The Baby Came C.O.D.

by Marie Ferrarella

  Surprised at her own tone, she shrugged off the mood. "How did I get started talking about this?"

  Evan had studied her face while she spoke. He didn't care for personal details. He saw them as needless, and they usually got in the way of things, of efficiency. But it was different with Claire.

  He found himself wanting to know things about her. Lit¬tle things, intimate things. For the first time in his life, he understood what motivated his brother's spark of curiosity.

  "Dr. Richmond," he prompted gently.

  "Right, Dr. Richmond." Feeling slightly embarrassed, Claire rose to her feet. She had to get back to the girls. Nap time was undoubtedly over. "Anyway, he came by, gave you a shot to lower your fever—it was pretty high by the time I called him." She'd debated calling an ambulance and decided to give the doctor a try first, knowing that Evan would have hated the fuss of being taken to the hospital emergency room. "And told me to watch you. So I did," she concluded brightly, trying to negate the somber mo¬ment she had just shared with him. "You didn't do any tricks."

  Her playful tone didn't fool him. She had completely put herself out for him without being asked. "You stayed here all that time?"

  She wasn't quite sure if he would mind the invasion, but there was really no other choice. "Libby and I moved in. It seemed easier than dragging you over to my place." That had never even been a consideration. "You are one heavy man when you're limp."

  Bits and pieces were coming back to him. He vaguely remembered the sound of her voice in his ear as he was stumbling up the stairs.

  And there was more. "Wasn't the nanny supposed to start yesterday?"

  He wasn't going to like this. "It's been postponed— indefinitely." She saw the confusion that creased his brow. "She wouldn't set one foot into the house when I said you were sick," Claire explained. "Didn't even let me explain. She was gone in a flash, saying you weren't paying her enough to risk getting sick. Personally, I didn't like her," Claire confided as she made her way to the door. "I think you should have been a little choosier."

  She began to open the door, then remembered something else. So much had gone on while he was unconscious, it was hard to keep it all in order.

  "Oh, and your brother called." She thought a moment, determined to get the message right. "He told me to tell you that he's still trying to locate Marilyn."

  "Marilyn?" The name meant nothing to him. Should it? "Who's Marilyn?"

  "Marilyn Schaffer." He still looked blank. Maybe his brain wasn't focusing yet "That's what the cruise enter¬tainer's name really was." She could see he still didn't understand. "Siren. Rachel's alleged mother?"

  And then it dawned on him. The woman who had turned his life upside down. The woman whose face he barely remembered. The only woman whose face he could see clearly in his mind's eye was Claire. "Oh."

  The word gave her no clue. She wished she knew what he was thinking. Was he disappointed Devin couldn't find her, or relieved? And which did she want him to be?

  It didn't matter what she wanted, she reminded herself. It was what was best for the baby that counted.

  "Anyway, she quit her job. The cruise line's personnel director doesn't know where she went, and she moved out of the apartment she was leasing," Claire told him. "But Devin's got a list of people she knew and he's working on that." Finished with her recitation, she blew out a breath, then smiled. "He's got a nice voice."

  Evan accepted the compliment for his brother with a nod, absently wondering if Devin had flirted with her. That he might have flirted stirred something within Evan that went beyond the rivalry he'd initiated between them so many years ago. There was an uneasiness he didn't quite under¬stand.

  "Some people say we sound alike on the phone." He dismissed the comment as petty. "Actually, they don't." Evan looked at Claire, at a loss. "You know, I don't know what to say."

  Didn't he realize that she didn't want a profusion of words? That a simple thank-you would have been enough? And what was that comment about their voices all about? Was that a trace of jealousy? Claire shrugged; she'd prob¬ably just imagined it.

  "Don't say anything, just go back to sleep," she in¬structed, then glanced at her watch. She'd dozed for only fifteen minutes. "The kids were both napping when I came in, and now that I know you're not going to slip into a coma, I'm going to get back to my own work."

