative. This moment was the only one she had right here, right now, and it was up to her to make the most of it.

  That meant not getting sidetracked by pride or anger. Or fear.

  Slade drew out another card from a basket that seemed to contain every flower known to man. “Where are we going to put all these things?” The card was from the crew in the entertainment section.

  “I can call Ingrid’s sister. Her boyfriend has a van,” she remembered.

  Slade drew Sheila aside, away from the flowers and the nurses who were looking on and listening. They walked back to Rebecca’s room. The baby was now sleeping peacefully. The sight gladdened his heart. “Rebecca’s never dating anyone with a van.”

  Amusement nudged its way in, filling her for the first time since before Slade had left for his assignment. “Why, what did you do in vans?”

  He grinned. “Things better not mentioned in mixed company.” He’d just show her instead, he thought, as soon as she was able. As he shoved his hand into his pocket, his fingers came in contact with something. “Oh, I almost forgot. I brought you something from D.C.”

  She stared at him, not knowing what to expect.

  Slade flipped open the small box in his pocket with his thumb, taking out the diamond-encrusted ring it held inside. He felt something stirring within him as he slipped the ring on her finger.

  “Slade, it’s beautiful,” she whispered.

  He shrugged. “Can’t have a bride without a ring. Sorry it’s late.”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s right on time. And you don’t have anything to be sorry about, not ever again.”

  He grinned. “I’ll remind you of that from time to time.”

  “So, how’s my patient doing?” Dr. Williams entered the room behind them. In a dapper suit and tie, he looked just slightly less formal than he had the night before.

  “She’s better, Ben.”

  He cast an appraising eye at Sheila. “I’m glad to hear that, but you look like hell, Sheila.”

  She combed her hand through her hair. She could use a good shower and some clean clothes. A toothbrush wouldn’t have hurt, either. But none of it mattered. Rebecca’s fever had broken and that lit up her soul like a Fourth of July exhibition.

  She grinned at the older man. “Is that your medical opinion?”

  Dr. Williams looked at her, his expression as stern as when he was lecturing one of his own daughters. Picking up Rebecca’s chart, he quickly skimmed the notations.

  “That’s my observation as a human being.” He glanced at Slade as he laid the chart aside. “Can’t you get your wife to go home and take a nap, change her clothes, take a shower?” Quickly, competently, he examined Rebecca. “Make herself presentable?”

  “No, no, no, and she already is.” He watched the doctor listen to Rebecca’s heart and lungs. “Sheila’s a very independent lady.”

  The doctor snorted as he draped the stethoscope around the back of his neck. “Well, my condolences to you, then. You’ve got your hands full. I know. I married one of those independent women.” He looked at Rebecca with a smile. “They raise independent daughters.”

  Slade didn’t care how dependent they were, as long as they were well. “So, what’s the verdict?”

  “Prognosis,” Sheila corrected him automatically. Her eyes were trained on the doctor’s face. She’d watched every movement, looking for a sign that would alert her that things were not as good as they seemed. There weren’t any. Still, she wasn’t the type to immediately ignore the negative. “What is the prognosis, Ben?”

  The doctor smiled. “Very favorable.” Nothing gave him more pleasure than to pronounce one of the children on the road to recovery. “She’s doing a lot better than some of my other patients.” He took out the chart again to record his findings. “Must be that iron constitution she’s inherited from you. She’s retaining more fluid.” He paused to consider. “I’d say that she’ll probably be ready to go home tomorrow.”

  The news was good, very good. But she had wanted more. “Not today?”

  He understood her eagerness. He’d feel the same in her shoes. Had felt the same. “Not today, Sheila. We’re a cautious hospital, remember? But it looks as if the crisis has passed. Wonderful resilience, babies. They never cease to amaze me.” After making one final note on the chart, he flipped it closed and handed it to the nurse at his side to put away. “Want a little advice? As a father of three, not your daughter’s pediatrician.”

  Slade draped his arm around Sheila’s shoulders, answering before she did. “Yes?”

  “Utilize this time. She’s mending, we’re taking great care of her.” Nothing worse than parents underfoot, even parents with medical degrees. Especially parents with medical degrees, he amended, remembering himself when his oldest had come down with meningitis. “Go home and get some sleep.” He smiled as he looked at Rebecca. “It might be the last chance you have to get more than three hours at a time for months. My first one didn’t sleep through the night until she was four.”

