***
Danny was in London taping a BBC special when she went into labor, three
weeks early. She’d been having Braxton-Hicks contractions for a week or more, but Mark Johnson, her doctor, had insisted they were nothing to worry about. Just the day before, he’d patted her hand with his huge, warm paw and said, “This baby isn’t coming for another three weeks. Danny will be home long before then. Cheer up. It’s almost over.”
She believed him until her water broke as she was hoisting her lumpy body out of bed the next morning. She sat there in disbelief as the sheet beneath her sopped up the liquid and the overflow ran down her legs and into her slippers. Her first thought was that they’d gone through six weeks of Lamaze class for nothing. Danny wasn’t going to be here for the birth of his child.
Unexpected resentment bubbled up inside her. Why was he never here when she needed him the most? Just once, it would have been nice to come ahead of his career.
She called Mark, who nearly had a coronary when she told him she would drive herself to the hospital. “There’s nobody you can call?” he said. “A relative? A neighbor? A taxi, for heaven’s sake. Once your water breaks, labor can set in quickly.”
She thought fleetingly about calling Rob, but decided that if he could be a jackass, so could she. “I’m not about to deliver on the freeway,” she told Mark. “I can do this.”
“I’m sending an ambulance for you,” he said.
“Over my dead body,” she said, and hung up the phone.
Just for spite, she took Danny’s new Ferrari. It was bright red, had 3,000 miles on the odometer, and had cost him more than the annual budgets of several third world countries. If she didn’t make it to the hospital, he would be dealing with some interesting new stains on the upholstery.
Mark was waiting at the emergency room entrance, looking not a little exasperated. She pointed a finger at him. “This is all your fault,” she told him. “If you’d told the truth yesterday, I could have reached Danny in time.”
He patted her shoulder and chuckled. “We’ll videotape the birth if you’d like.”
“Doctor J?”
“Yes?”
“Stuff it.”
As most first babies do, this one took its time being born, and its mother discovered a heretofore unseen shrewish side to her nature. Casey ranted, she raved, she yelled and cried, she cussed out Danny Fiore and Dr. Mark Johnson and several hapless nurses. The pain went so far beyond her vague imaginings that she begged for medication, and when her plea was refused, she threatened to sue the entire medical establishment for keeping womankind in the dark. The doctors and nurses, saints all, just patted her hand and wiped her brow and fed her more ice chips.
Katherine Ellen Fiore was born at twilight, and when the red-faced, lumpy, squalling mass of humanity was placed in her arms, Casey burst into tears. She cooed and stroked, counted fingers and toes, and gazed into the blue eyes, so like Danny’s, that solemnly gazed back at her. “Welcome to the world, Katie Fiore,” she said.
She was reluctant to let go when they took the baby away. Mark chuckled. “Wouldn’t you rather have her clean and sweet-smelling?” he said.
“I’ll take her any way I can get her.”
“How’s the pain now?”
She grinned. “What pain?”
“That’s my girl.”
“I was horrible, wasn’t I?”
“Quite. And you loved every minute of it.”
“Mark, is she healthy?”
“We’re performing the routine neonatal testing—Apgar scores, and so forth. But she looks fit as a fiddle to me, robust and attentive and loud.”
“I feel like I could climb mountains.”
“You just did. Now you need your rest.”
“I can’t rest. I have to call Danny.”
“I already talked to Danny. The hospital finally got through to him an hour ago, but you were eight centimeters dilated, and not in any condition to chat on the phone. He’s probably a basket case by now.”
She wanted to walk back to her room, but Mark won that battle, and she was wheeled in on a stretcher. Moments later, Katie was brought in by one of the nurses and placed in her arms. She lay back against the pillows and watched the baby suckling at her breast, tiny fists curled in contentment, blue eyes gazing into hers with avid interest.
