by Jo Leigh
His head crooked to the side, and his eyebrows came down in concern. "Really?"
"No," she said, unable to even tease that way. "But I'll feel better knowing you're getting your work done. Honest."
He leaned over and kissed her, first on her cheek, then her nose, and finally, on her lips. The last kiss lingered, reminding her that she was lying. That she wanted him to stay, not just this afternoon, but forever.
She had to break the kiss. And with it, a little piece of her heart. It wasn't a new feeling, or a new argument. She'd almost grown used to it in the past three weeks. Every time he walked out her door, she felt another piece crumble. Eventually, she supposed, there'd be nothing left. At least that would solve her problem. With no heart, there would be no pain.
Trevor stood up and grabbed the carafe on her nightstand. He walked out of the room, and while he was gone, she cursed the unfairness of it all. This afternoon, Trevor had shown himself to be incredibly caring. No man had ever nursed her, not even once. On the contrary. The few times she'd gotten sick while she was dating, her "boyfriends" had left so fast, they left skid marks. She'd never minded too much. She just figured that was the way things were.
Trevor had changed all that. Now she saw that the other men were more concerned about themselves than with the state of her health. Despite the sobriquet, not one of her former lovers had ever loved her. Or even cared enough to risk sharing a cold.
Not Trevor. Mindless of the germs, if there were any, he'd been attentive, solicitous, funny and so sweet it made her want to cry. But instead of feeling grateful, she felt cranky as hell. If he'd been a louse, or even if he'd been distracted, it would have made things much easier for her. She could have used his attitude to build a case against him, and in time, she would have gotten over this infatuation. But he hadn't given her one smidgen of ammunition.
For a man who didn't want a committed relationship, who swore that he was allergic to marriage and all marriage stood for, he was doing a pretty convincing husband act. Everything he did showed her his tenderness, his concern. If she hadn't known better, she'd have sworn he'd conquered his fear of commitment. And there, as they say, was the rub.
She had to get him out of here. Now. Before things got even more out of control. Before he touched her again, or God forbid, kissed her. She was inches away from confessing everything, from sharing her suspicions with him, and that would be a disaster.
He'd be appalled, maybe even feel betrayed. She'd have no defense—she was the one who'd set up the ground rules. Whatever his reaction, he'd distance himself so quickly, he'd probably break the land speed record. She wouldn't blame him. Especially if what she suspected was true.
He came back, the carafe filled with fresh orange juice. His smile warmed her more than the blanket he'd tucked under her chin. He put the juice down, hesitated as if he wanted to tell her something, but just nodded instead. "I'm off," he said, "although I'm not happy about it."
She smiled, afraid that if she spoke, the trembling she felt inside would affect her voice.
"You'll call me if you get worse?"
She nodded.
"Swear?"
She crossed her heart with her index finger.
"Okay. I'll call you later." Then he leaned down and kissed her again. Twice.
The second he turned to go to the door, she wiped her eyes, damning her traitorous tears. When he looked back a final time, there was no sign that she was anything but content. But as she heard him walk through the living room, heard the door open, then close, she sagged with the weight of her pretense.
It hadn't hit her until she'd talked with Katy. Until Katy had given her the details.
Lee couldn't be absolutely sure, not without a test, but something told her she was right. Even though it had never happened before, and she had no empirical evidence, she knew.
She hadn't caught a virus, or eaten something disagreeable. Somehow, despite all the care they'd taken, she'd gotten pregnant. The worst wonderful event in her life. As much as she'd wanted a commitment from Trevor, she wanted his baby more. He was an honorable man. She could have both.
But, dear God, at what cost to their perfect friendship?
