by Carly Carson
"Oh, dear." Mrs. M. clasped her hands together. "I didn't think about you getting into the children's section. I should have."
"Please don't blame yourself." Amanda tried to control her breathing. In. Out. A vise seemed to be squeezing the middle of her body. She needed a distraction. "Tell me why you hid them."
"I couldn't eliminate all trace of—" Mrs. M. hesitated, and tears sprang into her eyes, magnified by her thick glasses.
"Logan's family," Amanda breathed.
"Yes." Mrs. MacDonald took off her glasses and blotted her eyes with the bottom of her apron. "I knew this moment would arrive someday."
"That's why you saved the photos."
"Of course," Mrs. M. answered. "The time to tell about the family would be when a child came along. That's when someone would look at the children's books in here. They'd find the photographs. Until there was a child—" She shrugged sadly. "What difference did it make? Who would care?"
Amanda shifted uncomfortably on the chair. The emotion in the room seemed to take up all the oxygen. She struggled to draw a deep breath. "I always knew there was something—odd—about his refusal to speak of a family."
"It's not odd." Mrs. MacDonald's shoulders slumped. "It's tragic."
Amanda clutched the photo. "They're all dead."
The housekeeper nodded, her face suddenly sagging, as if she'd given up the effort to remain stoic. She sank down onto the leather chair at the right of the door.
"Mrs. MacDonald," Amanda whispered. "I've changed my mind. I don't want to know. Nothing can be done. I have enough to worry about."
"Someone needs to know," Mrs. MacDonald said in a suddenly fierce voice. "Someone needs to help that man with his pain and loneliness."
Someone who loved him would care. Amanda closed her eyes as the words echoed in her head, momentarily pushing aside her pain and her worry about her baby. Love didn't hide behind denial. It didn't wait for a convenient time. It didn't run away when the going got tough.
Love survived, no matter what happened. A glimpse of her father flashed in her mind. He was bending over the bassinet in the kitchen where Julie lay. Even then, she'd been sickly.
Her father straightened up and looked at her mother. His eyes were sad, but his voice strong when he said, "We will find a cure for her. Don't worry."
Then he seemed to notice Amanda standing there by the back door, waiting to say goodbye to him as she did every day. He slung a comforting arm around her. "You, pumpkin, are the best big sister anyone could have. Right?"
She'd nodded, although she wasn't sure he was right. What was she able to do for Julie?
Her father lifted his heavy briefcase, kissed all three of them in turn, the baby, Amanda, and then her mom. He walked out the door.
He died that day.
After that, Amanda never had any hope that they'd find a cure for Julie. Her father had promised—and then he hadn't fulfilled his promise. They hadn't been able to depend on him.
But she'd been wrong about that. In the intervening years, medical science had made a lot of progress in treating lung disease. Amanda and her mother had never stopped looking for better treatment.
Her father would have continued to look also. She could finally admit it. Maybe she'd also been wrong to be so unforgiving of him for leaving them.
Today, looking at the photo of Logan's family, Amanda began to see things in a different light. Parents did the best they could. But tragedies still happened. She was able to see that clearly with respect to Logan's family, but she'd never given her father the same latitude.
Now, for the first time, Amanda admitted that her father would have also done his best for his kids. Fate had intervened, but what happened wasn't his fault.
Thinking about her own child, Amanda could glimpse how her father might have felt on that long ago day. He'd been doing what he could to provide for his family. Just as she would do for the baby she now had to protect.
She might not succeed. Her father hadn't succeeded. Logan's parents hadn't prevented their son from experiencing a tragic loss.
But it was time for her to forgive her father.
He'd left them, but his love survived in the love the three of them still shared for each other. And yes, in the love they had for his memory.
Now she needed to provide a family for her child. Even if Logan's side of the family could only be remembered in photos and in stories, those memories would be better than nothing.
She opened her eyes and looked directly at the housekeeper. "You're right," she said. "Please tell me what happened."