Beside the bed, the telephone rang. The nurse answered it and handed it to her. Danny’s voice, coming from across the Atlantic, sounded tinny and insubstantial. “Casey?” he said. “Can you hear me?”
“Of course I can. Oh, Danny, you should see her, she’s beautiful. She looks just like you.”
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I wanted to be there with you.”
“It’s all right, darling, I understand. We didn’t know she was going to come early.”
“Are you all right? Christ, I’ve been frantic ever since they called.”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“Is she really beautiful?”
“She’s just perfect, Danny. Absolutely perfect.”
“Honey, I have to go. I’m on standby for the next empty seat at Heathrow. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Take your time,” she said. “Katie and I will be just fine.”
***
Armed with a plush white teddy bear the size of Kansas, a massive bouquet of white camellias, and his most persuasive smile, Rob MacKenzie poured on the boyish charm and talked his way into the closed maternity ward of the expensive private hospital where Casey Fiore had just given birth.
He paused at the doorway to her room. Casey was sitting up in bed, propped against a pile of pillows, her hair pulled back in a thick braid and the sleeping baby cradled against her breast. She wore a look of such radiant bliss that he was reluctant to intrude on their intimacy. He took a step backward, but the movement caught her attention. She looked up, and Rob crossed his ankles and leaned against the door frame. “Hey,” he said.
He saw it in her eyes, before she could conceal it, the quick flash of pleasure at sight of him. Then the mask came down as those eyes studied every detail of his appearance, missing nothing. They paused when they reached the bouquet of flowers, and her mouth thinned. “Do I know you?” she said.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Rub it in. I deserve it.”
“Where’s the little woman? Home doing the wash?”
He cleared his throat. “We, ah—” Cleared it again. “Monique and I aren’t together any longer.”
She raised a single dark eyebrow. “Threw you out, did she, MacKenzie?”
“Actually,” he said, “I walked.”
“Oh, really? So you finally managed to get your brain to function somewhere north of your belt buckle?”
He took the blow straight to the heart, wondering if the truth always hurt this much. “I’m here,” he said, holding the furry polar bear in the air above his head, “to propose a truce.”
Coolly, she said, “How touching. Is the bear for me?”
“Actually,” he said, “it’s for the baby. The flowers are for you.”
She eyed them suspiciously and said, “My mother always warned me to be wary of men bearing gifts.”
“Look,” he said, “we both know I’ve been an ass. You’re my best friend, and I let Monique come between us. It was a shitty thing to do.”
“Yes,” she said evenly. “It was.”
“You’re not going to make this easy on me, are you?”
She shifted the baby against her breast. “Does the word grovel mean anything to you, MacKenzie?”
Without waiting for an invitation, he stepped into her room and dropped the teddy bear on the foot of the bed. Bouquet in hand, he sat on the edge of the mattress. “Take a sniff,” he said, tilting the flowers in her direction. “They’re spectacular.”
She leaned forward to take a single, dainty whiff, and he thought he detected a softening in the hardness around her mouth. “So,” he said with forced joviality. “Where’s th
e Italian stallion?”
The lines around her mouth deepened. “London,” she said.
“London?” he said, outraged. “You mean he wasn’t here when the baby was born?”
“It wasn’t his fault,” she said. “Katie came three weeks early. There was no time to reach him. He’s on his way home now.”
It was inconceivable to him that Danny could have missed his daughter’s birth. Nothing short of death or dismemberment could have kept Rob MacKenzie away from the birth of his child. “Why the hell didn’t you call me, Fiore? I would have come in an instant.”
“And do what? Sit by my side through twelve hours of labor?”
He squared his jaw. “If that was what you needed, yes.”
“It’s not your job.”
“Tough. Better me than some nurse you don’t even know.”
As she continued to study his face, the lines around her mouth gradually dissolved. “You’d do that,” she said, “wouldn’t you?”
“Damn right I would!”
Softly, she said, “Damn, Flash, I’ve missed your ugly mug.”