* * *
Chapter 12
« ^ »
Trevor's mother smiled distractedly as he joined her at her regular table at Jean George, the restaurant of choice at the Trump Tower, a casual café where the entrees were smaller, but the prices weren't. Doris had brought the big purse, which sat next to her on the banquette. Inside the purse was a dog, if you could call something that tiny a dog. Caesar was a miniature something-or-other, with long shaggy hair that hid his eyes, and a tiny row of sharp bottom teeth that always made him look like he was smiling. Doris didn't go anywhere without Caesar, and restaurants were no exception. During their meal, she would surreptitiously slip tiny morsels of whatever she was having into the bag. In all the years Trevor had dined with her, he'd never heard that dog make so much as a peep.
"How are you, sweetheart?" Doris said, kissing the air near his cheek.
"Just fine, Mom. How are you?" He settled back, and looked for the waiter, anxious to get his first drink. Lunches with his mother were usually two-drink affairs, but when things got hairy, he'd get three. He hoped it wasn't going to get hairy.
"I'm a little angry at you," she said, frowning at him with thickly painted pink lips. Doris was as meticulous as ever, with her perfectly overdone makeup, her pink Chanel suit, and the diamonds she never went without. One in each ear, one on a gold chain around her neck. Trevor was convinced she slept in them.
"Why are you angry? I'm a perfect son."
"You are not. You're very mean, and you know it."
He sighed, willing the waiter to come out from hiding. "Just because I can't get excited about your latest boyfriend, doesn't make me mean. It makes me prudent. They come and go with such lightning speed, that if I'm not careful, I'll get whiplash."
"You see? That's just what I'm talking about. You don't even know Didier, and you disparage him right to my face."
"Didier?"
"He's French."
"God, I hope so."
Doris's mouth pursed. "He's also asked me to marry him."
"No. Please, no. Mother, live with the guy if you have to, but don't marry him."
"How can you say that?"
"Because I've watched you do this five times. Or is it six?"
"Didier will be the last."
He shook his head sadly. "You said that about Don. And Gerald. And all the others."
"This time, it's true."
The waiter arrived, and Trevor listened to his mother order the sea-scallop appetizer, a slice of the foie gras, and a martini with two olives. When the young man turned his way, Trevor decided it was too busy on this Friday afternoon to risk losing him again, so he ordered three Manhattans, to be delivered all at once. Also, a club sandwich. He ignored the waiter's sniff and Doris's disapproving glare. A wedding announcement was definitely cause for a three-Manhattan lunch. Unfortunately, at the rate Doris got married, he'd be an alcoholic by the time he turned forty.
"So, when are you going to do the deed?" he asked.
"Next month. We're going to have a small ceremony at my apartment, then we'll go to France. He's got a home there, and he wants me to see it."
"Sounds wonderful," he said. "You've never had a house in Europe before."
She smiled, and he really saw her age. She'd had him young, but her mileage was starting to show. At forty-eight, she still looked good, but the lines by her eyes and her mouth were inescapable proof that being a perennial bride didn't stop the clock.
"Let's see," he said, picking up his water glass, more to have something to hold than because he was thirsty. "There was an apartment in Los Angeles. A townhouse in Las Vegas. And didn't someone have a beach house on Maui?"
"Stop it, please."
"Hey, they're your trophies, not mine."
"I don't think of them as trophies
. I think of them as missteps on my road to happiness. Which, thank heavens, I've finally found."
He nodded. It wasn't worth it to argue with her, or even discuss it, for that matter. She'd never see her pattern. Or maybe she did see it, and didn't care. Hey, everyone needed a hobby. Some people collected stamps—Doris collected husbands.
"What do you hear from your father?" she asked, smiling disarmingly as the waiter brought them their drinks. He put Trevor's Manhattans in a neat little row, as pretty as you please.
"I haven't talked to Dad in a couple of months," he said. He picked up number one and gave it a taste. Perfect. Knowing he was armed, he relaxed a little more, stretching out his legs, careful not to hit his mother's.
"That's not surprising," Doris said, her bitterness undisguised, and more familiar than the way she colored her hair.
"I think he's still with Tiffany."
"Tiffany. I ask you, is that any kind of name for a grown woman?"
