by Lynn Shurr
Was that a question or a suggestion? He didn’t know. “No, I may not go to church very often, but I am Catholic. I’ll see you and the child are well taken care of. I want to be a part of its life and a good father, but I will not marry you.”
“Fine, then. You take care of me. You want to have sex now?”
“No, I believe we are done with that. My lawyers will get in touch and draw up an agreement for support. My mom can recommend an obstetrician. She’s had plenty of experience. No drinking alcohol and you eat right, okay?”
“This I know. I am not a Dummkopf.”
“No, but I am. Merry Christmas, Ilsa.” Dean moved toward the door seeking escape as if he were pursued by three tackles.
Ilsa followed close behind and shoved the stein at him. “You forget your other gift.”
“Yeah, thanks.” He walked out with the tall stein in the crook of his arm. It stayed there until he turned into his brownstone and gave it to Arturo instead of a tip. Numb, he took the elevator and arrived at his condo, quiet, empty, Tom nowhere around. If ever he needed a brother, best friend and wingman, it was now, but Tom had been cool to him since before Thanksgiving. They’d had words when he returned from Ilsa’s place after doing more than dropping her off.
With the Seahawks playing in the background, Tom had said, “Look, I’m over the way you took Ilsa. Who needs woman so fickle she’ll drop you in the middle of a date? But did you have to rub your mistress in Stacy’s face at a family gathering?”
“Isla is not my mistress. I’m helping her out with rent is all.”
“Believe what you want to believe. You better sit down and watch this game. The Seahawks are young and rough. I’m willing to bet it will be us and them in the Super Bowl.” Dean fell back into one of the recliners, but Tom had gotten up from his and headed to his room. “I’m only the kicker. What do I know?”
Where was his brother now when he needed him? Tom had iced him out saying he had things to do and not ridden back to the condo with him. Maybe they’d see each other at Mariah’s later. Not likely now as he had no desire to go there.
Dean sat in the oncoming darkness without turning on a light. He’d let down the team, his fans, his family, and most especially his mother. Daddy Joe would understand, but how many times had he told Dean to be careful—a hundred, a thousand? And Stacy, he’d left her for making him feel foolish and being deceptive. Her early attempts at getting him to notice her in a new way seemed almost laughable now. He really had saved her from Prince and maybe Kent, though that would be debated in court. Who had made the greater fool of him? No question about that. In a case like this, who rescued the rescuer?
Dean moved through the apartment and flicked on his bedroom light. He rooted though his clothes finding the parrot shirt washed clean of Stacy, then what he really wanted—a red Sinners jersey. He opened his drapes, hung it over the curtain rod, and waited.
Chapter Thirty
Stacy finished her obligations early. Most of her business clients had gone home for the holidays but not before showering her with small gifts of candy, wine, gift cards, and in the case of Don Juan, some pretty costly perfume that she would probably never use. She placed these offerings gathered from her office under her purple and silver-ornamented tree and plugged in the lights. Might as well make a try at being festive.
Indulging in a bad habit, she raised her shade to see if Dean had gotten home. A light burned in his bedroom window. Wonderful, he probably entertained Ilsa right now, or more likely the other way around. Strange that he’d left the drapes open. Fearful of paparazzi with long lenses, he never did that. Odder still that he’d slung something over the rod. In the lowering light of December, she made out his number seven on a red jersey. Dean did not self-aggrandize. No matter how much she tweaked him about it, he lacked Prince Dobbs’ huge ego.
The wrongness of the view bothered her deeply. Mati snuffled at her feet. She picked him up and showed him the scene. “What do you think? Is Dean in trouble?” Mati yipped twice. “I’ll take that as a yes. Be good. I have to go over there.”
Last minute Christmas shoppers and employees getting off work clogged the sidewalks in the chill, damp air. The lights on Canal Street took forever to change, and drivers in a hurry to get home took chances making rash turns into traffic. An overburdened streetcar blocked the crosswalk momentarily. At last, she reached the other side as fast as she could move in the straight skirt of her gray suit and hurried to the entry of the brownstone building. Arturo opened the door, but stopped her before she could pass.
