But after tonight, after what she’d felt with him…
“The—” She had to clear her throat. Try again. “The condom broke. The first night.”
Pain twisted his features. “Why haven’t you already performed the test?”
An absurd impulse to laugh burgeoned. There was nothing funny about any of this. “I was going to. I couldn’t at first because—” She hesitated. “You have to wait until you’ve missed…you know.”
Hope flickered. “So you’re not late?”
How she wished she could give that hope breath. For both their sakes. “Not yet, but I could have done it this morning.”
“So why didn’t you?”
Because you came to me last night, and you let me tickle you? You giggled? You had a water fight with me?
You said you’d let me rent your cottage?
He didn’t look like a man who wanted to be reminded of the fun they’d had together. The person in front of her was the angry stranger who’d ordered her off his property and told her she wasn’t fit to wipe her shoes on Charlotte’s mat.
She settled for another truth. “I was afraid.”
A mixture of emotions skipped over his face. He scrubbed them away with one hand.
Then tossed the box at her. “Do it now.” Not a suggestion.
The kit fell to the floor at her feet. “Now?” she repeated like a half-wit. Fear grabbed her in a merciless fist.
“Now.”
“But what—I don’t know what to do if—” She stumbled over the words.
“Neither do I.” His jaw flexed. “Go on, Jezebel. Get it over with.”
The man who’d made such tender, sweet love to her had disappeared as completely as if he’d never existed.
She could refuse, but she had a sense that he’d stand over her if that was required.
But it was a quiet, haunted ripple through his expression that altered the balance.
Reminded her that he had as much to lose as she did.
Sour sickness rose in her throat for all that she’d forfeited, for no matter the test results, Micah would never trust her again, wouldn’t play with her or woo her as he had only moments before.
She would like to blame Charlotte, but the truth was that he’d never been hers to keep anyway. She’d been a realist all her life until she’d met Micah Smith; then his pain had spoken to her, and she’d faltered. Had begun trying only to help a lonely man and wound up falling in love with him, even though he had been clear from the first that his heart was not available.
Some people just aren’t meant for those ivy-covered cottages, Jez. You ignored that at your peril.
She hadn’t been sure how she’d react to whatever the test kit told her, but she’d expected to be able to deal with it alone, at least.
It seemed that even privacy was too much to ask of the hateful creature called Fate.
She bent and picked up the box just as the teakettle whistled.
“I’ll shut it off,” Micah said.
And walked a wide arc to keep from coming near her.
She fumbled the box and spilled its contents to the floor. She wanted to scream or throw something, to melt away into a place where she didn’t have to feel this nasty mix of humiliation and sick nerves.
The situation should have been different. If she’d imagined this moment, she would have cast it as one of ceremony and reverence, of the heart-stopping, life-changing instant when she would greet the knowledge of her child’s existence…or grieve alone for what would not be.
Instead, this was to be a duel, a confrontation. No span of seconds to let her heart soar or her tears flow, to spin fantasies of the life she and her baby would share or mourn for the one that had slipped away.
In that instant, Jezebel got mad. She wrenched open the bathroom door and stalked toward the kitchen, primed to tell Micah that she would do this on her own time and tell him when she was ready, but—
His head rose, and his face was ravaged.
Before her was a man with an enormous capacity for love. Just because he didn’t choose to share it with her did not mean he would not care deeply for his child.
As he began to stand, she held up a hand. “I haven’t begun yet.” She filled her lungs with air that seemed too thin. “It just feels wrong to do it this way.” She twisted her fingers together. “Is it possible you would—” She shook her head. “Never mind. I’ll only be a minute.”
She prayed he’d stop her. Tell her she could call him later.
A glance back showed him still focused on her, his eyes dark holes in his face.
She marched off as if to a guillotine. With hands steady enough to mock her, she performed all the steps.
While she waited, she thought she heard his footfalls and pictured him outside the bathroom door. Can’t you leave me a little space? she longed to ask. Just a tiny gap so I can breathe while I wait to see—
The second pink line appeared, and despite all her sense, Jezebel uttered a small cry of excitement, quickly smothered by her hand.
But she couldn’t restrain her heart, which was about to pound out of her chest. Her head felt dizzy, and her eyes swam with tears. A baby. My baby.
She heard a noise from the kitchen, and her throat tightened with dread.
Could she manage to lie to him convincingly? The temptation was there, certainly. His ashen face had told her all she needed to know about his reaction.
There was, of course, the obvious problem: that he would find out, whether he stayed or left.
But not if she left. She could start over somewhere new. Use her nest egg not for the cottage but to create a future for her baby. She would make it a bright one—work as hard as necessary, fill her days and nights with the baby’s welfare, guard it and keep it safe—
An ache spread beneath her breastbone. She would miss this place, these people so much. The sense of belonging.
Then terror hit.
If she left and anything happened to her, her child would be as helpless as she’d been when she was orphaned.
No. That would not happen. Micah could leave, and she’d give him the freedom to do so without penalty; she could provide for her child.
