Baby Blessed

by Debbie Macomber

  When Jordan did contact her again, her reaction would depend on the mood she was in. Either she’d slam the door in his face, or throw her arms around his neck and drag him back to her bedroom.

  He must have intuitively known how ambivalent she felt because he’d completely avoided her. One thing was certain; she wasn’t going to seek him out.

  “I appreciate your helping me with this,” Molly said, leading her into the shop. She’d purchased the crib a week before, but didn’t have any way of getting it to her duplex. Amanda had kindly offered the use of her truck.

  “I’m happy to do it,” Amanda returned graciously. “You’ve helped me more than you’ll ever know. It feels good to be able to lend you a hand.”

  With the shopkeeper’s assistance, they loaded the crib into the bed of Amanda’s truck. Molly drove to her apartment and together they set it up in the spare bedroom. Since Molly intended to paint the crib, she’d spread newspapers and plastic over the carpet.

  “Stay and have some tea with me,” Molly said when they’d finished. “I’m having a glass of milk myself but I’ll make a pot of tea.”

  “You’re sure you’ve got the time?”

  “Of course.”

  “I talked to Tommy about having another baby,” Amanda said, while Molly filled the teakettle and set it on the burner.

  “What did he say?” she asked, wondering if Amanda’s husband felt the same way as Jordan.

  “He wants to wait.”

  “How long?”

  “Another six months.”

  “How do you feel about that?” Molly asked.

  Amanda lowered her gaze, then shrugged. “In my heart I know another baby will never take Christi’s place, but my arms feel so empty.”

  Molly understood what her friend was saying. Her arms had felt empty, too. Her arms and her life. That was why she’d volunteered to work in east Africa. She’d been willing to travel anywhere in the world, endure any hardship, if only it would ease the ache in her soul.

  “Do you think that’s what concerns Tommy?”

  “I don’t know. He’s afraid we’ll lose a second baby, too, and I don’t think either of us would survive that.”

  “I …didn’t think I’d survive losing Jeffrey,” Molly said, and in some ways she continued the struggle and would for a very long time.

  “We agreed that I’d go off the pill in three months. It took me six months to get pregnant with Christianne. The way we figure it, the timing should be about right.”

  The kettle whistled and Molly removed it from the burner.

  “How’s Jordan?” Amanda asked timidly. “Listen, you don’t have to talk about your husband if you don’t want to. It’s just that…well, I can’t help being curious, especially since he’s decided to delay the divorce until after the baby’s born.”

  “He’s fine, I guess. I—he stopped by last week.”

  “He did?” Amanda asked excitedly. “Remember when you told me about seeing him at the play? Something about the look on your face when you mentioned him struck me. You’re still in love with Jordan, aren’t you?”

  There wasn’t any use in denying it, so she nodded.

  “I knew it,” Amanda said triumphantly. “What did he want?” She edged closer to the table, then seemed to realize Molly and Jordan’s relationship was none of her business. “You don’t need to answer that.”

  “Apparently he’s broken off his relationship with Lesley,” Molly said.

  “Hot damn!”

  “He’d like a reconciliation… I think.”

  “Double hot damn!”

  “But he’s still having trouble dealing with my pregnancy.”

  Amanda’s shoulders slumped dramatically. “He’s afraid. Tommy and I are, too. It’s only natural, don’t you think?”

  “Perhaps, but it’s more than just fear with Jordan. He’s terrified.” Molly didn’t know what he expected of her anymore. It wasn’t as though she could ignore their child. “He doesn’t want to have any feelings for this child,” Molly continued. “I think he’s convinced the minute he does, something will happen. He keeps everything bottled up inside. He always has…even with Jeffrey.”

  “I feel sorry for him,” Amanda said thoughtfully. “He must be miserable, loving you the way he does.”

  They were both miserable.

  Molly poured tea for Amanda and milk for herself, and the two women chatted for fifteen more minutes. Although they were very different, they’d become friends, bonding over the heart-wrenching tragedy of losing a child to SIDS.

