by Nora Roberts
“Will you tell me about it?”
It was a beginning, one she knew she had to make. “It’s not very exciting.” She lifted her hands, then let them fall on to the sheet. “I started late, after we came here. Through the church my parents met Martina Latovia. Many years ago she was an important Soviet dancer who defected. She became friends with my mother and offered to give me classes. It was good for me, the dance. I didn’t speak English well, so it was hard to make friends. Everything was so different here, you see.”
“Yes, I can imagine.”
“I was nearly eight by that time. It becomes difficult to teach the body, the joints, to move as they weren’t meant to move. But I worked very hard. Madame was kind and encouraging. My parents were so proud.” She laughed a little, but warmly. “Papa was sure I would be the next Pavlova. The first time I danced en pointe, Mama cried. Dance is obsession and pain and joy. It’s a different world, Spence. I can’t explain. You have to know it, be a part of it.”
“You don’t have to explain.”
She looked over at him. “No, not to you,” she murmured. “Because of the music. I joined the corps de ballet when I was almost sixteen. It was wonderful. Perhaps I didn’t know there were other worlds, but I was happy.”
“What happened?”
“There was another dancer.” She shut her eyes. It was important to take this slowly, carefully. “You’ve heard of him, I imagine. Anthony Marshall.”
“Yes.” Spence had an immediate picture of a tall, blond man with a slender build and incredible grace. “I’ve seen him dance many times.”
“He was magnificent. Is,” she corrected. “Though it’s been years since I’ve seen him dance. We became involved. I was young. Too young. And it was a very big mistake.”
Now the shadow had a name. “You loved him.”
“Oh yes. In a naive and idealistic kind of way. The only way a girl can love at seventeen. More, I thought he loved me. He told me he did, in words, in actions. He was very charming, romantic…and I wanted to believe him. He promised me marriage, a future, a partnership in dance, all the things I wanted to hear. He broke all those promises, and my heart.”
“So now you don’t want to hear promises from me.”
“You’re not Anthony,” she murmured, then lifted a hand to his cheek. Her eyes were dark and beautiful, her voice only more exotic as emotions crowded. “Believe me, I know that. And I don’t compare, not now. I’m not the same woman who built dreams on a few careless words.”
“What I’ve said to you hasn’t been careless.”
“No.” She leaned closer to rest her cheek against his. “Over the past months I’ve come to see that, and to understand that what I feel for you is different from anything I’ve felt before.” There was more she wanted to tell him, but the words clogged her throat. “Please, let that be enough for now.”
“For now. It won’t be enough forever.”
She turned her mouth to his. “Just for now.”
* * *
How could it be? Natasha asked herself. How could it be that when she was just beginning to trust herself, to trust her heart, that this should happen? How could she face it again?
It was like a play run backward and started again, when her life had changed so drastically and completely. She sat back on her bed, no longer concerned about dressing for work, about starting a normal day. How could things be normal now? How could she expect them to be normal ever again?
She held the little vial in her hand. She had followed the instructions exactly. Just a precaution, she had told herself. But she’d known in her heart. Since the visit to her parents two weeks before she’d known. And had avoided facing the reality.
It was not the flu that made her queasy in the mornings. It was not overwork or stress that caused her to be so tired, or that brought on the occasional dizzy spells. The simple test that she’d bought over the counter in the drugstore had told her what she’d already known and feared.
She was carrying a child. Once again she was carrying a child. The rush of joy and wonder was totally eclipsed by the bone-deep fear that froze her.
How could it be? She was no longer a foolish girl and had taken precautions. Romance aside, she had been practical enough, responsible enough to visit her doctor and begin taking those tiny little pills, when she had realized where her relationship with Spence was bound to go. Yet she was pregnant. There was no denying it.
How could she tell him? Covering her face with her hands, Natasha rocked back and forth to give herself some small comfort. How could she go through all of it again, when that time years before was still so painfully etched on her memory?
She had known Anthony no longer loved her, if he had ever. But when she’d learned she was carrying his child, she had been thrilled. And so certain that he would share her delight. When she’d gone to him, almost bubbling over, glowing with the joy of it, his cruelty had all but cut her in two.
How grudgingly he’d let her into his apartment, Natasha remembered. How difficult it had been for her to continue to smile when she’d seen his table set for two, the candles lighted, the wine chilling—as he’d so often prepared the stage when he’d loved her. Now he’d set that stage for someone else. But she’d persuaded herself that it didn’t matter. Once she’d told him, everything would change.
Everything had.
“What the hell are you talking about?” She remembered the fury in his eyes as he’d stared at her.
“I went to the doctor this afternoon. I’m pregnant, almost two months.” She reached out for him. “Anthony—”
“That’s an old game, Tash.” He’d said it casually, but perhaps he’d been shaken. He’d stalked to the table to pour a glass of wine.
“It’s not a game.”
“No? Then how could you be so stupid?” He’d grabbed her arm and given her a quick shake, his magnificent mane of hair flying. “If you’ve gotten yourself in trouble, don’t expect to come running to me to fix it.”
