Miracle Baby (Harlequin American Romance)

by Laura Bradford

  Drawing a skein of yarn to her chest, Maggie met Delilah’s eyes. “Living?”

  “That’s what you do with life, isn’t it?”

  Her throat tightened. “But I—”

  Not unkindly, Delilah removed the yarn from Maggie’s hands and set it gently in her lap. “Ten months and twenty-three days ago wasn’t your time. It was—” the woman’s eyes returned to the photograph ever so briefly “—theirs. Remember that.”

  Chapter Five

  No matter what his head knew to be true, his heart still had a hard time accepting the fact that Reardon was gone. Part of that, Rory knew, was the suddenness. When a person was sick for a long period of time it gave family members a chance to prepare and imagine. To brace for the inevitable.

  Suicide didn’t. Instead, it came without warning, leaving an unending supply of what-ifs and if-onlys in its wake.

  Rory soaked up every detail of the face in the photograph—the dark brown hair, the sky-blue eyes, the angular jawline. They’d been identical twins, their outward features mirror images of one another. Yet when it came to the stuff inside—the stuff that made them tick—they’d been so different.

  But still, he should have known. Twins were supposed to have a sixth sense when it came to one another, weren’t they?

  Shaking his head against the ever-present pang of regret, he returned the frame to its rightful spot on the mantel, a familiar voice replaying in his thoughts for the umpteenth time in the past hour.

  “You can’t fix everything in life, Rory. Some things need time and space.”

  He’d waited all evening for Delilah’s call, hoping she’d have some insight into Maggie’s hurt. Insight that could help him understand the woman who’d captured his attention in a matter of moments and held on to it ever since. And she had, her explanation for Maggie’s pain bringing everything into focus.

  A car accident had claimed the lives of Maggie’s husband and baby daughter. They’d died on impact, leaving Maggie injured and alone.

  It was a loss he couldn’t even imagine. Not completely, anyway. But he certainly understood the sadness, knew how it chipped away at everything in its path, including hope.

  And when a person lost hope…

  He glanced back at his brother’s face, raking a hand through his hair as he did so. People like Delilah meant well. He knew that. He believed that. But he also knew they didn’t understand.

  How could they?

  But he did. Leaving someone alone with their grief was a bad move. It took options away—options he refused to miss out on this time around.

  SHE LEANED TOWARD THE mirror and studied her efforts closely. Sure enough, the black circles that shadowed her eyes were virtually gone, their presence masked by the foundation she’d unearthed at the bottom of her purse.

  “That’s what you get for staying up all night,” Maggie muttered as she pulled back, sticking her tongue out at her reflection in the process.

  And it was true. Only this time she hadn’t stayed up because of nightmares or the kind of memories that left her in a cold sweat. No, this time she’d spent the night sitting on her sofa.

  Knitting.

  For hours after Delilah had left, Maggie had flipped through the guidebook, trying various stitches again and again until she felt she was ready to tackle an actual project. Then, armed with a navy blue yarn, she’d knitted from dusk until dawn, her very first attempt at a scarf earning an N for Not Too Bad.

  Tugging her pale blue sweater down around her hips, she took one final look in the mirror. She owed Rory another apology—this time for being such a downer the previous day. And when she was done, she’d thank him. For granting a wish she hadn’t realized meant so much.

  She inhaled every ounce of determination she could muster into her lungs, then opened the door to the hallway, turning back just as quickly.

  Should she bring it?

  Shaking off the momentary hesitation that threatened to curtail yet another step forward, she strode over to the sofa and reached for the scarf. When people brought a plate of cookies to a neighbor, it was polite to return said plate with a different treat, right? So wouldn’t the same hold true for someone who gave you a knitting lesson? Maggie wasn’t entirely sure, but tucked the scarf under her arm anyway as she headed toward the distant sound of a hammer.

  When she reached the same room she’d visited just twenty-four hours earlier, she stopped, gazing at the frame Rory had erected around the fireplace on the far wall. “Are those going to be built-in benches?” she asked from the doorway.

  The hammering stopped.

  “Maggie? Is that you?”

  “One and the same,” she said, before nibbling her lower lip.

  He peeked around a corner, surprise chased from his eyes by the smile that lit his face and brought a tingle down her spine. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

  “I—I…” She stopped, unsure of what to say next.

  For a moment he simply looked at her. Then he pointed toward the fireplace. “You asked about that frame?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, you’re absolutely right. There’s going to be a built-in bench on either side of the fireplace. I imagine your uncle is going to put some sort of—”

  “Cushions on them. Cushions with a bold stripe, accompanied by a few throw pillows reflecting the colors of the stripes—warm hues that’ll make you want to curl up beside a roaring fire and read. Or think.” She inhaled the image into her mind, and smiled. “Can’t you just picture it?”

  He slipped his hammer into his tool belt and nodded. “I can now. Wow. You really painted a picture in my mind with that description.”

  A flash of warmth flooded her cheeks. “It was easy because it came straight from my memory. That’s the way this suite looked when I was a kid. It was the one my uncle used to live in before he took over the one he’s in now. I spent a lot of hours on those benches, dreaming.”

