“He said they had all left voice mails. He might have answered them.”
“Double-check, okay? I just don’t want Gina or anybody to worry.”
“Do...they do that? Check up on him a lot?”
“Yeah. Ever since...” Sarah stopped. “Uh...”
“I thought that might be the case. I don’t think I’ll say anything. But if you want to pass the word that you and I talked, that wouldn’t step on anyone’s toes...or ego.”
“Gotcha! Take care, Grace.”
Grace hung up.
She chewed her bottom lip. No wonder Mica could be hypersensitive. His family had apparently been treating him with kid gloves since the accident. Though she knew they loved him and wanted the best for him, their coddling probably only exacerbated Mica’s feelings of ineptness.
She rinsed the dishes and then put them in the wood rack to drain.
She thought she now understood how Mica might be feeling. Bit by bit, Rafe was taking over more of Mica’s duties on the farm. As of last night, Gina had remarried, complicating Mica’s sense of pride at being his father’s heir. Even though Sam wouldn’t run the farm, as Gina’s husband, he was a figurehead. And of course, what Mica had found out about Gina’s feelings for Sam and for Angelo had made him question his memory of his father.
And she’d shown up with Jules in the middle of all this.
As she dried her hands, Mica walked in, pulling on his jacket.
“Where are you going?” Grace asked.
He lifted the LED lantern. “I saw some bricks out by the woodpile. Mrs. Beabots is getting cold, even with the extra blanket I put around her shoulders. Then I’m getting more firewood. We’ll need a lot to get us through the night.”
“Why bricks?”
“I’m going to put them in the fire, warm them, wrap them in towels and then put them under her feet. I’ll get one for you, too.”
She smiled. “How Victorian of you.”
“Thanks.” He winked. “I’m feeling a bit like a pioneer.”
“Can I help?” she asked and then stopped. This was just the kind of thing his family would do. They would assume he was helpless. That wasn’t why Grace had offered, but Mica might not see it that way. She held up her palm before he could answer. “On second thought, I’d better change Jules. I want to put a second sweater on him, too.” She pointed to the door. “You take care of the bricks and wood.”
Before he could answer, she walked away.
In the library, Grace saw the fire had waned. Mrs. Beabots was holding Jules.
Jules sneezed.
“Oh, goodness,” Mrs. Beabots said. “I think the house is truly getting a chill.”
Grace reached for Jules and took him in her arms. “It is. And Jules is just getting over something. Listen, I don’t want you going to the kitchen. And maybe you should use the bathroom now before it gets much colder. I talked to Sarah and she said they are fine next door, but there’s no word on when the power will come back on. Several transformers are out.”
Mrs. Beabots stood and pulled the blanket around her. “I’m going to get another pair of socks and my sheepskin slippers. Do you have anything like that, dear?”
“No.”
Mrs. Beabots looked from her dainty feet to Grace’s. “I have an extra pair, but I’m afraid they won’t fit you.”
“It’s okay. Mica is going to warm some bricks in the fire for our feet. We’ll be just fine.”
“Smart boy, that one,” Mrs. Beabots said.
“He really is.” Grace beamed.
Mrs. Beabots walked up to her, touched her cheek and said, “He chose you, didn’t he?”
Mrs. Beabots started to walk away, but before she’d left the room Grace asked, “Why do you keep saying that? Mica and I—we’re an accident. Something that shouldn’t have happened. Jules is—”
Mrs. Beabots whirled around, the blanket falling in a whoosh from her shoulders. “Don’t say it, Grace Railton. Don’t you dare say it. Jules is an angel. A gift to make things right.”
“Make what right?”
“Why, you and Mica, of course. You were meant to be. Any fool can see that.”
Grace stared at her. “You’re wrong. We’re an ocean apart, and not just because I live in Paris. You know how demanding the fashion world can be. How competitive and difficult. Mica lives here in this quiet, peaceful place that I wish I loved enough to give up my life in Paris for. But I can’t. I won’t. I’ve worked too hard. We are so different...” Grace felt the ache in her heart rip through her body. As much as their different lifestyles were an issue, she knew that wasn’t truly what was causing her pain. She loved Mica and he would never love her back. He had a responsibility toward her and that was all.
“I think he’ll come around,” Mrs. Beabots said.
“No. He won’t. He doesn’t want me.”
“He told you that?”
“Yes,” Grace admitted, feeling her blood turn to ice water. “Oh, he asked me to marry him, but not because he loves me. He doesn’t. He wants Jules to have both parents, for us to be a family, but only for practical reasons. Mica believes we should sacrifice for Jules’s sake the way his parents sacrificed for him and his brothers.”
Saying it aloud only made it worse. And terrifyingly real. She realized in that moment that she’d come to Indian Lake because she’d actually thought Mica would confess that he’d loved her since that first kiss in the pool. She wanted to say “yes,” but she also could not live a lie.
“Then I’ve been mistaken,” Mrs. Beabots said. “I’d thought better of him than that.”
* * *
MICA LAY ON the floor with Jules on his belly, throw pillows propped on his left side in case Jules rolled off. Grace had curled next to him and put her head on his chest. With his right arm around Grace, she snuggled closer to him by the hour.
