IN THE DARK

by Pamela Burford

  Bannister's face lit up in a huge grin. "Cat's pregnant? That's great!"

  Brody straightened. "Wait a minute. She said she told you. Are you telling me you didn't know?"

  "No, but I'm really happy for her. I know how much she wanted a baby. And Brigit didn't even let on, the little witch. All she said was that Cat was working with you and she gave me this address. Is she here? I'd like to congratulate her."

  Brody sagged against the counter, squeezing his throbbing head, struggling to make sense of this conversation. "Listen, why don't you just kick my ass and let me get back to my coma?"

  Bannister came to his feet. "You know what? Forget about the coffee. Looks to me like you could use the whole pot, anyway. I take it Cat's not here?"

  "Not till noon."

  "Too bad. Tell her I came by. I was going to reschedule our date, but I see I'm no longer needed." He gave Brody's shoulder a good-natured whack.

  "What date? No longer needed for what?"

  "To get Cat pregnant. Looks like she managed without me. Mistaken identity," he said with a chuckle. "That's a riot."

  Why was the guy smiling? "You're telling me … you're not the father?"

  "I don't know what she told you, but I only met Cat once, and that was twenty years ago. She and my cousin Brigit called me a couple of months back and arranged our—" he did a lazy hip thrust "—baby-making date. I was kind of looking forward to it—Cat was a cute little thing back then, even with the granny glasses—but the blackout stranded me in Boston."

  "A baby-making date? She wanted to get pregnant?"

  "In the worst way. But I take it she's never found a guy worth settling down with, so she decided to go solo."

  Cat had been trying to get pregnant that night. She'd lied about being on the Pill. Brody's mouth went dry. His ears buzzed.

  Bannister said, "Listen, I was just having a little fun before. You started spilling your guts, and it was good juicy stuff, so I just kind of played along. I would've liked details, but I'll get those from Brigit."

  Brody found his voice. "Uh, Greg, do me a favor? Don't tell Brigit you spoke to me." It would get back to Cat, and he needed time to come to grips with what he'd just learned.

  "No problem." Laughing, Bannister swatted Brody on the back again, nearly knocking him down. "Mistaken identity! I'd love to stay and hear her side, but I've gotta run."

  Brody followed the man who wasn't Cat's lover to the front door and watched him climb into his rental car. He reentered the house zombielike and shuffled to a stop in the kitchen.

  "My baby," he said, and the words—even his voice—sounded alien to his ears. "My baby." In the corner, Spot raised his head; his sad amber eyes tracked his master's movements as Brody paced restlessly between the sink and the far wall.

  He felt disembodied, strangely numb, as if the truth were too immense to get his brain wrinkles around. "I'm going to be a father."

  Brody wrenched open the back door and stalked across the yard. He leaned both palms on the tall ash fence and stood there, head bowed, gulping air, letting the remarkable notion gel into something he could find a mental place for.

  An incredulous half laugh erupted from him and he raised his head, pushed off the fence. Spot was waiting for him, gumming his well-worn rubber ball. Brody wrestled the ball out of his mouth, tossed it across the yard and watched the old boy totter after it.

  He'd never considered becoming a father, never even let himself fantasize about it. The responsibility was too awesome. Better to leave it to the undamaged, as he thought of those who'd been raised in normal, loving households. Brody couldn't bear the thought of failing a child as he'd been failed.

  As determined as he'd been not to reproduce, Cat had apparently been just as determined to become a mother, even going so far as to arrange to get impregnated by a virtual stranger. Yet as badly as she'd wanted a baby, she'd been distressed to find herself pregnant, after having denied the indisputable symptoms for weeks.

  I didn't want it to be true.

  She'd wanted it to be true, all right, she just hadn't wanted him to be the father. Her "horrendous mistake" had planted his seed, and she'd disowned that appalling fact as long as possible, until Brody himself had forced her to acknowledge it.

  He was barely aware of Spot vying for attention, dropping his ball at his master's feet and whining.

  Cat must have been just as convinced as he that he'd make a lousy father. He'd actually begun to buy in to all that nonsense yesterday about how "nurturing" he was, until he'd realized she'd only been trying to spare his feelings. Maybe I just hate to admit some people are a lost cause.