  “What kind of dreaming?”

  “About having my own family again one day,” she said. The sadness from earlier threatened to send her scurrying back to her room, but she waved the memory away. “Sorry about that.”

  “Don’t apologize.” He gestured toward the frame. “As a carpenter, I see the structure. You, as a crafter, see ways to make it inviting. It’s the difference between plainness and style.”

  “You think what you do is plain?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “I love what I create, I really do. I have no desire to do anything else. But when I’m done with my part, it’s just a room. When someone like you is done, it’s a home.”

  She studied him for a moment, noting the intensity in his eyes as he studied his work. “I think you’re short-changing yourself. Your work is…” she looked around at the built-in benches, the molding around the bay window, the beams that graced the ceiling above her head “…beautiful. I can see why my uncle hired you to restore this old place.”

  Had she blinked, she would have missed the surprise that flashed across his face. “Surely you know that, right?”

  His face reddened ever so slightly. “If I did, it was my own ego putting it there. Hearing it from you is a million times more special.”

  “Then I’m glad I said it. Because it’s true.” She looked down at her hands and remembered her reasons for being there. “Look, I wanted to apologize. For breakfast yesterday.”

  He took a step in her direction. “Don’t. It was the best breakfast I’ve had in…well, ever, if I’m honest with myself.”

  She felt her cheeks flush warmer still as she met his eyes and saw the raw honesty in them. “I mean about the way breakfast ended. It’s just that I feel so guilty when time slips by and I realize I haven’t thought about…” She felt a familiar sting in her eyes.

  He stepped closer. “Just because you’re not aware of a thought doesn’t mean it’s not in your heart.”

  Her head snapped up. “You really believe that?”

  For a moment he didn’t
answer, the only indication he’d heard her being the way he tilted his head. “Will you come sit with me for a moment?” He gestured toward the lumber pile that had served as their couch just twenty-four hours earlier.

  She considered objecting, but in the end simply stepped inside the room and sat down, the tingle from earlier resurfacing as he took his place beside her.

  He let go of a long deep breath before turning to face her. “Eighteen months ago I lost my twin brother, Reardon. It was fast and it was unexpected.”

  “Did he die in an accident, too?” she asked as she searched for, and found, the all-too-familiar pain in Rory’s eyes.

  “Yes. But of his own doing.”

  She sucked in her breath, regretting the sound almost instantly. “I’m so sorry.”

  “So am I.” Rory clasped his hands behind his head, only to drop them to his lap once again. “I knew he was struggling after he broke up with his fiancée. I saw it. With my own two eyes. But I figured he just needed a little time.”

  Without thinking, Maggie covered Rory’s hand with her own and gave it a gentle squeeze. “That certainly seems reasonable.”

  He shrugged. “But it was wrong. What he needed was someone to hold him up.”

  “You couldn’t have known that.”

  “I should have. He was my brother. My twin brother.” With a flip of his hand, he entwined his fingers with hers. “After he did it, I thought about him constantly. Heard his laugh, imagined his face, smelled that damn cologne he always wore, you name it. That’s lessened a little in the past few months, but it doesn’t mean he’s not in my heart. He’ll always be there.”

  She closed her eyes as Rory’s words washed over her. On some level she knew he was right—knew that just because she’d enjoyed his company over breakfast didn’t mean she’d forgotten her family. But still…

  “Heck, he’s everywhere. My heart, my head, my everything.”

  “Your everything?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Without even realizing it, I let him guide me into this field.” He waved his free hand around the room. “Not that this hasn’t always been my passion, because it has. But until Reardon’s death, I simply saw carpentry as this pie in the sky.”

  “His death changed that?”

  “In many ways, yes. It showed me how fleeting and unpredictable life can be.”

  She pondered Rory’s words. “And so that was the push you needed to pursue your passion?”

  He shrugged again. “Maybe there was a tiny bit of that in my decision to get out from behind a desk, but I also think it was the desire to do what I failed to do with him.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, willing herself to focus on the conversation rather than the feel of his hand in hers.

  “I should have found a way to fix him. Instead, I stood by and figured he’d get it together on his own.”

  Maggie looked up at Rory as his voice faltered. She knew about second-guessing. She did it all the time. What if she and Jack had heeded the weather reports and stayed home that night? What if they hadn’t missed their turn? What if she hadn’t forgotten Natalie’s diaper bag, and they had been able to keep going?

  There was so much she wished she could say to wipe the regret off Rory’s face. But it was hard to sell something she had trouble buying, too.

  The tightening of his hand around hers broke through her thoughts. “Hey, I didn’t mean to pull you down with my inability to fix things.”

  Fix things…

  With a gentle tug, she freed herself from his grasp and grabbed hold of her creation. “You fixed something of mine.”

  His eyebrows furrowed. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

  “You took away my last mental excuse for not opening a gift shop one day.”

  “I took away… Ohh. You mean the coupon?”

  “Yes. The coupon. Delilah stopped by yesterday afternoon and taught me how to knit.”

  He grinned. “And? How’d you do?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?” Maggie held out the scarf. “But remember…fine detail isn’t your thing, okay?”

