Shame the Devil (Portland Devils Book 3)

by Rosalind James

  Now her kid was judging her. And judging her exactly wrong.

  No. Just no.

  She said, “You know what? I’m getting a little tired of hearing what I’m not and what I am. I love you, but you really don’t get my life. Focusing because you need to, because it’s your job to take care of somebody you love? That’s just a woman’s life. But maybe I’ve accepted that I can’t control forever. I’m here right now, and I’m loving being here. Harlan and I are having a baby, and I’m so excited about that. If it doesn’t work out between us, I’ll …”

  “Yeah?” Dyma asked. “What, exactly? How do you move on when you have a baby with the guy?”

  “The way women have been doing since forever,” Jennifer said. “I hate to tell you, but generally, a guy doesn’t show up with the engagement ring on your first date. Or on your fifth date. And if he does—run. You take your shot. Both of you take your shot. It’s scary to date somebody. It’s scarier to love somebody. It’s a leap of faith. Sometimes, your leap doesn’t pay off. Sometimes, you fall. That doesn’t mean you don’t leap. People aren’t breakable. Or if they are, they’re mendable, too.”

  “Whoa,” Dyma said. “That’s a surprisingly cynical outlook.”

  “No,” Jennifer said. “You know—I think it’s something entirely different. If you’re always afraid, you hang on so tight that you lose all your chances, all the things you aren’t looking at. All the lives you could be living. You’re only living in one tiny piece of the pie of your possibilities, because you’re trying to wrap your arms around it all the time to keep from losing it. If you go on and … and give yourself, though, to somebody else, to your life, you get to live all the way. You get to love all the way. Once you decide you’re mendable, you’re free. If I hadn’t been trying to hang on to Mark, because I didn’t want to be alone, because part of me kept thinking it could be forever and that I needed somebody forever, so I kept trying to shoehorn myself into that spot, what else might I have done? What else might I have been?”

  “Wow,” Dyma said. “You realize that’s basically the Tao. I mean, that’s it.”

  “That’s the other thing,” Jennifer said. “You get to be smarter when you get older, too. You get to make up your own Tao.”

  Now, it was two-thirty on Monday afternoon, and she was packing up, telling her new boss, a guy named Ed who looked like an ex-linebacker and probably was, whose shaved head was as polished and dark as a newel post, whose face was scary but whose command of details was legendary, “So I’m out of here, but I’ll be in early tomorrow.”

  Ed would have answered, but there was somebody in the entry to her cubicle. Blake Orbison, to be exact. Jennifer had noticed that Ed tended to shut up when Blake was around.

  She said, “Hey, Blake. I’m just leaving.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you about that.”

  “Well,” she said, “could you have picked another time? I literally need to be out the door.”

  Ed looked up like he’d heard a signal called that wasn’t in the playbook, which was probably about right.

  “Doctor’s appointment,” Blake said. “I know. That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

  “All right,” she said. “I’m not going to ask how you know that, even though I have a bad feeling. Walk and talk, then. You know I hate to be late.”

  “For such a model employee,” he said, “you have an authority problem.”

  Ed grinned, then wiped the smile off his face. Definitely an ex-linebacker.

  “Yep,” she said. “But you knew that when you hired me. Let’s go.”

  Blake waited until they were in the elevator, at least. Then he said, “Kristiansen called me today. He wanted to talk about your situation.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said. “You know—I’m a grown woman. I’m not sure what all this antler-bashing is, but I think you could consider this. It’s not even my first time around as a single mom. I’ve done the whole thing before, all the way through. Not many thirty-four-year-olds can say that. And I’m prepared to do it again.”

  “Slow down there, slugger,” Blake said. “I already got this today.”

  Jennifer looked at him sidelong. The elevator reached the basement, and she headed for her car with Blake loping along beside her. When she had the door unlocked and had slung her laptop bag inside, she asked, “What, exactly, did you get today?”

  “Basically, that he’s got this. Kristiansen.”

  “That he’s got what?”