He reached out, picked up the end of her braid, and tugged playfully at it. “I’ve missed you, too, sweetcakes.”
“So where are you staying?”
“I found this great apartment. Hardwood floors, French doors, stained glass windows. It’s in this Gothic monstrosity of a house that looks like something out of a Stephen King novel.” He grinned. “I call it the Hotel California.”
“How’d you manage to find something like that in Southern California?”
“A wizard,” he said, “never reveals his secrets.”
“You don’t have to be in such a hurry to set up housekeeping,” she said. “You could stay with us for a while.”
“You guys need your privacy. You have a family now. You don’t need me hanging around.” He laid a single finger on Katie Fiore’s velvety cheek. “Of course, if my mom had anything to say about it, I’d come home to Southie and marry Mary Frances O’Reilly.”
She raised a single eyebrow. “Mary Frances O’Reilly?”
“She has thick ankles and buck teeth and Coke-bottle glasses. She used to follow me around the school yard at recess.” He flashed her a wicked grin and added conspiratorially, “She wanted to have my babies.”
“You might be surprised. Most girls grow out of that awkward stage. When was the last time you saw her?”
He grimaced. “Last year, and believe me, if anything was about to give me nightmares, it would be the thought of marrying Mary Frances.”
Her smile was rueful. “Have you told your mother about the split?”
“I called her. She wasn’t impressed. Two crashed marriages in three years. Basically, she told me to get my head out of my ass and grow up.”
“Not bad advice, hot stuff.”
He held out a single finger and the baby grasped it. “Maybe,” he said darkly, “I should think about entering the priesthood. Every good Irish Catholic family’s supposed to produce at least one priest. The MacKenzies are behind on their quota.”
“You’d never survive,” she said dryly. “You have to take a vow of celibacy.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Right. Well, you can stop worrying about me, because I’m never having another serious relationship. Just lots of cheap, superficial sex with as many women as possible.”
“That certainly is what I’d call a mature solution to your dilemma.”
He wiggled Katie’s hand. “Shut up,” he said. “It’s my life. I’ll live it my way.”
“Not for a minute do I doubt that,” she said. “You’re the most independent jackass I’ve ever known.”
The baby yawned and stretched, and she adjusted her hold on the precious bundle. “Would you like to hold her?” she said. “After all, since we’re still speaking, I suppose I have to ask you to be her godfather.”
He let out the breath he’d been holding. “Sweetheart,” he said, “I thought you’d never ask.”
BOOK THREE
chapter twenty
Los Angeles, California
April, 1986
“Why can’t I go with you?” Katie Fiore crinkled her dimpled face as she watched her mother pack. “I hate it when you go away.”
“I know, sweetheart. I don’t like it, either. But it’s only for a few days. And Daddy will be here with you. The two of you can have fun together.”
“I don’t want Daddy. I want to go to New York with you.”
Another first for history, Casey thought, taking a black cocktail dress from the closet. Katie always preferred her father’s company. At five, she was already smitten by the infamous Fiore charm. “I told you,” Casey said, “this is not a vacation. Mama and Uncle Rob are going on a business trip.” She opened a drawer and selected several pairs of silk undies. “You’d be very bored. Besides—” She arranged the undies in her suitcase and bent to plant a kiss on the tip of Katie’s nose. “You’re sick, remember?” Katie’s kindergarten class had been passing around a respiratory virus all winter. This was the third time in as many months that she’d come down with a sore throat and a runny nose.
Katie glowered, those blue eyes identical to Danny’s. “I hate being sick!” she said. “I hate having a red nose! Jimmy Bostwick called me Rudolph!” Katie had inherited more from her father than his looks; she’d also gotten a healthy dose of his vanity.
Casey held back a smile as she folded a blouse and neatly tucked it into the suitcase. “I know, Katydid, but guess what? Your red nose will be all gone by the time I get back.”