Trevor almost brought up Didier again, but he took another sip instead.
They didn't speak for a few minutes, and Trevor guessed that Doris was taking a brief trip to her past, when all her troubles started. When his father left her. According to legend, she'd been so deeply hurt that she'd barely made it through alive.
The waiter came back with the food, and before he'd gone two steps, Doris had picked off a tiny sliver of the liver pâté and slipped it into her purse.
"So, are you coming?"
"Pardon?"
"To the wedding."
"I don't know, Mother. It depends."
"On what?"
"On the date. On whether I can stand to listen to those words again. I just don't know."
She inhaled deeply, holding the breath an inordinately long time, then let it out slowly.
"I'll save you the dilemma," she said, her words as brittle as the crackers on her salad plate. "You don't have to come. You don't have to do anything. I'll let you know when I come back from France."
"Mother—"
"All your brothers and sisters will be there, but I'll explain that you were called out of town. They'll believe me."
It would be a considerable crowd, if the whole gang showed up. Doris never picked a guy without several children of his own, and then they weren't content until they made some together. He didn't even know half his stepsiblings.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'll try to come. I promise."
"Thank you." She nibbled a bit on a scallop. "I don't suppose you've met anyone."
He almost told her, but he caught himself in time. She wouldn't understand his relationship with Lee. She'd wonder why he wasn't going to marry her, if he cared so much about her. What his mother would never understand is that what he had with Lee was far too important to subject it to something as twisted as marriage. "No, Mom. I haven't met anyone."
"It's such a shame," she said. "You can't truly be happy until you get married. Until you give yourself completely to your other half."
He finished Manhattan number one, and started working on number two.
* * *
Lee dropped her purse on the kitchen table and hurried to the bathroom, clutching the paper bag in her hand. She had to know for sure. This morning, as she'd sat on the edge of the bathtub waiting for her stomach to settle down, she'd thought of a hundred different reasons she couldn't be pregnant. They'd been careful, really careful. She was only two days late, and that happened sometimes, if she was really stressed. Then there was the whole theory of sympathetic pregnancy. Her close friend had talked of little else than morning sickness for three weeks, and, subconsciously, Lee was probably just attempting to share the experience.
She pulled the kit out of the bag and read the directions three times. It seemed simple enough. Pee on a stick. She didn't need a master's degree to do that.
Shaking like crazy, she finally managed to hit what she was supposed to, then she put the stick on the sink while she washed her hands. She kept waiting for it to turn blue. Blue was good. Pink was bad. Come on, blue.
What in hell was she going to do if it came out pink? There was no question about having the baby. But there were lots of other questions. What to tell Trevor, for example. And when to tell him. After she saw a doctor? When she started to show? And if she did tell him, what was he going to say? Would it end the relationship? Would he ask her to marry him, for the sake of the child, then resent her for the rest of their lives?
She dried her hands, keeping her eye on the little stick. Who knew five minutes could last this long? Who knew she could survive with her heart hammering so hard in her chest?
She looked away, forcing herself to ignore the stick. A watched pot and all that. It was no use. She had to see. She had to know.
As the seconds ticked by, she hovered, barely blinking, with her fingers crossed. She thought about the irony of it all. How Katy and Ben had tried for months and months with nothing to show for it, and then she and Trevor do the horizontal bop a few times, and bang. She closed her eyes, afraid to look. Counted off the seconds.
Finally, her wait was over. She opened her eyes.
The stick was pink.
She was pregnant. With Trevor's child.
It was already growing inside her. A baby. A real live, honest-to-goodness kid.
She held on to the counter as she eased herself down to the edge of the tub. Folding her hands neatly in her lap, she tried to remember how to breathe.
This changed everything. Not just her relationship with Trevor, but everything. Her job, her apartment, her future. She had no room for a nursery. But how could she afford a two-bedroom in Manhattan? How could she afford a crib? A changing table? Diapers!