  Blake sighed and ran a rueful thumb along his jaw. “That he’s looking out for you, and I don’t need to do it anymore. Told me to back off, if you want to know the truth. Let’s see if I remember this. ‘You might be her boss, but that’s it. Anything else? Back right the hell off. No more questions about whether she’s OK. I’m not calling your wife and asking her if she’s OK, or if the kind of sex you’re having is all right with her. Because it’s none of my business. If Jennifer tells you she’s not OK, if she asks for your advice, you can give it to her. If not—back off. I’ve got this.’ Hell of a way to talk to your quarterback.”

  “You’re not his quarterback anymore,” Jennifer pointed out.

  “Yeah, see, I hate that,” Blake said, and she laughed.

  “Also,” she said, “I’ve got this.”

  “Oh,” Blake said. “So he’s not going to the doctor’s appointment with you? Not looking at that little blob on the sonogram and holding your hand?”

  “Well, yeah, he is. He’s the father, remember? We’re doing it together. And how do you know about the little blob on the sonogram? Wait. Blake …”

  He grinned. “Yep. We are.”

  “Wow. Congratulations.” She laughed. “That’s … that’s great. That’s amazing. How’s Dakota doing?”

  He sighed. “She is not a patient woman. I can see myself already, going for fried chicken at two in the morning or some damn thing.”

  “Oh, you love it,” she said.

  “Well, yeah. It’s pretty awesome. But she says it’s harder than she thought. She can’t believe how tired she is. How emotional she is. Like she’s carried away. So that made me think—you sure about this? About Kristiansen? He good enough to you? You’re not getting in too deep? Because I’ve got to tell you, whatever he says now—he’s still the guy he’s always been. History matters.”

  “I know what he’s been.” She wasn’t worried about being late anymore. She needed to say this. “You know how I know it? Because he told me so up front. I never expected to change him. I don’t think people can really change each other. They can bring each other out, maybe, but that’s it. But what I think is—he’s a lot more than he realizes. A lot more than he’s ever given himself credit for. Maybe he won’t stick with me. That could be. But then, he’s never promised to. He’s going to stick with our son, though. I’m sure of that. I know that, because I know him. And you don’t know the man he is. You have no idea of the … the strength of his character.”

  Blake looked taken aback. Also alarmed. “Whoa. See, that’s what I was worried about. I know you like to think the best of people. But—”

  “You’re wrong,” she said. “I don’t think the best of people. I know people. Plenty of them, I don’t think much of at all. But I know Harlan. And just like I’m going to forgive you for this, because I know you’re doing it out of concern, I’m going to forgive him for calling you. Because he’s doing it out of his outsized sense of responsibility. And out of love.”

  “Whoa,” he said. “No. This is the padlock thing. I knew that padlock was bad news.”

  Suddenly, she wasn’t feeling tolerant anymore. She was getting mad. “Blake,” she said. “I’m going to tell you something. Listen carefully. You don’t know me. I’ve got a side you’ve never seen. I’ve got a piercing you wouldn’t believe. One that I’ll bet Dakota doesn’t have. So think about this. Maybe Harlan’s in sexual … sexual thrall to me. And you know—I think both of us can separate sex from love. The perso
n I see when I look at Harlan is pretty darn great. No, the person I see is exceptional. And maybe what he sees is a strong woman who’s sweet and sexy and helps him laugh, somebody he can baby a little, too, because he needs to do that. Somebody who makes him feel like a man, and like a better man.”

  For once, the quarterback had nothing to say. She said, “Yeah. That’s right. And I’ve got a baby to look at. And a hand to hold. I’m out of here.”

  .

  55

  A Person

  Harlan was getting antsy. Jennifer was five minutes late already. She was never late. His mind went to those possibilities again. A car wreck, for some reason, featured heavily. He shifted on the upscale waiting-room chair in the quiet, luxuriously understated surroundings of the highest-rated obstetrical practice in Portland, noticed the looks he was getting from two expectant dads, and groaned inwardly.