“Miss Stacy, would you return this to Mr. Billodeaux? It seems to be a personal gift and, well, I’d appreciate a small gratuity more. Shall I call to say you are on your way up?” He handed over a large beer stein.
“I think he knows.” She read the engraving on the lid. Dean had given away a gift from Ilsa? Great, they’d broken up, and now he expected to rebound back to her, making her come running to him. Furious, she got on the elevator and stalked to his apartment the second the door opened. Her sensible business heels struck the marble floor of the small foyer with a staccato like gunfire. Stacy raised her hand to knock, but his door opened. Dean lifted her off her feet in an embrace and twirled her inside. “Thank God, you came. I’ve never needed anyone more.”
How long had she waited to hear words like those? But Stacy steeled herself. She held out the stein when he set her down. “Here, Arturo would rather have money. I take it you and Ilsa are finished.”
Dean put the stein on a side table and drew her to the brown velour couch. “Sit down because I need to. Ilsa and I are finished dating but not with each other. Ah, Stace, I screwed up big time. She’s pregnant.” He stared into the fire of the glowing gas logs, the only light in the living room, and did not meet her eyes.
Stacy’s mind went in the logical direction. “And because you are such a white knight, you are going to marry her regardless of how you feel about her.” Suddenly, being Dean’s rebound girl seemed preferable. No chance of that now.
“No. I can’t do it. I’ll take care of her and the child. I’ll be a father to it as my dad was to me, but I don’t love her.” He gripped both her hands as if she might try to escape and hung his head. “I’m a big disappointment to everyone including you.”
“Not to me. You’re only human, Dean. The team expects you to be your father on the field. You act out one time, and they come down on you. Aunt Nell may never admit it, but you were the first and, she thought at the time, only child to come into her life. I think she still sees you as her perfect baby boy.”
“Hey, she never let me get away with anything.”
“But being the first, she always expected you to take the high ground. That’s hard to maintain.”
“Thanks. You’re letting me off easy. Stacy, I held back my feelings when you were growing up. I still denied them when you were right there waiting across the street. You took the first steps to bring us together when I couldn’t. We were so right together, then I threw it all away like a bad pass, so full of myself, so self-righteous.”
Stacy freed a hand. “Damn right. I’ve always said you weren’t perfect.”
“Would you let me finish? This is hard. I used Ilsa to get over you and probably just to annoy you. She used me, too, evidently as an ever-lasting meal ticket. She said she practiced birth control.”
“Dean, you might be a brilliant quarterback, but when it comes to women, not so much.” She twisted her other hand free.
“Please, don’t go. I’m trying to make a point.”
“Another big score?”
“Maybe, it’s up to you. Listen, I know this is a rotten time to say I love you when Ilsa and the child will be in our lives forever. I don’t know if you can live with that. But, Princess, you are the only woman I want to marry. Rescue me.”
Stacy smoothed away that curl that always hung down on his forehead. “Yes, far from perfect, but no one is. I always imagined I’d make you grovel at my feet someday
while offering me a diamond fit for royalty. Then, we’d be married in a huge white wedding in June. I don’t see that happening now.”
“I can grovel, get you a big honking diamond, do whatever a white wedding is in June. I need you so very much to see me through this mess.” He took her hand again and started to slide to his knees on the floor.
“Get up! You are really bad at this.”
“I admit I’m no Don Juan when it comes to proposals.”
“Oh, you’re going to throw him in my face and still expect me to marry you?”
“No, I only wish I were that suave. Stacy, will you marry me—without groveling or a big ring in my hand—but whenever you want, wherever you want?”
As usual, her mind worked on the details. “It wouldn’t be right to do anything before the baby is born. I should go to Germany as planned and return in September. We could quietly get engaged then and have a small wedding the following spring.”
“Stace, that’s two Super Bowls away, but did I hear a yes buried in there somewhere?”
“Considering that I planned to marry you since I was fourteen, it is a yes.”