  As soon as Amanda left, Molly changed clothes and got out the paint she’d purchased earlier in the day. She’d put on an old dress shirt of Jordan’s, rolled up the sleeves and paused to study herself in the mirror.

  “Stop kidding yourself,” she muttered. Choosing to paint in Jordan’s shirt had been a deliberate act. Illogical though it was, she felt close to him in this shirt. Years earlier, before they knew what was to befall them, it had been a favorite of hers.

  She’d stolen it from his closet when she’d picked up her things at the house and moved them into the apartment. For a short time afterward, she was afraid he’d ask her about it. As the weeks passed, she realized he had so many shirts he wouldn’t miss this one.

  Wearing it now, while she painted the baby’s crib, had been an effort to bring him closer to her and their baby. In this shirt, she could pretend his arms were around her.

  She was stirring the paint when the doorbell chimed. She hurried impatiently into the living room.

  The last person she expected to find at her door was Jordan. His arms were filled with two heavy brown sacks, and his eyes met hers with a beguiling smile.

  “I come bearing gifts,” he said.

  “What kind of gifts?” she asked, crossing her arms, trying to decide what to do. Let him in? Or shut the door?

  “Dinner, with all the fixings,” he said. “All your favorites.”

  “Southern-fried chicken, potatoes and giblet gravy?”

  “Or a variation thereof.”

  Molly threw open the screen door. “Come on in.”

  Jordan chuckled. “You always could be bought with food.”

  “If you plan on staying more than five minutes,” she warned, “then I suggest you start cooking.”

  His grin grew broader. Molly followed him into the kitchen and quickly discovered he’d brought far more groceries than were necessary for a single meal. He made two additional trips to his car.

  “I don’t mean to be nosy,” he said, placing fresh vegetables in her fridge, “but where’d you get that shirt?”

  Molly’s eyes grew round with feigned innocence. “This old thing?”

  “It looks a lot like one of mine.”

  She fluttered her long lashes. “Are you suggesting I stole it?”

  He turned and faced her, hands on his hips. “I am.”

  She lowered her gaze demurely. “Did you miss it?”

  “No, but I’ve got to tell you, it never looked that good on me.”

  Molly laughed and, turning on her heel, left him and resumed her task in the baby’s bedroom. She could hear Jordan working in the kitchen, as he went about preparing their dinner. Not that it would require any great skill. The deli had already roasted the chicken, which he was attempting to pass off as southern fried, and the mashed potatoes and gravy looked suspiciously as if they’d come from a restaurant.

  Fifteen minutes later, he joined her, watching her dip the brush in the paint and spread it evenly over the wood. Molly waited for him to say something, but he didn’t for the longest time. She paused to glance up at him.

  “Is it a good idea for you to be painting in your condition?” he asked.

  “It’s perfectly safe. This is latex paint, not oil-based. I checked on the internet and I asked the doctor.” If he was so concerned, she had an extra brush. She waited, but he didn’t volunteer and she didn’t ask.

  “How was your week?” he asked, and the
question was full of meaning.

  Not sure how to respond, Molly reviewed her options. She could lie and tell him everything was just great, although she’d been restless and miserable. Or she could admit she hadn’t slept through a single night because each time she closed her eyes she remembered how good she’d felt in his arms.

  “I don’t know how to answer that, Jordan,” she finally said.

  “Did you think about me?”

  She dipped the brush in the paint and hesitated. “Yes.” Turnabout was fair play. “Did you think about me?”

  “Every minute of every day. It took me until this afternoon to work up the courage to come back and try again. I never know what to expect from you.”

  She couldn’t deny what he was saying, but the reverse was also true. “We’ve both been hurt so badly. Why do we say such terrible things to each other?”

  “I don’t know, Molly. All I know is that I love you.”

  Under other circumstances that would’ve been enough. But she was no longer the only one involved. A new life grew inside her. A new life that couldn’t be ignored.