Mrs. Beabots slept on the Victorian sofa behind them, a warm brick at her feet with three blankets and a mink coat over her. She slept soundly.
The fire was nearly out and Mica knew he’d have to disturb both mother and child to throw a few more logs on. Just not yet.
This night had been an idyll he never could have imagined. Not since before the accident had he felt this needed, or that his presence and contributions were necessary to the lives of others. True, their circumstances were not as dire as they could be, but the old Victorian house, with its high ceilings and noninsulated windows, allowed the heat to dissipate in minutes.
It was well past four in the morning when he finally rose to stoke the fire. He checked the wall thermometer Mrs. Beabots had placed in the hall just outside the library. The house was forty-nine degrees. Bone-chilling, but not deadly, as long as he kept the library warm.
Mica continued to heat bricks and rewrap them for Mrs. Beabots and Grace. They stirred in their sleep. Only once did Grace awaken.
All she said was “Come to bed.”
His heart cried out with an unfamiliar yearning.
He slid back under the blankets, pulled Jules onto his warm stomach and held Grace close.
She didn’t say another word.
The accident had turned Mica’s world upside down, and he hadn’t felt like himself since. But tonight, he reveled in a sense of belonging he hadn’t even experienced as a child. The happiest days he could remember had always been tinged with the feeling that he was an outsider. But maybe he simply hadn’t appreciated his parents and brothers as much as he could have back then.
Mica was by no means the misfit of the family. That title went to Nate, who had run away right after high-school graduation to join the navy so he could save up for medical school and pay for it all on his own, without their father footing the bill. Gabe was also headstrong and independent. He had left the farm to become a vintner and marr
y Liz Crenshaw. Rafe had stayed, yet even his first love was Thoroughbred racing. That and Olivia.
Then there was Mica. He’d only ever belonged to the land and to the machines and engines he repaired. He’d never traveled or extended himself beyond what he knew and loved. And he’d always drifted away from people.
Yet, here tonight, he was part of a family. He was filled with an emotion so strong, he could hardly swallow. Mrs. Beabots had been a friend nearly all his life, but right now, he thought of her as the grandmother he’d never known.
He regretted his knee-jerk reaction when Grace had first shoved his son into his arm. Everything about his baby brought a warmth to his heart he’d never felt before. He loved Jules, and Mica would spend the rest of his life telling and showing his son exactly that. And Grace...
Grace was both integral to this family and an obstacle to keeping it together. Mica didn’t know how he would convince her, but if she wouldn’t marry him, then there had to be another way for them to be together.
Mica would find it because he knew now he was no longer a drifter. He could be the father Jules needed.
He would make it permanent.
With or without Grace.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
LIKE THE RUMBLE and thunder of an avalanche, snowplows roared down Maple Boulevard in the early hours of the morning, jolting Grace from a deep sleep. Opening her eyes and slowly coming out of a hazy dream, she realized she had one arm draped over Mica’s chest and one arm curled up beside him. Jules was sound asleep on Mica’s stomach as if he’d slept with his daddy every night since he was born.
She blinked. Though the fire was still blazing, which meant Mica had woken through the night to stoke it, the Tiffany lamps were on.
“Power’s back,” she mumbled.
Mica stirred, but didn’t open his eyes. His arm tightened around her shoulders, then he ran his hand down her back and pulled her closer. It was the natural position of a husband who’d slept beside his wife for years. What was going on here? She nudged her nose against his chest, inhaling an intoxicating, spicy scent that was pure Mica. One that she’d never forgotten and never would. Looking at Jules lying on Mica’s stomach, she was once again struck with the similarities between them. Jules’s long dark lashes fanned against his cheek exactly like Mica’s. Their dark hair was the same texture and color. Jules’s lips parted only slightly as he slept, though he breathed through his nose...like his father.
Family traits. Family resemblance. Grace felt as if she could barely keep her head above water in the Barzonni sea. In Paris, she had designed and customized the world she inhabited. In Indian Lake she was an outsider, despite the fact that her Aunt Louise had been here all her life and Grace herself had visited often during her teen years here. Grace felt as if she was clinging to her plans with her fingernails, like the survivor of a shipwreck. And what a wreck she’d made of this.
The idea that she could just leave Jules with Mica for two months, then whisk him back to Paris was nothing short of absurd. She’d worried about Jules more on this trip than she had when she was at work in her atelier. Granted, Jules was getting older. He crawled now and was trying table food. When he was smaller and less mobile, he was easier to keep an eye on. But it wasn’t just that. Something in her had altered drastically.
Perhaps is it was the fact that on this trip, she’d had long stretches in which she only had to think about Jules. And Mica. She wasn’t glued to her design table or computer, or listening to Etienne and Jasminda argue. She wasn’t in conference with Rene or on another overseas call to England.
For the first time since Jules’s birth, she’d performed the role of mother more than that of businesswoman, designer or couture team partner.
Was this the real Grace she was exploring? Or was it another of the many facets most women polish in their lives? Was she any different than Sarah or Liz, who balanced careers and kids? She didn’t think so.