But she would stay. Even with no father in its life, her baby would have family beyond Jezebel herself—two uncles, an aunt and a grandmother. Whether or not they approved of Jezebel, the family Smith understood how to love; they would treasure Micah’s child. It would also be protected by a community of dear friends like Louie and Chappy and Skeeter and Darrell.
So how to make the man in the kitchen understand that she would ask nothing of him? Squaring her shoulders, she could only hope to find the words.
She opened the door to the kitchen. He was regarding it like a man facing execution.
“I thought about lying to you,” she said.
“You’re pregnant.” His tone gave away nothing.
She couldn’t quite stem the hitch in her breath. “Yes, but it’s not your problem.”
He blinked. “You’re going to—” He cleared his throat. “Get…rid of it?”
She started to bark out Of course not. Instead, she coolly asked, “Do you want me to?”
He turned away, and it was all she could do not to cross the floor and force him back around so she would be able to tell what was going through his mind.
“What I do is none of your business.”
“No?” He spun to face her.
“It’s not your burden. I’ve been on my own for a long time.”
“My baby is in there.” He pointed to her belly, and something in his voice had her wondering if there might be hope that he cared for the child.
“I can’t do this again.” He scrubbed at his face. Pivoted. “I need time to think.” He made for the door.
“Micah, I meant it. I’m fine on my own. I know you aren’t happy about this, and I don’t blame you—but I’m not Charlotte.” She saw him stiffen but persevered. “I would never have tricked you.”
&nbs
p; He paused, one hand gripping the knob. “You’ve lied by your silence every day we’ve been together.”
Her shoulders sank. “I could have been wrong. There was no reason to worry you.”
“But you had sex with me again.”
“Not sex,” she whispered.
A fleeting pain crossed his features. “Just fun, you said. No strings.”
You told me tonight was different. She looked at her feet. Bit her lip against the tears that threatened.
“I’m sorry—I have to go, Jezebel. I can’t—”
“Fine,” she answered.
“We’ll talk…later. After I—”
“Get out of here, Micah. I have thinking of my own to do.”
She heard the screen door squeak.
“Don’t do anything rash. Please. Just let me—”
“It’s not your problem,” she repeated.
And didn’t look up until she heard his truck depart.
Chapter Fifteen
It’s not your problem.
Micah drove without seeing, mentally staggering through a minefield of conflicting images. He couldn’t sort out what had happened from the moment he’d grabbed for a towel while chastising himself for wrecking what had been an extraordinary night.
Until he’d opened the cabinet door and found the test kit.
People always said my heart stopped to convey a sense of drama.
He would swear his literally had. For untold seconds, he had been unable to process what his eyes registered.
Then an astonishing wave of betrayal had knocked him flat.
Still grasping for a foothold, he’d wanted her to reassure him, even as his stunned mind had recalled her admission of how long it had been since she’d last made love.
Had sex, he corrected.
There’s been enough lying. You made love with her, whatever else is going on.
I was afraid. Into his memory speared what her expression as she’d admitted that, pale and trembling. Transformed from the creature of light and fascination, of heart and hope, into a closed-down, wrapped-up-tight shadow of the earthy, generous woman who had opened her arms to him tonight.
And what had he said to her?
Get it over with.
Because he was shaky himself, a man who had discovered an appetite for life, at long last, but still felt a sinner for it. Wasn’t it wrong to yearn for Jezebel and all she symbolized? To crave her warmth, her cheer, her indomitable strength? Heaven help him, how different she was from Charlotte.
But it was Charlotte he loved, wasn’t it? He was a one-woman man, always had been.
So now he paid. Betrayed once by Fate, by the woman who was supposed to care—
He jammed on the brakes.
Echoes from past to present. Faced with a similar situation, he was behaving like some broken record.
When had he become so brittle? Such a coward?
He thought about Charlotte’s stunned and grieving face when he’d turned on her after she made her joyous announcement.
Tonight, Jezebel’s vulnerability was a scrim overlaying it.
Are you going to—
Do you want me to?
He couldn’t say that; out of the span of those instants of stupefied disbelief, one, quicksilver and shining, had been a pure note of fierce joy.
He’d longed to be a father before, but not at the risk of losing his wife. Fear had made him cruel.
The condom broke. Not Jezebel’s fault. Not intentional.
You’ve lied by your silence.
But he thought he understood. She was, at heart, a nurturer and guardian. Hadn’t he experienced those qualities firsthand?
I was afraid. But still she protected him. It’s not your problem.
He blinked to attention and realized that he was near the hospital. An impulse to seek out his mother almost had him veering into the parking lot. She was the wisest person he knew, and she would give him good counsel.
But the mere thought of a grandchild would be too sweet to her. She’d never chastised him for his attitude, but he recalled how eagerly she’d anticipated that first baby, how she had been Charlotte’s chief ally and ecstatic cohort as they gathered the layette he’d refused to view. Later, he’d been too absorbed in his own grief to properly comfort her when that baby was lost.