  “Say something,” Jordan urged, walking toward her.

  She hung her head, knowing the instant she mentioned the pregnancy she’d erect a wall between them.

  Jordan placed his index finger beneath her chin and raised her head until their eyes met. Then, ever so gently, he lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss was long and sweet.

  Jordan kissed her again and reached for the snap of her jeans. “I didn’t stop thinking about us, and how badly I want to make love to you every night for the rest of our lives.”

  “I … I don’t know if this is a good idea,” she said, making an attempt to offer some resistance, even if it was only token.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Jordan countered. “You’re wondering if all we share is fabulous sex.”

  Molly’s eyes flew open. That wasn’t remotely close to what she was thinking.

  She pushed herself out of his arms. “You believe all we share is sex?” she repeated, outraged that he’d suggest such a thing. “What about our son, several years of marriage and this pregnancy?” she cried.

  Molly didn’t give him time to answer. She’d forgotten the paintbrush in her hand, but she remembered it now. Stepping forward, she slapped the paint-soaked bristles across the front of his shirt.

  “Here’s what I think of that,” she said.

  Ten

  Molly clamped her hand over her mouth, unable to believe she’d actually painted Jordan’s shirt. He held up his arms and stared down at his shirtfront with a look of horrified surprise.

  “Oh, Jordan, I’m sorry,” she muttered, setting the paintbrush aside. She dabbed at him with a rag, but it soon became apparent that her efforts were doing more harm than good.

  “You…painted me.”

  “You deserved it,” she said, smothering a laugh. In her opinion, Jordan Larabee should count his blessings. He was lucky she hadn’t taken the brush to his face.

  “You might apologize yourself,” she suggested while he peeled off the shirt, being careful to avoid spreading the wet paint across his arms and chest.

  “All right,” he agreed, handing her the damaged shirt, “perhaps I was wrong.”

  “Perhaps?” She put her hand on her hip and glared at him. “Perhaps?”

  Jordan swallowed visibly, holding back a laugh. Apologies had never come easily to him, she realized, and he usually disguised them with humor.

  “Fine. I was wrong,” he muttered, his eyes growing serious, but only for a moment.

  She rewarded him with a smile and carried his shirt to the compact washing machine, tucked neatly away in a kitchen closet, with the dryer stacked above.

  “Don’t worry, it’s washable,” she told him, setting the dial. At the sound of water filling the machine, she turned to him. True, her reaction to his outrageous suggestion had been instinctive, but it was also funny.

  Their eyes met and held.

  Having her estranged—and very attractive—husband walking around her home bare-chested offered more of a temptation than Molly was willing to admit.

  “Wait here,” she said, returning to her bedroom, taking off his old shirt and replacing it with a short-sleeved cotton top. She delivered the shirt to him minutes later, hating to part with it.

  “Thanks,” he mumbled, pulling it on.

  While he was buttoning it up, Molly lowered her eyes. She couldn’t look at him and not remember their recent night together. She recalled how she’d felt lying next to him, her ear pressed against his chest. The even, rhythmic beat of his heart had lulled her to sleep, lulled her into believing that there was hope for them, for their wounded marriage.

  Molly was well aware of the mistakes she’d made. She regretted them and wanted to right the wrongs she’d done to Jordan, if that was possible. Molly was convinced their relationship would always be strained until Jordan had grieved for Jeffrey properly.

  Molly waited until they were seated across the dining table from each other, their plates piled high with the food Jordan had brought.

  Molly dipped her fork in the steaming mashed potatoes and gravy. “I’d like us to talk, Jordan. Really talk.”

  “All right,” he agreed, but she heard the hesitation in his voice.

  “I love you, and this…this awkwardness between us is hurting us both.”

  Jordan set his fork on the plate. His eyes shone with tenderness. “I love you, Molly, so much. I can’t believe I allowed all this time to pass. I should’ve gone after you the day you moved out. My foolish pride wouldn’t let me.”