  Yep, that was him. Brody Mikhailov, Lost Cause.

  Spot let out a single bark. When Brody looked at him, he perked up, tail wagging.

  "At least you love me, right, boy?" he murmured, disgusted by his descent into self-pity. He plucked the slobbery ball out of the grass and threw it toward the house. Spot took off.

  Until a short while ago, Brody had envied Bannister. He'd envied him not only Cat's loving devotion but even his impending fatherhood and the indelible bond it created with the mother of his child.

  With Bannister out of the picture, Brody should have been able to plug himself in to that blissful scenario. Except that without the loving devotion, the rest kind of fell apart.

  Cat didn't want him. She'd done everything in her power to push him away, from concocting a bogus boyfriend to withholding the remarkable fact that Brody was going to be a father.

  He should despise her for that, but how could he? She was doing what she felt was best for her child, something he could never fault her for. God knew he'd done nothing to alter her opinion of him. She was offering him an easy out with her lies and evasions, and the sensible course of action was to take it.

  So that was it, then. He was going to let her go to raise their child alone. He was going to let his son or daughter grow up never knowing his or her father, as Brody had never known his own dad. Of course, it was possible that Cat might eventually find some "guy worth settling down with," as Bannister had put it, and Brody's child would call some other man Daddy.

  "Over my dead body."

  Spot seconded this with a lively yip. Brody snatched up the ball, hurled it and watched it sail over the fence into the neighbor's yard. Spot came to a wobbly halt at the fence and sent his master a look of studied exasperation.

  "Sorry, boy." Brody headed toward the house with long-legged strides that belied his thumping hangover. "I'll fetch it later. Right now I've got too much to do."

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  « ^ »

  "You're writing a coffee-table book?" Cat stared dumbstruck at the stacks of notes, clippings and folders occupying every square inch of available space in the computer room.

  "Don't call it that!" Brody removed his gold-rimmed reading glasses, drawing Cat's attention to his eyes, puffy and red veined. The bottle of get-the-red-out eyedrops sitting on the computer was clearly unequal to the task. His face appeared washed-out beneath his tan. If not for the fact that she'd found him hard at work when she'd arrived—a first—Cat would have sworn he was suffering a hangover.

  Then again, perhaps not. He was clean-shaven, which was remarkable in itself. And he was actually wearing shoes—well, sockless sneakers—which he almost never did at home. His hair was wet and he smelled of shampoo and mouthwash.

  "Are you sick?" She felt his forehead. No fever.

  "I feel fine." His chipper grin looked forced.

  She perused the research materials spread out around her, on a subject Brody had once claimed was purely a casual interest. Jerry Lewis, Robin Williams, Woody Allen, the Marx Brothers, Linogene Coca…

  "Why the about-face?" she asked. "I thought you were dead set against doing a book about the comic greats."

  "To tell the truth, it's been sort of percolating in the back of my mind ever since we discussed it. When Banner Headline didn't work out, I guess I started reevaluating my
career."

  "What about Demonic!?"

  He shrugged. "I can always go back to it."

  "Have you talked to Leon about this?"

  "What are you trying to do, discourage me? I thought you wanted me to expand my horizons."

  "I do, it's just … well, it's just awfully sudden."

  "You don't have to look so suspicious. I thought people were allowed to grow, to explore their full potential."

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to… You're right. Forget I said anything. Need any help?"

  Brody put his hand on her shoulder. "How are you feeling?"

  She touched her slightly queasy stomach.

  "Fair to middling. I could use a cup of peppermint tea."

  "I'll make it."

  "Don't be silly. You're in the middle of—" But he was already on his way down the stairs. In the kitchen Cat watched Brody put water on to boil and set out the tea things, using the last of the peppermint tea bags. She went to toss the empty cardboard package into the garbage—and froze with her foot on the trash can's pedal, holding the lid open. There, on top of the eggshells and banana peels, was an unopened carton of cigarettes, Brody's brand, along with two sealed packs and a half-full one. She glanced on top of the refrigerator. The pack he always kept there was gone.