  If she didn’t show up within about sixty seconds, he was going to have to talk football. Yeah, he knew the Devils needed help on their pass rush and a more reliable kicker. He didn’t want to talk about it while he waited to see his kid.

  A flip of his stomach at that. And where was she?

  She came in breathless. A little flustered. Her hair slightly messy, her color high, her forehead sweaty, lugging her laptop case. He stood up, took it from her, bent down to kiss her, and said, “Hi. Everything OK?”

  “Yeah. I just … I’ll tell you later.” She went up to the counter to check in, then came back to sit beside him. “First …” she said, took his face in her hands, and kissed him. Thanks for being here. Thanks for being on time, even when I wasn’t.” She smiled at him, a little misty-eyed, and finally took her hands away.

  He wanted her hands back. Also, there was a lump in his throat. “Of course I’m here,” he said. “Of course I am. I said I would be. I want to be.”

  She picked up his hand and threaded her fingers through his. “I know. Also, a little bad news.”

  He thought, Oh, no. Here it comes.

  “I may have …” She lowered her voice. “Told Blake about my piercing.”

  Whatever he’d expected, it hadn’t been that. “What?”

  “I lost my temper a little,” she said. “Partly at you, but mostly at him. I know that you want to protect me. I love that you want to protect me. But I can set Blake straight by myself. I’m pretty sure I just did.”

  “By telling him about your piercing.” He started to smile. “Bet that surprised him.”

  “I didn’t tell him exactly where it was,” she assured him. “But he was, you know …” She glanced around and lowered her voice some more. “Talking about the padlock again. I lost my temper. Like I said. I discussed the, uh, different sides to my personality. My stronger side. I may have given him a … false impression.”

  Of what? That she was a dominatrix? He tried to picture her like that and couldn’t do it. She’d be the most apologetic dominatrix ever. Orbison’s head must have just about exploded.

  He was still grinning when the nurse called her name. And then he went into the room with her, and he wasn’t.

  The doctor had straight, shiny, swingy black hair and perfect makeup. She was as tall and slim as a fashion model. And she was wearing black leather pants and stilettos under her white coat.

  Jennifer thought, You’re kidding, and wanted to laugh. Harlan had picked this practice, not her. He’d done it before she’d even got here, researching exhaustively and talking to his teammates who had kids. It was sweet, was why she’d let him do it. But he’d picked an OB with leather pants? Also, this exam room was nicer than her old apartment. The furniture was definitely nicer.

  The scratchy paper on the table was the same, though, and so was the exam gown. She guessed they didn’t make fancy exam gowns. What would they even look like? Presumably they wouldn’t have that exam-gown pattern. They’d be paisley, or something.

  She should go into the high-end gown business. Talk about an untapped market.

  She glanced across at Harlan, wanting to share the joke, but he wasn’t smiling. He looked nervous. She needed to do something about that.

  The doctor, whose name was Veronica Mansfield, which made her sound like a character on a soap, said, “So you’ve had one previous pregnancy, and one child, who’s now …” She looked up. “Nineteen.”

  She hesitated. Why?

  Oh. “My daughter’s with me,” Jennifer assured her. “Not given up for adoption or whatever. You don’t have to be tactful. She’s graduating from high school with high honors this week, in fact, and heading to the University of Washington this fall in engineering.” Which the doctor didn’t need to know, but which she was telling her anyway. She was telling anybody who asked, and now, apparently, people who hadn’t asked at all.

  She shouldn’t have been a good mom. She had been anyway. From now on, she was pointing that out.

  The difference between being ashamed of your past and proud of it, it seemed, was your point of view. Had you been weak to get into a bad situation? Or strong enough to move on from it?

  “Congratulations,” the doctor said, possibly looking a little startled, though with that kind of eyebrow arch, who would know? Probably startled at Jennifer’s burst of confidence, though, like when you were sitting next to somebody in a waiting room and they struck up a conversation and pulled out pictures of their grandchildren when you just wanted to worry about your bladder infection.

  “So,” the doctor went on, “you had a pregnancy at age fifteen, which can be a pretty risky business. Any problems there?”