And, of course, there was Mica. For over a year in Paris, she’d actually thought she was past her feelings for him. She’d thought that bringing Jules here would be uncomplicated. She’d expected his anger and shock, yes, but she hadn’t counted on her own emotions. Her reaction to him last autumn had been a combination of compassion for what he was going through and the remains of a teenage crush that could never be anything more. All through her pregnancy and Jules’s first months, she’d tried to convince herself of that. But after only a few days in Indian Lake, it was obvious that she’d been in denial. Her love for Mica was full-blown and devastating.
Lying next to him now, with their baby son sleeping soundly on his stomach, was something out of a dream—one that Grace should certainly never trust.
Mica had never opened his heart to her. She wondered if he even knew his own heart.
She looked up at the high, stamped-tin ceiling. She would like to tell herself that she and Mica were practically strangers, but she’d just be making up excuses again. She was a victim of unrequited love and it was time she faced that cruel fact.
No matter what Grace did to reason herself out of loving Mica, it wouldn’t work.
“Grace...” Mica shifted and kissed the top of her head. “I think he peed on me.”
“Oh, no!” She scrambled to sit up, but he didn’t loosen his hold on her. “Mica, let me up. I’ll get the diaper bag.”
“The power’s on, right?”
“Yes.”
“Could you bring me a warm washcloth, then? Let’s not wake up Jules until we have to.”
Grace nodded. “Absolutely. The water heater might not have kicked in, but I’ll boil some. You don’t have a change of clothes, though. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’ll wash up as best I can. How’s Mrs. Beabots?”
“Asleep.”
“Good. I’ll stay here and you get the things.” His smile was slow and sleepy. His dark hair was mussed and his dark stubble only made his blue eyes more intense. He’d never looked so handsome.
She didn’t know what came over her, considering she’d just been stewing over how painful it was to be in love with him, but she kissed his cheek. Then she grazed his lips with hers.
“Don’t,” he said.
“What?”
“I haven’t brushed my teeth.” He gave a low laugh, then pulled her close and planted a kiss on her temple.
I’m so toast, she thought and drew away from him.
“Be back in a sec.”
Grace rose carefully so as not to disturb Jules or Mrs. Beabots. She tiptoed to the kitchen and put a kettle on to boil. She looked out the window and saw that the streetlights were glowing. Now that she was up, she could hear the furnace had kicked on and the house would soon be warm again. She found a French press near the kitchen sink and there was ground coffee in a blue-and-white French porcelain canister on the island. She rummaged around and found two coffee mugs, a sugar bowl and some cream in the refrigerator.
Just as the kettle was about to whistle she took the pot off the stove and poured water into the French press. She placed the cups, sugar and cream on a silver tray she’d seen Mrs. Beabots use. She found a bar of soap near the sink and two washcloths in a drawer. She put the rest of the hot water in a cereal bowl and added it to the tray.
When she returned to the library, Mica had scooted into a sitting position and placed Jules on his baby blanket.
Grace whispered, “Here we are.”
“Thanks,” Mica said quietly.
Mica dipped the washcloths into the hot water and then soaped one up. He lifted his shirt and scrubbed his six-pack. Grace couldn’t help but stare. Her eyes darted to his.
“Told you I kept working out.”
“But...”
“My arm didn’t hinder my sit-ups.” He grinned mischievously.
“Apparently not.
”
Grace turned to Jules and unsnapped his sleeper, glancing back at Mica. He caught her eye.
“What?” he asked, rinsing the suds off with the second washcloth.
“Sorry.” She smiled and took off Jules’s diaper, then cleaned him up with a wipe. Jules stirred, rubbed his nose and looked at Grace. He smiled and then closed his eyes, content that he was safe and his mother was taking care of him.
Mica dabbed at his sweater. “I’ll take care of this when I get home,” he said.
“What about your jeans?”
“Safe.”
“I didn’t give Jules his bottle last night. I’m surprised he slept all night,” she commented.
“Maybe he likes sleeping with his dad,” Mica replied proudly.
“I’m sure he does.” She dug in the diaper bag for a clean sleeper and a fresh sweater. She was surprised that Jules continued to doze through the change of clothing. “Now that the heat is on, we’ll all start to warm up,” she whispered to Mica.
Mica plunged the sieve on the French press, then poured coffee into the mugs for them both. He added a huge dollop of cream and a teaspoon of sugar to hers. He drank his black.
Grace sat cross-legged on the floor and placed a blanket in her lap and then Jules on top of the blanket and put another blanket over him. She took the mug from Mica. “How do you know how I like my coffee?”
“Isn’t that how all the French take their coffee?”
“I wouldn’t say—” She stopped as she took a sip, then she narrowed her eyes. “This is too perfect.”
“Okay, I lied about the French thing,” Mica said. “I made coffee for you once before.” His voice was wistful and he didn’t raise his eyes from his mug.
“I don’t remember,” she said.
“I do remember,” he said in a low voice tinged with a distant, mournful tone of loss.
He drank the rest of his coffee in silence. He looked as if his mind was a million miles away.
Grace put down her mug. She couldn’t take it. She had to know what he was thinking. “Mica—”
His Baby Dilemma Page 16