  Hesitating, Claire debated telling him, then decided she should. He might find out anyway if Libby got into his room. So far, she'd impressed her daughter with the need to keep her distance. She didn't want Libby getting sick, as well.

  "I'm using your computer. Don't worry," she assured him quickly, anticipating his protest. "I won't destroy any¬thing. I'll even uninstall my program when I'm finished. But since I can't be two places at once and I have to finish this presentation, I decided to commandeer your com¬puter."

  He didn't care about the computer. Right now, he felt too weak to make use of it anyway. And it was an easy matter to replace it if something fatal actually did occur.

  "I wasn't going to say anything, except for thanks." His expression was rueful. "Doesn't seem nearly good enough."

  She smiled at him just before she shut the door. "It's a start."

  Evan didn't remember falling asleep. But the next time he woke up, the rain had stopped. And something else had started.

  The rhythmic, soothing sound had been replaced by Lib¬by's voice coming from right outside his door. She was begging Claire for a chance to come in. Evan was surprised at how firm Claire sounded, turning her down. It gave him the feeling that Claire really couldn't be budged once she made up her mind about something.

  He couldn't help but admire that, even though he had a feeling it could be at his expense.

  "Honey, I really need you to look after Rachel for me, and Mr. Quartermain is still sick. He has germs I don't want you getting."

  "But you're getting them," he heard Libby protest. He could almost see her pout. In about twelve years, she would make one hell of a heartbreaker. And in another ten on top of that, she'd be a lawyer to be reckoned with, he judged.

  ''Mama's strong."

  He'd vouch for that, he thought. And soft. Very soft. His mind began to drift as he allowed himself to imagine just how soft she could be.

  "You could still get sick," Libby persisted.

  Definitely lawyer material, Evan decided. He'd enjoy seeing Libby arguing a case.

  "Then you can take care of me," Claire told her.

  He could hear unadulterated joy in Libby's voice. "I can? Really?" She was probably hoping Claire would get sick, just a little, so she could get her mother to make good on her promise, Evan thought.

  "Really. Now get back to Rachel. Remember, she needs you."

  All traces of desire to come visit the patient had left her voice. "Yes, Mama."

  If he strained, he could hear the sound of her feet thun¬dering on the rug as she flew to her charge. For a tiny thing, she had heavy feet.

  "You're good at that," he told Claire as she walked into the room. "Reasoning with her instead of just telling her to obey."

  He had absolutely no idea about parenting, but in his opinion, she had it down pat.

  "Kids react to respect, the same as adults." Claire set down the tray she was carrying on his bureau. "Okay, it's time to get you back among the living. I have the classic healer for you." She gestured at the bowl in the center of the tray. "Chicken soup. Plus apple juice and some tea," she offered in a quick rundown, then flashed a mischievous smile. "And if you're very good, I'll let you have some gelatin for dessert. Cherry."

  So saying, she placed the tray on his bed. Evan eyed the soup. "I don't like chicken soup. They always make it too salty."

  Now that he was getting better, he was being difficult. Why didn't that surprise her?

  "Well, 'they' didn't make it," she informed him. "I did. And mine isn't too salty."

  He didn't think anyone in his generation cooked any¬more. His mother lamented that it was a l
ost art. His sisters knew how to boil water and how to dial for takeout.

  "You made it?"

  She lifted her chin, pretending to be affronted. "Don't look so surprised—I can cook."

  Now that he thought of it, the soup did smell good. But how had she managed to make it? "I don't have anything in my refrigerator."

  "The chicken's on loan from mine, okay?" She held out the spoon to him. "Now shut up and eat. You need to get your strength back."

  And he knew just what he wanted to do with it when it returned.

  Capitulating to the aroma and the vague hunger rumbling through his belly, he took the spoon from her. "All right."

  "Attaboy, you'll be up and about in no time." Deciding that he couldn't sit up the way he was, she shifted the tray back to the bureau. "Of course, you can't eat like that unless I bring you a straw."