  He must have quit. Strange—he'd never mentioned wanting to. He'd always been as unapologetic about his smoking habit as he was about his career. Could this have something to do with his sudden desire to "explore his full potential"? What other surprises did he have in store for her?

  Cat's gaze homed in on the door to the freezer.

  "One teaspoon of honey, right?" Brody asked, his back to her.

  "One and a half." She opened the freezer. Ice trays. Three cans of margarita mix. A pile of Milky Ways

  . She peered into the back. A box of frozen waffles. Spot's veal cutlets and Brody's steaks and pork chops. A forlorn box of freezer-burned peas and carrots.

  "What are you looking for?" Brody asked, coming up behind her.

  Vodka. "A Milky Way. On second thought, that's probably not what my stomach needs right now." She closed the door as the teakettle whistled. There'd always been a bottle in the freezer. Until today. Where had this frenzy of self-improvement come from?

  More to the point, how long was it likely to last?

  "You didn't answer me," she said. "Can I help you with your new writing project?"

  "I had something else in mind for my office mom today." He handed her the mug of tea, opened a drawer and pulled out dozens of scraps of paper, dumping them on the table: index cards, napkins, receipts, yellowed notebook paper, pages torn from magazines and newspapers.

  "What's all this?"

  "Recipes. Everything I've accumulated since—well, since forever. I've never organized it. Now that you've got me cooking, it's hell trying to find the one I need."

  She riffled through the mound of papers. Black bean chili. Chocolate trifle. Herbed beer bread. Smoked Cajun brisket. Seafood paella. A few were from publications, but most were scribbled by hand. "Where'd you get all these?"

  He shrugged. "My poker and fishing buddies. People I've interviewed over the years. Girlfriends. All the Spanish dishes are from Leon and his wife, Mercedes. They're world-class cooks."

  "Some of these are practically falling apart, Brody. What exactly do you want me to do with them?"

  "Mercedes gave me a computer program to record recipes a couple of years back. Calculates nutritional data and everything. I thought maybe you wouldn't mind typing all these in." He gave her his most beguiling smile. "It's indoor work, no heavy lifting."

  Cat lifted a recipe written in purple ink in a feminine hand on a card imprinted with the words From Tiffany's kitchen. Somehow she doubted Tiffany was one of Brody's fishing buddies. The recipe was for something called Death by Chocolate.

  "Why not?" she said. "Maybe I can make a copy for myself while I'm at it." She grinned at him, recalling their conversation at the amusement park. "You know, with all these recipes, you could write a cookbook!"

  He scowled. "I'll stick to coffee-table books for the time being."

  * * *

  Cat stopped dead at the entrance to Brody's dining room. "What happened here?"

  He looked up from the three butterscotch-colored candles he was lighting, set in a modern wrought-iron candleholder situated between two formal place settings facing each other. She recognized the boldly patterned dishes and hand-woven place mats—she'd helped him pick them out. The cherry-wood tabletop gleamed. A hit of lemon oil underscored the delectable aromas drifting from the kitchen. It smelled like Chinese takeout, only better.

  Brody shook the flame off his match. "I moved all those cartons of books up to the guest room. Thought it might be nice to get my dining table back."

  "So that's why I heard you running up and down the stairs." For most of the day they'd worked side by side in the computer room, she at the computer, typing recipes, while he organized his new book. He'd knocked off a couple of hours earlier, and now she knew why.

  Cat crossed the dining room, admiring Brody's efforts. "Looks like you've been a very busy boy. Whatever you're cooking, it smells outrageous."

  "Cold sesame noodles, chicken with cashews, shrimp fried rice and hot-and-sour soup."

  "I've been wondering if you knew how to use that wok. And then I came across all those Chinese recipes today. You've been keeping secrets from me!" She touched the rim of a plate. "You went to so much effort, Brody."

  "It's Friday," he said, his expression pensive. "I thought it would be nice to share a special meal."

  In the subdued light, his eyes were polished onyx. Cat's first glimpse of those eyes, in the dark apartment the night of the blackout, had unnerved her. It was as if some part of her had known that she'd never laid eyes on this man before that night, that this wasn't Brigit's Cute Cousin from Alaska.