Mrs. M.'s lips trembled. "The family was visiting my house, where I lived with my husband, Bob. We used to live on the Winter's estate in the suburbs of Boston. I was the housekeeper, of course, and Bob handled all the outdoor responsibilities."
Amanda nodded, clutching her stomach, as if she could at least prevent the baby from hearing the awful tale which was about to unfold.
"Bob had retired, so I did as well. His health wasn't good, and we moved to a home in a nearby town." She clutched her apron, smoothing it between her fingers, as if looking for comfort in the cloth.
Amanda began to rock back and forth in the slider. There was nothing she could say.
"It was Bob's birthday. The family—Logan, his mom and dad, and his sister, Lauren—came to celebrate the birthday with us. It may sound odd, but that's the type of people they were. We'd been with them for a long time, and Bob was in a wheelchair and we didn't go out much." She lifted her shoulders in a weary shrug. "For some reason, who knows why, I'd run out of milk. I was embarrassed."
She bowed her head. "It was my job to be prepared for such things. But they made light of it. Logan immediately said he'd run out to the store. I went with him to show him the way."
Tears ran down her wrinkled face like needles of pain.
Amanda laid a hand on hers. "You don't have to go on. Please don't distress yourself further."
Mrs. MacDonald looked up, her blue eyes swimming. "They were going to play music for us after we had the cake. Mrs. Winter was a violinist, her husband was a clarinet player, and Lauren was a singer."
I'm the son of two musicians. I know how to maintain a rhythm. The words rang in Amanda's ears. She swayed with sudden dizziness.
"We returned from the store." Mrs. MacDonald closed her eyes. "The house was gone."
"Gone?" Amanda choked on the word. The rocking chair began to tilt, and the pain in her mid-section intensified.
Mrs. MacDonald opened her tear-filled eyes. "Logan let out a roar, a cry of agony I can hear to this day. He ran forward, although I tried to stop him."
Amanda could picture him, an eager young man thrown into horror, confused, but hoping against hope that he could find something that would deny the truth of what he was looking at.
"How old was he?"
"Twenty-two," Mrs. M said heavily. "He was twenty-two years old when he saw his sister's foot, still clad in the red cowboy boots he'd given her for eighteenth birthday, sticking up out of the rubble." She dropped her head into her hands, and her shoulders shook with sobs.
Amanda rocked back and forth, silently, her arms wrapped around herself. She pictured Logan, his cool gray eyes, his ever-present composure. She heard him say, "It's not in me to love someone, Amanda."
Now she knew how he'd reached that point.
"He dug into the rubble," the housekeeper continued, "flinging it everywhere." She waved her arms about, as if demonstrating Logan's desperation. "But nothing," she said, "was attached to Lauren's foot."
"That's enough, Mrs. M!" Amanda couldn't bear to hear any more. She pushed herself to her feet and wrapped her arms around the older woman.
"It was a gas explosion," Mrs. MacDonald said, as if, having started, she was unable to stop. "They were doing construction without a permit on the house next door."
"Oh, my God." Four people dead out of carelessness.
"He never said another word about his family."
; "Who can blame him?" Amanda whispered.
"We had the funerals. He never shed a tear that I know of. I thought he was in was shock."
She shook her head. "The day after the funerals, he returned to college. I tried to keep in touch, and he told me to wait. When he finished his exams, he came to see me." She paused in her recital. Her eyes became unfocused, as if she were looking into the past. "I tried to get him to talk. I thought the shock might have…settled a bit."
"'There's nothing to be said,'" he told me. "'I'm moving to New York. I could use a housekeeper.'"
"You were already retired!" Amanda knew that was not the point, but she was shocked that Logan would expect Mrs. MacDonald to return to work.
"He was right." Mrs. M. nodded. "I needed something to do, just as he did. And, although neither one of us ever said a word about it, I think we needed each other. We weren't related by blood, but we were all the family either of us had left."