  “I should never have left the way I did. Those days after we buried Jeffrey were so bleak. I wasn’t myself, and I didn’t know if I’d ever be again.

  “I felt like I was walking around in a haze. I was insane with grief and couldn’t make myself snap out of it. You were right when you said all I did was cry.”

  She waited a moment, then continued. “I realize now how depressed I was, but I didn’t know it then. I don’t think even my doctor did. He wanted me to see a counselor, but I couldn’t make myself go. That was a mistake.”

  “I should have helped you.”

  “You tried,” Molly whispered, fighting back tears. “But you couldn’t help me.” In retrospect, Molly believed she’d probably been close to a breakdown.

  They made the pretense of eating, but neither appeared to have much of an appetite. They didn’t speak again, each trapped in the memories of those painful months following Jeffrey’s death.

  Molly finished her dinner first, dumping her leftovers in the compost bin beneath the sink. “Thank you, Jordan, you’re a fabulous cook,” she said in an effort to cut through the tension.

  “Anytime.” He smiled, but his eyes were devoid of any real amusement. He stood and carried his plate to the sink, as well.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked.

  “Please.”

  “Decaf okay?”

  He nodded.

  Her back was to him as she reached for the canister and scooped the grounds into the paper-lined receptacle. The coffee had dripped into the pot before she broached the subject of their son a second time.

  “We need to talk about Jeffrey.”

  Her words were followed by silence.

  “Why?” he finally asked.

  “I believe it’ll help us.” She turned to face Jordan.

  He was standing not far from her. Two mugs sat on the kitchen counter where he’d placed them. His hands were clenched at his sides, the knuckles white.

  Pretending they were having a normal, everyday conversation, she reached for the mugs and filled them. Jordan took a seat across from her at the table. She sipped her coffee, then slowly brought her gaze to his, waiting for him to respond.

  Five minutes passed.

  “We had the same problem before,” he said, sounding perfectly natural. “Jeffrey is dead—talking about him won’t bring him back.” />
  “That’s true,” she said evenly. Molly wasn’t fooled. Jordan’s back was ramrod straight, and he held the mug tightly between his hands. She knew the heat from the coffee must be burning his palms, but he seemed unaware of it. “No amount of discussion will resurrect our son,” she said, even as the pain sliced open her heart. It still hurt to talk about Jeffrey, especially with Jordan.

  “Then why insist on dragging him into our conversation? Into our lives? He’s gone, Molly. As painful as that is to accept, he’s never coming back.”

  “Do you think I don’t know that?”

  “I have no idea anymore.”

  She needed to tread carefully, Molly realized, otherwise they’d fall into the same trap and their discussion would disintegrate into a bitter shouting match. That had been their pattern almost four years earlier, until they’d blocked each other completely out.

  She rested her hand on the bulge created by her baby. As she guessed he would, Jordan followed the movement of her arm. He quickly looked away.

  “I’m pregnant with another child,” she said softly.

  Jordan trained his eyes across the room as if he couldn’t bear to be reminded of her pregnancy. “This child has nothing to do with Jeffrey.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. This baby has everything to do with Jeffrey. For nearly four years you’ve tried to pretend our son didn’t exist. You don’t want to talk about him. You tried to destroy every piece of evidence he lived. It isn’t as easy as that, Jordan. Jeffrey was our son and he’s indelibly marked our lives, the same way this baby will.”

  “Listen, Molly, I’m not going to let you force this baby on me,” he said, his control snapping. “The pregnancy was a mistake. It should never have happened.”

  “I refuse to believe that,” Molly said as unemotionally as she could, despite her pain and anger. “If it hadn’t been for this baby, we’d be divorced by now. This child is a blessing.”

  The truth hit her then with as much shock as when she’d walked into Jeffrey’s bedroom that fateful morning. She raised her eyes to Jordan and stared at him. “Maybe I am nothing more to you than a good lay,” she choked out. “Maybe there’s nothing between us except sex—just like you said.”