  She remedied the problem by rearranging the pillows un¬til they were all behind him. As he sat up, Evan's head began to swim unexpectedly, and he grabbed her arm to steady himself. It surprised and embarrassed him to dis¬cover just how weak he still was.

  She stiffened slightly as his fingers accidentally brushed against the side of her breast. Claire felt her stomach tighten as taut as a high wire.

  "Sorry," he apologized. "I didn't realize just how weak I was."

  "You just need to eat something," she murmured self¬consciously. She was acting like a schoolgirl. Struggling to hide her nerves, she set the tray in front of him again, then sat down on the other side. "I can make the plane go into the hangar if you're too weak to feed yourself."

  It was tempting to have her feed him, not because he felt weak, but because he liked having her fussing over him. Liked it far more than he would have believed only a few days ago.

  "No, I think I can handle my own hangar."

  "Okay, Ace, call me if you need me." She began to rise.

  "Why don't you stay and talk to me?" he asked. "Tell me about the project you're working on," he suggested when she looked as if she was going to beg off with an excuse.

  Well, this was a surprise. Claire slowly sat down again. "All right. It's a logo for Aesthetic Athletics," she began. "There's this guru sitting in the middle, wearing a huge pair of running shoes. He's meditating about being in the Olympics..."

  Chapter Nine

  Libby stopped for breath, waiting. When her mother didn't say anything, Libby cocked her head and looked at her.

  Mama had a funny look on her face, like she was a jillion miles away. Libby tugged on her sleeve to get her attention.

  "Mama, Mama, aren't you listening to me?"

  Fresh from putting Rachel to bed, a task that seemed to drain her of most of her energy, Claire had returned to the living room and sunk down on the sofa. Just in time. Her legs felt as if they'd given way.

  Libby's voice was fading in and out of the buzzing in her ears.

  "Hmm?" How could she be on a roller coaster when she was sitting still? Claire tried to concentrate on her daughter, but it wasn't easy. "I'm sorry, honey, I think I'm just going to lie down for a minute, all right?"

  And then Claire stretched out, right where she sat, col¬lapsing against the dark blue sofa like a balloon that had had all its air suddenly released.

  Libby stood looking at her mother. Something was wrong. Mama never lay down during the day. And she always listened to her, even when she looked as if she wasn't. Libby started to feel strange, funny, like there were all these big butterflies in her stomach trying to get out at once.

  She shook her mother by the shoulder, wanting her to get up again. "Mama?"

  Claire drew a long breath and let it out again, trying to regain ground. It didn't work. Ground was quickly slipping away from her.

  It was just because she was pushing herself too hard— that's all. All she needed was a few minutes to rest and she'd be good as new.

  "Just for a minute," Claire repeated. Her voice echoed in her head, sounding as if it were coming from deep inside a well. "I promise I'll be up and listening to you in a minute."

  Shutting her eyes, Claire curled up on the sofa, bringing her knees to her chest almost reflexively. She felt cold and hot at the same time and didn't know if she wanted to get something to cover herself with or to change her sweater for something lighter. It was a moot point Either choice involved moving, getting up. And she didn't have the strength to do that.

  She would in a minute, she felt certain, but not right now. Right now, it was all she could do to concentrate on breathing.

  "Mama?" Libby whispered. The butterflies got bigger.

  Puzzled, worried, Libby turned on her heel and raced up the stairs to where she knew Rachel's daddy was. He wasn't as good as Mama, but he was a grown-up and grown-ups knew what to do.

  She hadn't been allowed into his room the past four days because he was sick, but she knew it was okay to talk to him now. Mama said it was okay. Last night, Mama had let him come downstairs and eat with them at the table instead of taking a tray up to him the way she did before.

  Mama had made a joke, and then he had made a joke right back and they had all laughed. Even Rachel, because when she laughed, she made bubbles. Libby liked that feel¬ing, having a daddy at the table to laugh with. Mama didn't know, but she had pretended, just for a little bit last night, that Mr. Q. was her daddy, too, and Rachel was her sister.