  “No,” Jennifer said. “Or this time, either. A little tired and sick at the beginning, and that’s all. I seem to be good at being pregnant.” She’d never been a serene person. Why was she feeling serene now?

  “Technically, you’re higher risk,” the doctor said. “As you’re of what we call advanced maternal age. Although you’re just …” She consulted her tablet again. “Thirty-five in four days. Happy birthday. Barely geriatric.” With a smile, because it was evidently a joke. Ha, ha. “We’ll keep a good eye on you, though. The conditions we watch for are the same as with a very young girl, interestingly enough, but you seem to be in good shape so far. Your weight gain is just fine at eight pounds, so is your blood pressure, and you’ve had the chromosomal testing already. Call the office right away, though, if you’re experiencing any excessive swelling, headaches, blurred vision, or dizziness, so we can check your blood sugar and blood pressure.”

  Well, this was extremely cheerful. She asked Harlan, “You OK?”

  He looked up from where he was typing on his phone. Wait. He was texting?

  “Yeah,” he said. “Just getting all that down.”

  Oh. He was taking notes. She said, “Hey, look, it all worked out before, and now I’ve got you watching out for me, right? I’m fine.” She needed to be holding his hand. He was definitely nervous. She was supposed to be the worrier. Why wasn’t she worried?

  Maybe because she was the one who could feel the baby, and he felt strong. He felt like his father’s son.

  “So,” the doctor said, “let’s do some measuring, and then we’ll take a look.” Harlan still looked apprehensive, and Jennifer asked him, “Could you come hold my hand?”

  The doctor looked up, and Jennifer said, “I’m a little nervous.” She wasn’t. She was nothing but excited.

  A measuring tape, that was all, and Jennifer told Harlan, “She’s comparing how big I am now to a month ago.”

  “First appointment with her?” the doctor asked, and Harlan said, “Yeah,” and nothing else. Which was fine, too. No matter how chatty Jennifer got, she wasn’t going to be sharing their interesting path to childbirth. Nobody needed to know about that but the two of them.

  “Measuring like twenty weeks,” the doctor said when she was done. “And now we’ll take a look. You had a sonogram previously, I see, and the heart and organs looked fine there on the 2D, but I like to do my own on the 3D machine, especially with a higher-risk pr
egnancy.”

  Jennifer could feel Harlan’s hand tensing in hers. “It’s OK,” she told him. “Relative risk, that’s all. You’ll feel better when you see him. Just wait.”

  He wasn’t a nervous guy. He was the opposite of a nervous guy. But ever since he’d walked in here with Jennifer and she’d lain down on that table, his heart had been racing. And now, as the doctor smeared goop on her round belly with a squeeze bottle, he was having trouble controlling his breathing.

  Fourth quarter, he told himself, and gripped Jennifer’s hand. Even though it wasn’t anywhere close to the fourth quarter. It was about the second quarter. By the fourth quarter, he was going to be … going to be …

  Going to be passing out, that was what.

  The doctor was moving a paddle over Jennifer’s belly now, and Jennifer was peering at the screen of a machine at the foot of the bed. She said, “I’ve never had a 3D sonogram before. This is so exciting. Usually,” she told Harlan, “it’s just this grainy black-and-white thing, but this will be almost like a picture.”

  He was looking, but he couldn’t see anything. Just a series of yellowish blobs. The doctor said, “Placenta. Umbilical cord.” He saw that, he guessed. At least, he saw a thick, twisted cord. So much bigger than he’d have expected it to be. It looked like a rope. The doctor kept moving the paddle on Jennifer’s belly, and he could tell Jennifer was holding her breath.

  “Breathe,” he told her.

  “You breathe,” she said. She’d been calm and chatty through all of this, like it was no big deal. Now, he could tell she wasn’t, and that wasn’t all right.

  He hauled his chair over so he was sitting by her head, smoothed her hair back from her face, and said, “Hey, baby. It’s OK.”

  “I just realized,” she said, her voice choked, “how much I want this.”