Those blue eyes continued to accuse her. There was one other thing Katie had inherited from Danny: his intelligence. She knew when she was being pacified, and she didn’t like it one bit.
Casey threw in a pair of black heels to match the dress. She hated leaving Katie, especially when she was sick, but this was a career opportunity she couldn’t afford to pass up. Gabe Rothman, the Broadway producer, had discovered a brilliant but heretofore unknown playwright with the unlikely name of Sam Adams, and he was in the process of turning Adams’ newest work into a Broadway musical. Rothman had approached Casey and Rob about writing the score. It was all very tentative at this point, but if they were able to work out a satisfactory deal, and if the play was a hit, it would be a very large feather in their caps. That was a lot of ifs, so Casey was trying to rein in her enthusiasm. There would be plenty of time for that once they had a signed contract.
It was too soon to think ahead to the actual work, which would have to be done in New York instead of California. She would cross that particular bridge when she arrived at it. In the meantime, she and Rob would meet with Rothman and Adams and director Eli Walton, and test the waters. If things worked out right, they might just come home with a contract in hand.
“I’ll bring you a present from New York,” she told her daughter. “Something special.”
Katie reached into the suitcase and touched her mother’s black silk slip, rubbed her fingers against the soft material. “A doll?” she said.
“Is that what you want?”
“Yup. A new Cabbage Patch doll.”
“But, honey, you already have five of them. Wouldn’t you like something different?”
Katie shook her head vehemently. “A Cabbage Patch doll, Mommy. That’s what I want.”
Casey smiled at her daughter as she closed and locked her suitcase. “A Cabbage Patch doll it is, then, a special one for my Katydid.”
***
He hated it when Katie was cranky.
She’d been running a fever ever since Casey left for New York, and he’d tried everything he knew to pacify her. Together they’d watched the Muppets take Manhattan, they’d played Candyland until he thought he’d lose his mind, and they’d feasted on Katie’s favorite food in the whole world, macaroni and cheese from a box. He’d read every Dr. Seuss book she owned, and they’d even gone a second round with Green Eggs and Ham. But Katie was whiny, and nothing had held her attention
for long. “I hurt, Daddy,” she said for the hundredth time in the past two hours.
“I know, sweetheart. Why don’t we take a nap together? Maybe you’ll feel better afterward.”
“No! I hate naps. I want Mommy!” And she started to cry.
Danny sighed. “How about we turn on the TV and see what’s on? Maybe we can find a movie.”
“I don’t want a movie. My throat hurts.”
He gave her the antibiotic that Mark Johnson had prescribed, the one she’d been taking, off and on, for three months. The infection kept returning, bringing its own special brand of misery: a sore throat and earaches, sniffles, crankiness. Katie hated medicine, and she fought swallowing the foul-tasting stuff. He bribed her with chocolate milk, her second favorite thing in the whole world. “Why don’t we cuddle together on the couch?” he said. “Later, we’ll call Mom in New York.”
“Okay.”
They lay together on the couch in front of the television, Katie’s warm little body curled up against his, her mangy Pooh bear clutched in her arms. When she was born, he and Casey had agreed to give Katie as normal an upbringing as possible. It wasn’t easy. She’d spent her infancy on the road, carted around from backstage to backstage in an infant sling, cuddled close against her mother’s chest. By the time she was two, she’d been to Europe several times, and was as comfortable on an airplane as she was riding in a car. By the time she was three, she knew the lyrics to all his songs, and wasn’t shy about belting them out for any unsuspecting victim she could coerce into standing still to listen.
In spite of this rather unorthodox upbringing, there were no nannies or fancy private schools for their Katydid. Katie Fiore attended public school, and was a very ordinary kid whose father just happened to be one of the world’s biggest rock stars. As a result of this enforced normalcy, Katie was a charming child, bright and inquisitive and open to new experiences. And she was the absolute light of his life.
Coming Home (Jackson Falls Series) Page 22