  He looked at her, clearly puzzled.

  “Which means you won’t notice the mistakes—deal?”

  His laugh echoed around the room. “Deal.” Taking the scarf from her hands, he unfolded it and looked it over from top to bottom. “Delilah helped you with this?”

  “She showed me how to knit. I made the scarf after she left.”

  “You made this after she left? Wait. She was just there yesterday. How long did this take you?”

  “I finished about an hour ago.” Leaning to the right, Maggie studied her handiwork once again.

  “You worked on this all night?”

  She nodded. “It helped me bypass a few nightmares.”

  “I guess I should lecture you on the importance of sleep at this moment but—” he held up the scarf “—this is too good.”

  “You really think so?” The breathless tone in her voice made her cringe inwardly.

  “I really know so.”

  “Then I know it’s going to an appreciative home,” she quipped.

  He stared at her. “You made this for me?”

  Fiddling with a corner of the scarf that draped across her leg, she nodded. “It’s the least I could do after you set up that lesson and all.”

  “You had a wish. And I had an in for making it happen.”

  “A wish,” she repeated.

  “A little wish,” he corrected. Lifting the scarf once again, he looped it around his neck and leaped to his feet. With six quick strides he was across the room and back again, a familiar gift box in his hands. “You left this here yesterday.”

  “I know.”

  He handed it to her. She handed it back.

  “Don’t you want to hang it on your tree?”

  “I’ve decided not to decorate a tree this year, after all.”

  “C’mon, you have—”

  She cut him off midprotest. “I just can’t. But it would mean a lot to me if you hung it on your tree instead.”

  He looked from her to the ornament and back again. “My tree?”

  “Yes, your tree. Besides, you’re better at this wishing stuff than I am.”

  “I don’t know, Maggie. That’s not what your uncle wanted.”

  “Please?”

  For a moment he said nothing, then he met her gaze with a mischievous one of his own. “Okay, okay. But under two conditions.”

  “And those are?” she prodded, a smile twitching her own lips.

  “First, you tell me another one of your wishes. A small one.”

  She considered his words, an answer forming instantly. “To never forget. Ever.”

  He nodded, his eyes never leaving hers.

  “And you?” she asked, fighting to keep the moment light.

  “To fix things.”

  “Well—” she glanced around the room “—it certainly looks like you’re off to a good start.”

  “Maybe. But I have other things to fix, too.” He lifted the ornament box into her line of vision. “Which kind of leads me to my second condition.”

  Rolling her eyes skyward, she made a silly face, the sound of Rory’s subsequent laugh chasing away the perpetual chill in her body. “And that is?”

  “That you’ll let me fix you dinner tonight. At my place.”

  Chapter Six

  Whether it was the all-night knitting session or the visit with Rory, Maggie wasn’t sure. But one thing was certain—she hadn’t slept so hard or so well in months.

  Ten months and twenty-four days, to be exact.

  And if it wasn’t for the chirp of her phone reminding her to get up, she’d still be sleeping. Soundly.

  If she’d had any dreams, she didn’t remember them. If she’d had any nightmares, they hadn’t been bad enough to wake her. All she knew was the time on the clock when she’d climbed into bed and the time there now: 6:15.

  Glancing down at the directions Rory had written out, she c
ouldn’t help but smile. For the first time in as many days as she hadn’t slept, she actually found herself looking forward to the evening.

  It didn’t matter what he cooked or if he could even cook at all. The simple notion of having a little company actually sounded okay. Good, even.

  And it made sense. Rory O’Brien was a nice man. He was sweet and funny and intelligent and…

  Indisputably handsome.

  She shook her head and examined the map he’d drawn for her that morning, the path to his home clearly marked out. They would have dinner, he’d said. Then, if they were both game, they could pop in a movie or simply talk.

  It had sounded good, fun even—an invitation she’d tried, but failed, to duck. And she was glad.

  Why the change of heart, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was the seven-hour nap she’d just taken. Perhaps it was the unexpected burst of energy and positive thinking the knitting lesson had created. Or perhaps it was the simple fact that Rory understood.

  Setting the directions on the table beside the door, she turned slowly in front of the mirror. The brushed jeans fit her okay, though a few extra pounds would make them look better.

  She lifted her hand to her neck, fingered the tiny diamond pendant that hung from the gold chain nestled in the V of her cashmere sweater. The necklace had been a gift from Jack just six months after they’d started dating. During their subsequent years together he’d given her other necklaces, more expensive ones to reflect his budding career, but it was this one she wore most often.

  Feeling her excitement begin to wane at the memory, she grabbed the directions and her keys and stepped into the hall.

  HE HEARD HER FOOTSTEPS before the knock, and felt the relief they unleashed in his body. He’d been so certain she would change her mind once she got back to her suite. That she’d think better of accepting his invitation.

  But she hadn’t and he was glad. Real glad.

  Yanking the door open, he felt his breath hitch at the sight of her standing on his front step—her long brown hair cascading over her shoulders in soft waves, the sensual curve of her lips, her dark brown eyes glistening in the glow of the porch light as they looked shyly back at him….