She moaned, putting her head in her hands. George meowed as he rubbed her leg, and then Ira had to get in on the act. They always knew when something was wrong, and boy, howdy, was something ever wrong. She was going to be a mother. Trevor was going to be a father. They were going to be parents!
The cats calmed her down a bit, and then, unexpectedly, the dread in her stomach turned to something else. Excitement. Not pure, not without fear, but yes, it was excitement.
A baby. A little girl, perhaps. Or a little boy. A little Trevor, suckling at her breast, warm and pink and beautiful. A toddler, full of energy and mischief, learning at the speed of sound. A teenager— Well, that was a little too much to contemplate at the moment.
She stood, amazed her legs held her, and picked up the stick. It was still pink. Just to be really sure, she'd go to the doctor. Sticks were wrong sometimes, right? Just like condoms sometimes didn't work?
Oh, lordy. This was some pickle … with ice cream on top.
* * *
Trevor waited impatiently for Lee to answer her phone. He wasn't exactly drunk, but he wasn't exactly sober, either. Lunch with Doris always had that effect on him. She seemed to counterbalance any reaction to alcohol. It was quite a trick, but then his mother had a whole purseful of tricks.
Stepfather number six. As soon as his real father heard about the upcoming nuptials, he'd ask Tiffany to marry him. That's how it always worked in his parents' cockamamie game of lifetime tag. In his family, no marriage went unpunished. No alimony was too great to risk. The person with the most ruined lives in their wake wins.
He pushed the elevator button again, almost dropping his cell phone in the effort, and willed Lee to answer. The little prayer worked.
"Hello?"
"It's me," he said.
"Hi."
"You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine."
She didn't sound fine. "Mind if I come over?"
"I don't know, Trevor," she said. "I'm kinda busy."
"I need to see you, kid. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."
She didn't answer for a while. Long enough for the elevator to reach the lobby. "Sure," she said, finally. "Come on over."
"Thanks. I'll be right there." He clicked off, then stepped into the elevator. Thirty seconds later, he arrived at her floor, a
nd in a few steps, he was at her door. He knocked, the relief at seeing her, at being with Lee, a physical sensation. His heart slowed, his anxiety eased. He was entering his safe place, the one spot on earth where nothing could harm him: Lee's arms.
She opened the door, and he kissed her before she had a chance to act surprised that he'd arrived so quickly. Kissed her properly. He ran his hand down her back, all the way to that incredible behind of hers, and lifted her into the air, turning her around so he could kick the door shut with his foot. All the while the kiss went on, and he tasted her taste, and he smelled her scent. His worries drained away, and his spirits lifted. It was magic.
Finally, he let her go. She looked so beautiful, staring up at him, blinking like that.
"Where did you call from?"
"Downstairs."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I don't know."
"Have you been drinking?"
He nodded. "Yes."
"Oh," she said, her eyebrows raised. "A particularly good vineyard?"
"Not wine at all, my dear. Booze."
"Ahhh."
"I had lunch with Doris."
"Ahhh," she said again, but this time it denoted understanding.
"So you see why I needed to come here."
"Yes," she said, stepping out of his arms. "Can I get you some coffee?"
"No. Yeah. Decaf."
"Why don't you tell me about it?" she suggested, heading toward the kitchen.
He stopped to pet the boys for a moment, then followed her. He was glad he'd caught her off guard. She hadn't had time to fuss over herself. What she didn't realize was that she didn't have to fuss for him. He liked her without makeup, in her old comfy robe, and with her hair piled on top of her head. He even liked her ancient bunny slippers.
"So?" She said, getting out the green Starbucks canister. "Shoot."
"She's at it again," he said, leaning against the refrigerator. The kitchen was small in the real world, but for Manhattan, it was pretty large. Two people could actually be inside at the same time. And, of course, there was no bathtub in here, which was always a plus. "This time, it's some French guy named Didier."