  “Months?” Slade asked incredulously.

  “Years,” Dr. Williams clarified. “Go home, both of you. I’ll be here to discharge her tomorrow.”

  Pleased with himself and with the progress he saw in this room, Dr. Williams left to see to his other patients on the floor.

  The relief in the small room was almost palpable. Slade let out a huge breath he hadn’t been aware he was ho
lding. Sliding his hands into his pockets, he looked at Sheila.

  “So, what do you say?” he asked. “Do you want to go home for a few hours?” He could really stretch out on a bed now, he thought. Now that Rebecca was out of danger. Now that his marriage was back on track.

  Sheila felt completely energized by Williams’s prognosis. With worry stripped from her, she felt like a butterfly freed of the confines of a dark, oppressive cocoon. Looking down at her wedding ring, she shook her head. “No, I want to go sightseeing.”

  “Sightseeing?” he echoed. That would have been the last thing he would have thought she’d want—if it would have occurred to him at all. “Sure you’re feeling all right?”

  He laid the back of his hand across her forehead, just as he had across Rebecca’s. It was cool. So why was she talking crazy?

  “I’m feeling just fine,” Sheila assured him.

  The mischief in her eyes gave him his first inkling. They’d looked that way the night of the party. The night his destiny had been changed forever. “Just what did you have in mind?”

  She splayed her hand along his chest as she looked up at him, her body teasing his. “There’s this certain little cove I’m partial to. It’s located on a private beach. The owners are away again on another one of their endless cruises.” She could never understand going away on an expensive cruise when the ocean was practically knocking at your door. “I thought I might want to see it again.” Her smile was seductive. “It isn’t far from here.”

  His arm tightened around hers. Desire, hidden these last hours, rose full-blooded in his veins. “I remember. It might look different in the light.”

  “No, it won’t.” She shook her head, the last of her hair coming undone, brushing along his shoulder. “Because you’ll be there with me.”

  All the rest of my days, Sheila. All the rest of my days. “Does this mean I can unpack?”

  He already knew the answer to that, she thought. She never really wanted him to leave. Not if she examined her heart.

  “As fast as you can—but later. I really want to see that cove now.” Her head tilted up; her mouth was just inches away from his. “It’s pretty isolated this time of year, you know.”

  He could see himself making love with her. Feel himself making love with her. “Don’t tempt me.”

  She laughed. “I intend to, Slade Garrett. I intend to do just that all the days of your life.”

  She meant it, he thought. She really meant it. “Sounds like exquisite torture to me.”

  “Good.” She kissed him soundly, opening the door a crack to what there was waiting for him. For them. Her breath was just the slightest bit shaky as she added, “Because you’re in for a lot of it.”

  If she thought that was a threat, she was going to be disappointed with its effect. “Promises, promises...”

  He took her hand, drawing her out of the room. They had a great deal of catching up to do, unencumbered by doubts or fears or hurt feelings.

  “Wait,” one of the nurses called after them as they began walking toward the elevators. “What about the flowers?”

  Instead of answering, Slade retraced his steps to the nurses’ station. Sheila followed, curious. She watched as Slade took a daisy from one of the arrangements. He slid the stem into her hair, the way he had tucked the flower behind her ear the night they met. Then it had come from one of the centerpieces at the banquet. Now it came from a get-well basket intended for their daughter.

  “There, perfect,” he murmured. “Take the cards out of the arrangements for us,” he told the nurse. “And then distribute the flowers to some of the other patients who don’t have any.” He raised his brow to see if Sheila agreed.

  “My thoughts exactly.” She smiled. “We think alike, Slade.”

  Yes, on the fundamental things, they did. And always would. “That means you know what I’m thinking.”

  Her grin was wide. “Yes, I do.” She laced her hand through his. “Let’s go,” she whispered.

  He hesitated just a moment. “Can you?”

  “I can.” It had been more than two weeks, and she knew her own body. She was ready, willing and able. “C’mon, we’re wasting time.”

  “Not anymore, Sheila,” he said as they hurried to the elevator. “Not anymore.”

  ISBN : 978-1-4592-7988-9

  DO YOU TAKE THIS CHILD?

  Copyright © 1996 by Marie Rydzynski-Ferrarella

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any informatoin storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the editorial office, Silhouette Books, 300 East 42nd Street. New York, NY 10017 U.S.A.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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