"Then why did he send you here with me? I'm not family to either one of you."
"I think he cares for you more than you realize," Mrs. M said simply. "Maybe more than he realizes. I don't know how things will work out, but if he is to have any future, it must involve you, or at least the baby."
"That's not true," Amanda whispered. "He could marry and start a family with anyone."
"But would he? Is he capable of taking positive action like that? When he's buried himself behind his wall of pain, and refuses to let anyone breach it?"
"Mrs. M., you must not allow yourself these hopes." Amanda tried to take a deep breath, but her lungs seemed squeezed by the enormity of the baby.
Mrs. MacDonald broke down in noisy sobs, hiding her face. "They were such a happy family. I loved those two children as if they were my own."
Amanda looked at the old woman, bowed and defeated. The photos had reminded her too well of the tragedy. Maybe they never should have been unearthed. But a new life was coming, and there was always hope in the renewal of birth. In that moment, Amanda knew she'd just taken on another responsibility.
"Mrs. MacDonald," she said softly. "I hope you have a name for my baby to call you. Something appropriate for a grandmother."
Mrs. MacDonald stared down at her clasped hands. "We never had children," she said. "I don't know why."
A sudden release burst out of Amanda. She looked down at the water dumped on the floor.
"Mrs. MacDonald," she gasped. "I think you're going to become a grandmother today."
Chapter 30
"You weren't kidding," the pink-clad nurse said, "when you told us the contractions were only two to three minutes apart. This baby is going to be born fast."
Amanda focused on the nurse's badge. Gwen. "Where is—the baby's grandmother, Gwen?" Amanda tried to breathe, but she needed Mrs. MacDonald.
"She's on the phone," another voice said from the doorway. A male nurse looked in. Gwen hustled over and walked out of the room, but Amanda could hear them plainly, talking in the doorway.
"Tell grandma to get off the phone," Gwen said. "The baby is going to come any minute."
"Is there anyone else?" the male nurse asked. Really, did he think his voice didn't carry?
"Not that I've seen," Gwen said dryly. "No sign of a father."
Amanda's heart broke. She'd deprived Logan of this moment. Even if he didn't want her, he should have had the right to see his child come into the world.
Then pain spiked in her, and when she'd gotten through it, Mrs. M. was leaning over her, pressing a cool washcloth to her forehead. Gwen leaned over from the other side. "The doctor will be here in a minute. It's time to push."
Amanda didn't want to push. Something was not right. She'd made a huge mistake and she needed to fix it before it couldn't be fixed. But pain was overtaking all else and making her weak. She couldn't think of what she needed to do and so she pushed when they told her to. She tried to rest when she wasn't pushing. The pain continued. Five minutes stretched into ten.
Ten minutes stretched into an hour. Two hours.
"It's too late for an epidural," someone said in a low voice. "She has to keep pushing."
She was so tired. Too tired to be stubborn. Too tired to be proud. Tears leaked out of her eyes as she faced the truth.
She wanted Logan. She wanted him here to comfort her, even though she knew he didn't have the ability to offer comfort.
Her anger and resentment had vaporized. Whether because of Mrs. MacDonald's revelations, or due to the fact that she was so exhausted and emotional, she didn't know. The reason didn't matter. She wanted his calm capability, his straight-eyed gaze, his heated warmth, beside her.
A long moan escaped her.
"I see the baby crowning," a female voice said excitedly.
A commotion sounded at the door, someone arguing, and a deep voice answering.
Amanda opened her eyes in shock. Was she hallucinating? She cast an agonized look at Mrs. MacDonald. But she was afraid to ask anything. She wanted to hang onto this thread of hope for as long as possible.
Logan Winter strode into the room.
His clean pine scent cut through the clotted hospital smells.
"Thank God," Mrs. MacDonald said. "He made it."
Amanda stared, even as her lower body writhed in agony.
Logan grabbed her hand. "You're doing great," he said, his deep voice soothing. "Just a few more minutes."