He smirked. “I knew you weren’t telling the truth when you said it was only a crush.”
She bombarded him with several of his little multicolored throw pillows until he grabbed her wrist. “I’m feeling better now. Bad enough that I conceived a child without any forethought on a woman I barely like, but I thought I’d lost you, too. If you hadn’t seen my plea for help in the window and come over here, I don’t know what I would have done.”
“Hopefully, crossed the street for me, you big lout.”
“Anytime from now on, Princess. Come here.”
Their long embrace had reached the urgent need to go to the bedroom and undress phase when someone punched in the key code. They didn’t stop.
Tom looked at the Anchi Services scarf draped over the back of the sofa, Stacy’s unbuttoned suit jacket, Dean’s open shirt. “That’s right, it’s only me. Hi, Stacy. Appears you two have made up.” He wandered closer. “Nice stein.”
Dean leaned back but kept his arm around Stacy as if she might change her mind and run off across four lanes of heavy traffic. “You are welcome to have it.”
Tom peered at the inscription. “No, thanks. Have you told Ilsa that you and Stacy are back together?”
“No. She’s pregnant.”
“Stacy?”
“Ilsa.”
“Oh, I saw that coming.” Tom casually flipped the lid of the stein open and shut a few times.
“I’m beginning to believe I’m the only one who didn’t. Say, do you think it could be yours?” Dean’s face turned hopeful.
“No way. I suited up, worn my rubber raincoat every time. I might be your wingman, but I won’t marry Ilsa for you.” Tom backed hands-up toward his half of the condo.
“I wouldn’t ask you to do that, but maybe you’d be best man in my wedding to Stacy whenever it takes place.”
Tom looked from one face to the other. “You are one forgiving woman, Stace.”
“Oh, we’ve been working up to this for years and years.”
“I guess you have. If you can tolerate Ilsa and her child in your life I suppose you can handle all the jokes the team will make about Cajuns marrying their cousins.”
“We’re not cousins!” they said in unison.
Chapter Thirty-One
Ilsa took the offer of a first class ticket to Germany where she would tell her family about the baby and the man who fathered it, as well as celebrate the holidays. While Dean drove her to the airport, she chattered gaily about German Christmas customs. He hoped she’d get her fill of stollen and pfeffernusse, but made it clear that if she wanted a settlement she must return directly after January first to undergo prenatal DNA testing for paternity and sign the legal documents if he proved to be the father. Just what he needed with one game to go and playoffs on his mind.
“But of course, you are the papa. You are angry with Ilsa right now for her little mistake, but later you will see our beautiful baby and be happy.” The tennis bracelet glittered on her arm as they parked, and Dean took her bags to checkin. “Will you wait with me for my flight?”
“No, I have a lot to do. Christmas at the ranch, remember?”
“Ja, next year I will be family, I think.”
“I’m sure you and the baby will be welcome—next year.” He wondered if she thought he’d marry her once paternity was proved or perhaps after the baby came. No way. But Ilsa didn’t know he’d reconciled with Stacy, and he certainly wasn’t about to tell her in a crowded airport. The way those two women disliked each other she’d create a scene that would end up with him spread-eagled against a wall and in the tabloids the next day touting some bogus charge.
After receiving Ilsa’s lavish goodbye kiss, Dean sped from short-term parking and back to New Orleans. No way would he let Stacy trot off to Germany, too, without an engagement ring on her finger. He sought out the same jewelry store where he’d gotten the bracelet and unfortunately drew the exact clerk he’d had the last time. Not one to waste time, Dean got right to the point. “I need an engagement ring.”
“Ah, the lady was pleased with her bracelet.”
“I guess. She wore it this morning. The ring is for someone else.
“I see. We at Schifferman’s guarantee absolute discretion,” the immaculate little man said, though his gray brows, so shapely they might have been waxed, rose.
“I need a big honking diamond, a good one.”
“Would ten carats do?”
“Is that honking size?”