No, he would not torture his mother with the knowledge. Nor could he talk to his brothers or Lily.
He had to clear his own mind, too cluttered by reverberations of the past. That meant he would have to face the one hurdle he had approached a hundred times but balked at each occasion.
For him to do right by Jezebel, whatever that meant, he first had to paint Charlotte, for only in facing her would he be able to finally let her go.
She was past needing him, but he’d clung to her, had crawled into a hole with his memories of her and become a cave creature.
Somehow, Jezebel had looked at the pale imitation of the man he’d once been and seen something she liked. Had refused to let him seek the soothing darkness but had, instead, dragged him toward the light.
He’d let her down tonight; there were so many other ways he could have played that scene, but he’d been so caught up in the hamster wheel of his guilt and grief that he’d reacted badly.
She was innocent of blame and deserved better.
He would have to fix that. He headed his truck down the road to see if he could exorcise a ghost.
Jezebel couldn’t settle, so she made lists. Find a doctor. Buy vitamins. Get a book on being pregnant.
Locate a place to make my baby a nest.
But every other item on the list was invisible: How is Micah? What’s he thinking? Is he all right?
In between, she paced. Despite the disaster of the evening, though, a steady flame of joy burned within her. She might never get the cottage now, had probably lost whatever affection Micah felt for her, definitely had a fight on her hands to find a better way to support a child.
But she was having a baby. She did a little skip. She would be someone’s mother, maybe by Christmas. For a moment, visions of Christmases to come whirled like dancing maidens.
Then she sagged to the sofa, head in her hands.
She missed her mother tonight worse than anytime in her life. The woman she remembered would understand. Would be happy for her, no matter what. Would help her find her way. Grab her close and celebrate.
But she had no mother, no one to teach her the thousand and one things she desperately needed to learn in order to be the parent her baby deserved.
It was all up to her, terrified or not. She had a chance now at her dream; the only price for this part of it was the centerpiece: the man she loved. Micah’s stricken face was never far from her thoughts.
Maybe not. Her inner optimist admonished. You don’t know.
But she did. He would probably do the right thing by both of them and contribute to the child’s care; he was a good man, after all, of that she had no doubt.
But they hadn’t had time to seal the bond between them before it was sundered. Now they never would.
Talk to him. Go to him.
No. He asked to be alone.
The argument continued so loudly that at first she didn’t hear the phone.
“Ms. Hart? Assistant D. A. Lansing here. I have to have you here tomorrow. I found money in the budget. Here’s the number for your flight.”
Several hours later, she’d lined up everything she could. Louie and Chappy would keep tabs on Skeeter; Darrell would mind the bar and feed her dog and cat. She hadn’t told a soul about the pregnancy and wouldn’t, not until she and Micah agreed to make it public.
She did plan, however, to look for a book on babies at the airport, to read on the plane. And she had already found a doctor in Tyler and made an appointment for next week.
She hoped to return day after tomorrow, but the prosecutor had warned her that trials didn’t always go as expected, so she packed five days’ worth of clothes.
; There was only one item left on her list: seek out Micah. Maybe he wasn’t ready to talk yet, but she could at least let him know she was leaving and when she would be back.
She drove by the nursery but didn’t see his vehicle and wouldn’t stop to ask Lily unless she had no other option. Instead, she headed for the cottage.
And there she found his truck.
But no sign of Micah, even though she called out his name. She only had an hour left before she had to drive to Dallas.
Then she heard the music and followed it to its source.
Micah was in the only place he’d put off limits to her: his studio. When she neared the door, she understood why he hadn’t answered her.
Music rolled out from the speakers in bountiful waves, so lush and rich with drama and heartache as to wrench tears from a stone. Now dirge, now weeping strings, swelling to a crescendo—then a voice sweet enough to tear out your heart.
And inside the music stood a Micah she’d never met.
The artist whose mammoth talent had captivated a city full of cynics, on his face a concentration so complete that a nuclear blast would not have fazed him.
He was staring out of eyes so haunted and wounded that it was all she could do not to cry out.
Then she spotted the painting on his easel.
And Jezebel’s last hope shattered.
For it was Charlotte he painted, a woman beautiful and ethereal beyond any mortal. Spun-gold hair, soft hazel eyes. Lovely and delicate as an angel’s wing.
And in her lap was the child she had tried to give the man she loved more than life.
Through her tears, Jezebel smiled at the baby, chubby cheeks and tiny fists, swaddled in a blanket that seemed to be woven from a cloud.
The painting was at one and the same time the saddest, most uplifting thing she had ever seen. It wept with the love Micah bore them both, the guilt and grief that dogged him still.
But he’d found joy there, too, and Jezebel was glad for that, even as she accepted that the price of that joy and grief was her own chance for a future with him.
She was transfixed by Micah, by the naked emotion on his face. By the stunning power of his talent. Here was the man he was intended to be, someone much bigger than Three Pines, far beyond her small dreams.
Dream House Page 17