  Maybe if she pretended hard enough, they would be.

  Mama had always told her to believe in dreams because dreams came true sometimes. And Mama was never wrong.

  It was good to get dressed again, to feel something be¬sides pajamas rubbing against his skin. The life of a lay¬about just wasn't for him. He felt restless when he wasn't doing something.

  Although he had to admit that these past few days, after he'd gotten over being so weak, hadn't been all that bad. He'd had time to read and to think. A great deal of time to think and reflect on the life that was whizzing by him as he was working.

  He'd missed a lot of it, he decided. He'd been so caught up in being the best, in doing his best, he hadn't had time to enjoy anything being the so-called best garnered him. If you took away the work, his life was pretty empty.

  Or had been, he thought, up to a couple of weeks ago.

  Evan tucked his shirt into his waistband and then stopped. He was being watched. He could feel it. Some¬thing Devin had said about a prickly feeling dancing along his neck whenever he was being watched came back to him. He was experiencing that same sensation now. Maybe they did have more in common than he thought.

  Turning, Evan expected to see Claire leaning against the doorjamb, her eyes laughing at something he didn't fathom, a quirky little smile playing on her lips the way it usually did.

  Instead, he found a junior edition of her peering in.

  It wasn't like Libby to just stand there, looking unde¬cided. Libby always came racing into a room as if she were running across a field, intent on getting her kite airborne. But she was just standing there now. And there were signs of confusion on her small face instead of the usual unbri¬dled joy he was quickly becoming accustomed to seeing.

  Something was up, he thought. Evan sat down on his rumpled bed, his socks in his hand. He looked at her and smiled. "Hi."

  Libby took his greeting to be an invitation to come in and she did, he noted, with somewhat less than her usual vigor.

  It was funny what a few days flat on your back could do, he thought, pulling on one sock, then the other. He welcomed her company now where he had once cringed at it.

  "Mama said you weren't catchy, so I can come in," Libby felt compelled to inform him. She was afraid he might send her away before she could tell him about Mama going to sleep in the middle of the day.

  "That's right, I'm not 'catchy' anymore." He looked around for his shoes, then glanced at her. She had a very solemn expression on her face. It wasn't like her. That he had become a semiexpert on her behavior didn't even strike him as odd. "How are you doing?"

  Libby answered the w
ay her mother had taught her to reply to an inquiry of this nature. "Very well, thank you."

  His shoes in sight, Evan remained on the bed. This didn't sound like Libby at all. Evan patted the place beside him for her. "Are you sure? You look a little puzzled."

  Libby was quick to sit down next to him. She blew out a breath.

  Just like her mother, he thought. This was probably what Claire had looked like as a little girl. He wondered if she'd had as much energy as Libby and then laughed silently at his own foolish question. Dynamos didn't sprout overnight.

  "Mr. Q., why isn't Mama listening to me?"

  He thought of telling her to call him Evan and decided to save that for another conversation. Right now, she had come to him with a problem. That, in itself, seemed like a milestone. That he wanted to help was another, if he were to stop to think of it.

  "I don't know, Libby, maybe she just has a lot on her mind. You know, it hasn't been easy on her, taking care of all of us, you, me, Rachel, and doing her own work, as well."

  He was accustomed to working long, grueling hours, but he didn't come home to a little girl to take care of or a house to clean. He had cleaning service for the latter. If he had to do it all himself, he didn't think he could manage. He didn't know how Claire did it and remained cheerful in the bargain. When did she get time to sleep?

  "I help with Rachel," Libby interrupted. "I can diaper her good now, as long as Mama cleans her up first. It's icky." She made a horrible face, holding her stomach and sticking out her tongue in a. grimace.

  He laughed, which made her laugh in turn. The light sound made him think of tiny wind chimes shifting in the breeze.

  "I know what you mean. Is your mother with Rachel?" He was actually surprised that Claire hadn't come in by now. She was always on Libby's heels.