She held his gaze, as if he held the power of life. "The baby," she whispered. "How is the baby doing?" That's really all she wanted to know, but fear had prevented her from asking.
Logan gave her strength to voice her fear. She didn't know why or how. She just knew it was true.
"The baby is fine," he said with certainty deep in his voice. "You're fine. You've done all the hard work already. Just a little bit more."
Emotion washed through her. Reassurance. Comfort. A tiny kernel of joy. She didn't know why he was here. She knew his presence was not an answer to the problems that still awaited her.
But it was right for him to be present.
In a sweeping rush, their daughter was born.
Chapter 31
Amanda held her daughter to her breast. For several long minutes, she was lost in joy and wonder. Until she became aware of Logan, still sitting quietly beside her.
He wasn't holding her hand any longer. Sudden doubt flooded her. Had it all been a charade—his appearance, his care and concern? A show of comfort to ease her through the pain of childbirth?
Then she caught his gaze, and had to flinch back from what she saw.
Hunger. Naked and vulnerable. His hands were clasped tightly between his spread knees, as if they might do something inappropriate if let loose. But he wanted to reach for his daughter.
Her heart contracted.
Even if he didn't know it, he wanted to love again.
And she would have to be the one to offer him the gift of love. No matter what the cost to herself.
The price would be high. Now that he was here with her again, she knew she'd never stopped loving him. She'd let pride and stubbornness blind her to the truth, but the truth never changed.
Her love would trap her in a lifetime of pain. She'd hurt every time she saw him, and in all the moments between his visits.
But, if she truly loved him, she had to do this for him.
She hugged her baby for one last time as a unit of two. Mother and daughter.
A final reality washed over her.
She would also make this effort for her baby, who deserved a father.
Amanda drew in a deep breath of courage.
She lifted the baby she held in the crook of her arm, so Logan could see her face.
"Oh, my God." His words came out reverently, like a prayer. "Amanda." He raised his eyes to hers. "You don't have to want me. But I need this baby." He stopped, swallowed, and blinked rapidly.
She handed over their daughter.
"Thank you," he murmured in his deep voice. "She's so beautiful."
Logan's jaw dropped, and he immediately buried his face against the baby's head. A long moment of silence stretched between them.
When he finally looked up, his expression made her want to cry. "You know," he said, his voice low.
"Mrs. MacDonald told me this morning."
"I'm sorry," he said. "I have never talked about it."
"I understand. Some things don't get any better with talk." Her father flashed through her mind. No words would bring him back, or lessen the grief she felt. At least she had her mom and Julie. How much worse the loss must have been for Logan.
A nurse approached. "We need to clean up the baby." She held out her arms. "I'll bring her right back, I promise."
Mrs. MacDonald stood up. "I'll go with you. It'll be good to stretch my legs."
Amanda could see Logan's reluctance as he handed over his daughter. He watched them leave the room before turning back to Amanda. "My sister's name was Lauren," he said. "You know that, right?"
"Mrs. MacDonald told me. She was a singer, she said."
He nodded. "Up and coming rock star." He knotted his hands together. "My parents were professional musicians. Symphony caliber. They played for the Boston Pops."
"I'm sorry for your loss, Logan." The words were inadequate, but they still needed to be said.
"You know that night you gave me the blow job?"
She nodded, trying to remain calm, but her heart thundered. His eyes were bleak, his mouth strained. He wasn't remembering sex.
"That was the anniversary of their deaths." He swallowed a bitterness that twisted his mouth. "I always visit the cemetery near Boston."
"Logan," she whispered. There was nothing to say in the face of such pain.
"The graves—" He bowed his head. "It was all I had left."
"You told me Mrs. MacDonald visited her husband at the same time," she whispered. "They all died together. How awful." Amanda remembered him saying, "She has farther to go." As if any part of their sorrow could be measured. But that was the way his analytical mind worked, counting and weighing.