“I would say so, sir.” The clerk went to the back and returned sometime later with a tray of four rings displayed on black velvet. “The first is a ten-carat, blue-white diamond solitaire with…”
“No, I need something special. What about the one on the end?”
“A square princess cut diamond, fancy intense yellow in color with fifty-eight facets and extra cuts on the chevrons for added sparkle. The eighteen carat gold band is set with fourteen round brilliants…”
Showing his ability to make snap decisions much like his father, Dean said, “I don’t give a fuck about the band. This is it. Made for a princess. Put it in a box. I need to meet someone pretty soon. “
“Perhaps, we should discuss financing first?”
Dean whipped out his black AMEX card and shoved it across the counter. “It’s good.”
“Excuse me, but I do have to check.” The clerk scooped up the card and his tray and disappeared into the backroom again. He returned quite soon with an obsequious smile on his face and the ring in a black leather box. “Your charge went through with no trouble at all, Mr…ah.”
“It’s pronounced Be-yo-doe. I’m the quarterback for the Sinners.”
“Oh, yes! I knew the name was familiar. I don’t really follow sports, but Prince Dobbs buys all his gold chains and pinkie rings here, one of my favorite clients. He hasn’t your superb taste, but does know what he likes. How is he doing since his unfortunate accident?”
“I understand he’s found Jesus. That might be bad for your business.”
“I’m very afraid so. However, the next time you require the finest in service, please ask for Leslie. My card.” He slipped it across the counter along with the ring in a tiny bag and the credit card. “Merry Christmas and good luck with—whoever.” Leslie’s hand twirled in the air.
“Same to you.” Dean shoved the ring into his pocket and walked to the parking garage to get the Mustang and take Stacy home to the ranch.
****
Stacy had her own last minute shopping to do while Dean took Ilsa to the airport. She drafted Tom to drive her to the nearest animal shelter and walk the rows of cages looking for the right dog. Mati on a leash trotted along with them slowing their pace as he tried to make friends with all the captives thrusting their black noses against the wire. The matron at the desk of doggie prison had asked if the Bichon Frise was a surrender d
og. “We get them sometimes because they are hard to housebreak.”
“He almost has the hang of it. Soon he’ll be outside more. Could we see the animals, please?”
“You know, you shouldn’t get anyone a dog for Christmas without asking first. You’d be surprised how many half-grown pups we get here in the spring,” the gray-haired volunteer with a nametag reading Maude said as she unlocked a metal inner door. Immediately, the air filled with the sound of desperate barking that seemed to say, “Get me outta here. Pick me! Pick me!”
Stacy took Tom’s arm. “So many of them. It’s sad. I thought about looking for one like Macho.”
Tom shook his head. “Macho was one of a kind. You can’t replace him. He came from Texas, a good ole boy, not slum dogs like most of these.”
“Tom, I’m surprised at you. None of us can choose where we are born.”
“Sorry, just being loyal to Macho, I guess.”
“We get purebreds here, too,” their guide said, offended. “But there’s nothing wrong with an animal without a fancy pedigree. They all have lots of love to give.”
“What’s the hardest type of dog to place?” Stacy asked, overwhelmed by the sheer number of choices.
“Old ones and your generic big black dog, Lab mixes most of them, good-natured, large, and ordinary looking. People want cute little pets like the one you got. We have six bbd’s in the shelter right now.”
“Show them to us, but, I’m sorry, no old ones. This is for an active little boy who will want to play.”
That narrowed the choice to four. One bristled and growled when Mati made an advance. Another cowered in the rear of the cage afraid to come forward. A third still nursed a litter of puppies abandoned along with their mother. “She and the pups will be available in a few weeks, and we’ll spay her before adoption,” the volunteer offered like a good salesperson.
“No, I’ll be out of the country by then. I need a dog now.”
“Last one, Diamond Lil we called her for that white patch on her chest. About six months old and found wandering the streets. She’s been spayed, has all her shots, a sweet one, aren’t you Lil?” The woman reached through the wire and scratched behind one of a pair of perfectly folded black ears.