Dazed, she’d lifted a hand to rub her arm where his fingers had bit in. It was only that he didn’t understand, she’d told herself. “I’m having a child. Your child. The doctor says the baby will come in July.”
“Maybe you’re pregnant.” He’d shrugged as he’d downed the wine. “It doesn’t concern me.”
“It must.”
He’d looked at her then, his glass held aloft, his eyes cool. “How do I know it’s mine?”
At that she’d paled. As she’d stood there, she’d remembered how it had felt when she’d almost stepped in front of a bus on her first trip to New York City. “You know. You have to know.”
“I don’t have to know anything. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m expecting someone.”
In desperation she’d reached out for him. “Anthony, don’t you understand? I’m carrying our baby.”
“Your baby,” he corrected. “Your problem. If you want some advice, get rid of it.”
“Get—” She hadn’t been so young or so naive that she hadn’t understood his meaning. “You can’t mean it.”
“You want to dance, Tash? Try picking classes back up after taking off nine months to give birth to some brat you’re going to end up giving away in any case. Grow up.”
“I have grown up.” She’d laid a hand on her stomach, in protection and defense. “And I will have this child.”
“Your choice.” He’d gestured with his wineglass. “Don’t expect to pull me into it. I’ve got a career to think of. You’re probably better off,” he decided. “Talk some loser into marrying you and set up housekeeping. You’d never be any better than mediocre at dance anyway.”
So she had had the child and loved it—for a brief, brief time. Now there was another. She couldn’t bear to love it, couldn’t bear to want it. Not when she knew what it was like to lose.
Frantic, she threw the vial across the room and began pulling clothes out of her closet. She had to get away. She had to think. She would get away, Natasha pr
omised herself, then pressed her fingers against her eyes until she calmed. But she had to tell him.
This time she drove to his house, struggling for calm as the car brought her closer. Because it was Saturday, children were playing in yards and on the sidewalk. Some called out to her as she passed, and she managed to lift a hand in a wave. She spotted Freddie wrestling with her kittens on the grass.
“Tash! Tash!” Lucy and Desi darted for cover, but Freddie raced to the car. “Did you come to play?”
“Not today.” Summoning a smile, Natasha kissed her cheeks. “Is your daddy home?”
“He’s playing music. He plays music a lot since we came here. I drew a picture. I’m going to send it to Papa and Nana.”
Natasha struggled to keep the smile in place at Freddie’s names for her parents. “They will like that very much.”
“Come on, I’ll show you.”
“In a little while. I need to speak to your father first. By myself.”
Freddie’s bottom lip threatened. “Are you mad at him?”
“No.” She pressed a finger to Freddie’s nose. “Go find your kittens. I’ll talk to you before I go.”
“Okay.” Reassured, Freddie raced off, sending out whoops that would have the kittens cowering in the bushes, Natasha reflected.
It was better to keep her mind a blank, she decided as she knocked on the front door. Then she would take it slowly, logically, like an adult.
“Miss.” Vera opened the door, her expression less remote than usual. Freddie’s description of the Thanksgiving holiday in Brooklyn had done a great deal to win her over.
“I’d like to see Dr. Kimball if he’s not busy.”
“Come in.” She found herself frowning a bit as she studied Natasha. “Are you all right, miss? You’re very pale.”
“Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.”
“Would you like tea?”
“No—no, I can’t stay long.”
Though Vera privately thought Natasha looked like a cornered rabbit, she nodded. “You’ll find him in the music room. He’s been up half the night working.”
“Thank you.” Clutching her bag, Natasha started down the hall. She could hear the music he was playing, something weepy. Or perhaps it was her own mood, she thought; she blinked back tears.
When she saw him, she remembered the first time she had walked into that room. Perhaps she had started to fall in love with him that day, when he had sat there with a child on his lap, surrounded by sunlight.
She pulled off her gloves, running them through her nervous hands as she watched him. He was lost in it, both captor and captive of the music. Now she would change his life. He hadn’t asked for this, and they both knew that loving wasn’t always enough.
“Spence.” She murmured his name when the music stopped, but he didn’t hear. She could see the intensity was still on him as he scribbled on staff paper. He hadn’t shaved. It made her want to smile, but instead her eyes filled. His shirt was rumpled and open at the collar. His hair was tousled. As she watched, he ran a hand through it. “Spence,” she repeated.
He looked up—annoyed at first. Then he focused and smiled at her. “Hi. I didn’t expect to see you today.”
“Annie’s watching the shop.” She knit her hands. “I needed to see you.”
“I’m glad you did.” He rose, though the music was still filling his head. “What time is it anyway?” Absently he glanced at his watch. “Too early to ask you for lunch. How about some coffee?”
“No.” Even the thought of coffee made her stomach roll. “I don’t want anything. I needed to tell you….” Her fingers knotted. “I don’t know how. I want you to know I never intended—this isn’t intended to put you under obligation….”
The words trailed off again, he shook his head and started toward her. “If something’s wrong, why don’t you tell me?”
“I’m trying to.”
He took her hand to lead her to the couch. “The best way’s often straight out.”
“Yes.” She put her hand to her spinning head. “You see, I…” She saw the concern in his eyes, then everything went black….