  Yet another part of her had pushed the knowledge away, out of reach of her conscious mind. Something in those eyes had drawn her then, as it did now.

  One week from today, Cat would look into those fathomless eyes and say goodbye forever. She dropped her gaze to the elegant table he'd set, the shapes now blurred, the candle flames distorted by brimming tears. She took a deep breath, grateful for the low lighting.

  Brody pulled out a chair. "I hope you're hungry."

  She offered a wobbly smile and sat down. "Starved."

  * * *

  When Cat arrived at Brody's house at noon on Monday, she was surprised to find his housekeeper on her way out. Betty usually came on Tuesday and Friday afternoons.

  "He wants me here every morning now." The burly middle-aged woman jerked her thumb at the house. "At eight a.m. I figured no way he'll be conscious at that hour, but I was wrong. He's been up since six, working."

  "Brody? I don't believe it."

  Betty shambled toward her car. "You won't recognize the place."

  Brody answered the door on the first ring. "I hate weekends," he said, and kissed her lightly on the lips. "Two whole days without you—it never gets easier."

  She chose not to remind him that after Friday, he'd have a lifetime without her. "You're having Betty come every day now?"

  "I want to keep the place up."

  Cat followed him from the porch, which was as messy as ever, into the living room. "Oh. Oh my."

  All the frilly, traditional furnishings were gone. In their place were the dramatic yet comfortable pieces she'd helped him select: contemporary sofa and chairs in candy-apple red leather; tables and wall units in black lacquer and smoked glass. The walls were still waiting to be painted white and the windows were bare, but with its floors sanded and bleached, and devoid of its previous clutter, the room looked…

  "Fabulous," she breathed. "Oh, Brody, it's all coming together."

  "You ain't seen nothin' yet."

  She followed him into the den, where the old plaid-upholstered furniture had been replaced by sleek, modern pieces in rust and navy
. The one working television, as well as the VCR and stereo system, had been moved into the new blond-wood entertainment unit. Brody's exercise equipment, which had been upstairs, now occupied one corner of the den.

  "What did you do with the tower of TVs?"

  "Threw them away. Along with all those broken-down appliances I've been hoarding. Anything that worked, I gave to Goodwill, along with the old furniture. Got rid of it all Saturday morning—the new stuff was delivered in the afternoon."

  "And on Sunday you rested," she joked.

  "No, on Sunday I had the organizer here. Greta." He ushered Cat out of the den and toward the stairway, now miraculously free of clutter. "Had to pay her double for a last-minute weekend job, but it was worth it."

  "The organizer? Is that like the Equalizer?"

  "You're not far off," he said, taking the stairs two at a time. "Greta's like a storm trooper with a measuring tape. She scares me. Leon told me about her. She studies your home, workplace, whatever, and shows you how to rearrange things, store things, what to toss out, stuff like that." He stepped through the doorway of the computer room.

  Cat joined him, and gaped in awe. "Holy cow." It was an office. A real office. Of the original furniture, only the huge, battered steel desk remained, except now its top surface was visible. She saw a new black leather desk chair, computer workstation, filing cabinet, shelves and a spacious worktable with cubbies to keep work in progress neat and organized.

  Not so much as a paper clip was out of place. A big round wall clock ticked off the minutes.

  "Greta and I went shopping," Brody said. "What do you think?"

  "Holy cow," Cat repeated. "What did you do with all the…"

  "Crap. The word you're groping for is crap. Whatever needed to be saved now resides in that." He pointed to the filing cabinet. "Amazing invention. Who knew?"

  "How did you get the new things delivered so fast?"

  In answer he rubbed his fingertips. The green stuff. "Greta didn't stop here. She turned the guest room into a supply and storage room—installed all kinds of racks and cabinets and what all. And that—" he nodded across the hall to what he'd once described as a combination gym, music room and library "—is now strictly a library. I'm going to move the books that are on the porch up here, those I need access to. The rest will go into long-term storage in the attic. It won't be long before the porch actually looks like one."