She was lying on the sofa, and Spence was kneeling beside her, chafing her wrists. “Take it easy,” he murmured. “Just lie still. I’ll call a doctor.”
“No. There’s no need.” Carefully she pushed herself up. “I’m all right.”
“The hell you are.” Her skin was clammy under his hand. “You’re like ice, and pale as a ghost. Damn it, Natasha, why didn’t you tell me you weren’t well? I’ll take you to the hospital.”
“I don’t need the hospital or the doctor.” Hysteria was bubbling under her heart. She fought it back and forced herself to speak. “I’m not sick, Spence. I’m pregnant.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“What?” It was the best he could do; he sank back onto his heels and stared at her. “What did you say?”
She wanted to be strong, had to be. He looked as though she’d hit him with a blunt instrument. “I’m pregnant,” she repeated, then made a helpless gesture. “I’m sorry.”
He only shook his head, waiting for it to sink in. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” It was best to be matter-of-fact, Natasha told herself. He was a civilized man. There would be no accusations, no cruelty. “This morning I took a test. I suspected before, for a couple of weeks, but…”
“Suspected.” His hand curled into a fist on the cushion. She didn’t look furious, as Angela had. She looked destroyed. “And you didn’t mention it.”
“I saw no need until I knew. There was no point in upsetting you.”
“I see. Is that what you are, Natasha? Upset?”
“What I am is pregnant,” she said briskly. “And I felt it was only right to tell you. I’m going away for a few days.” Though she still felt shaky, she managed to stand.
“Away?” Confused, afraid she would faint again, furious, he caught her. “Now just a damn minute. You drop in, tell me you’re pregnant, and now you calmly tell me you’re going away?” He felt something sharp punch into his gut. Its name was fear. “Where?”
“Just away.” She heard her own voice, snappish and rude, and pressed a hand to her head. “I’m sorry, I’m not handling this well. I need some time. I need to go away.”
“What you need to do is sit down until we talk this out.”
“I can’t talk about it.” She felt the pressure inside her build like floodwaters against a dam. “Not yet—not until I…I only wanted to tell you before I left.”
“You’re not going anywhere.” He grabbed her arm to pull her back. “And you damn well will talk about it. What do you want from me? Am I supposed to say, ‘Well, that’s interesting news, Natasha. See you when you get back’?”
“I don’t want anything.” When her voice rose this time, she couldn’t control it. Passions, griefs, fears, poured out even as the tears began. “I never wanted anything from you. I didn’t want to fall in love with you, I didn’t want to need you in my life. I didn’t want your child inside me.”
“That’s clear enough.” His grip tightened, and he let his own temper free. “That’s crystal clear. But you do have my child inside you, and now we’re going to sit down and talk about what we’re going to do about it.”
“I tell you I need time.”
“I’ve already given you more than enough time, Natasha. Apparently fate’s taken a hand again, and you’re going to have to face it.”
“I can’t go through this again. I won’t.”
“Again? What are you talking about?”
“I had a child.” She jerked away to cover her face with her hands. Her whole body began to quake. “I had a child. Oh, God.”
Stunned, he put a gentle hand upon her shoulder. “You have a child?”
“Had.” The tears seemed to be shooting up, hot and painful, from the center of her body. “She’s gone.”
“Come sit down, Natasha. Talk to me.”
“I can’t. You don’t un
derstand. I lost her. My baby. I can’t bear the thought of going through it all again.” She tore herself away. “You don’t know, you can’t know, how much it hurts.”
“No, but I can see it.” He reached for her again. “I want you to tell me about this, so I can understand.”
“What would that change?”
“We’ll have to see. It isn’t good for you to get so upset now.”
“No.” She swiped a hand over her cheek. “It doesn’t do any good to be upset. I’m sorry I’m behaving like this.”
“Don’t apologize. Sit down. I’ll get you some tea. We’ll talk.” He led her to a chair and she went unresistingly. “I’ll only be a minute.”
He was away for less than that, he was sure, but when he came back, she was gone.
* * *
Mikhail carved from a block of cherrywood and listened to the blast of rock and roll through his earphones. It suited the mood he could feel from the wood. Whatever was inside—and he wasn’t sure just what that was yet—was young and full of energy. Whenever he carved, he listened, whether it was to blues or Bach or simply the rush and whoosh of traffic four floors below his window. It left his mind free to explore whatever medium his hands were working in.
Tonight his mind was too cluttered, and he knew he was stalling. He glanced over his worktable and across his cramped and cluttered two-room apartment. Natasha was curled in the overstuffed, badly sprung chair he’d salvaged off the street the previous summer. She had a book in her hands, but Mikhail didn’t think she’d turned a page in more than twenty minutes. She, too, was stalling.
As annoyed with himself as with her, he pulled off the headphones. He only had to turn to be in the kitchen. Saying nothing, he put a pot onto one of the two temperamental gas burners and brewed tea. Natasha made no comment. When he brought over two cups, setting hers on the scarred surface of a nearby table, she glanced up blankly.
“Oh. Dyakuyu.”
“It’s time to tell me what’s going on.”