What Mattered Most

by Linda Winfree

  “Oh, here’s the problem,” Dr. Ridley said, looking into Sonny Buck’s minuscule ear with an otoscope. “Does he seem more comfortable tonight in an upright position?”

  John dragged a hand through already disheveled hair. “Yeah. Every time we had to lay him down, he screamed.”

  Nodding, Dr. Ridley clicked off the instrument’s light and replaced it in the rack on the wall. “He has a middle ear infection, and a prone position increases the pressure.”

  “An ear infection?” Lanie remembered the heart-rending screams and shuddered. “Are you sure that’s all?”

  A smile quirking at his mouth, Dr. Ridley nodded again and pulled his prescription pad from his pocket. “They’re a little more common in bottle-fed babies, and they have an exasperating tendency to come on at night. Acetaminophen every four hours for the fever and pain will make him more comfortable, and we’ll start him on a course of antibiotics to clear up the infection. Make sure he takes the antibiotics for the entire ten days, and I’ll want to see him in the office next week.”

  John took the prescription slip, and Lanie smiled at the pediatrician. “Thank you.”

  He grinned and pulled the curtain aside. “Anytime. Call if you have any questions or if he gets worse. The nurse will be in with your discharge papers in just a bit, and I’ll have her give him his first dose of acetaminophen.”

  Again, the curtain isolated them together. Sonny Buck squirmed, fussing, and John picked him up, whispering against his forehead. Lanie watched them, that funny little ache in her chest again. “I’m glad you were here.”

  Over the baby’s head, he shot her an unreadable look. “Yeah, me, too.”

  Bats fluttered in her stomach. She swallowed. Was this how boys felt asking a girl out for the first time? “Would you like to stay with us tonight? You can use the daybed—”

  He half-turned away from her, shifting the baby’s weight from one arm to the other. “That would be great. I really don’t want to leave him.”

  Lanie closed her eyes against the picture he made with their son. She didn’t want him to leave her, either.

  Wearing a soft cotton nightshirt, Lanie padded through the bathroom to the nursery. John lay on the daybed, eyes closed, Sonny Buck asleep on his chest. One long-fingered hand rested on the baby’s back, keeping him secure. Lanie’s throat tightened. Everything she wanted was before her, and she’d never felt farther away from it.

  Intending to move the baby to his crib, she crossed the room and circled John’s wrist with her fingers. His eyes snapped open, and she stared down at him in the dim light. Lanie swallowed. “I’m going to put him in the crib.”

  He moved his hand, surrendering the baby to her. As she slid her hands under their son, her fingers brushed John’s bare chest. Recalling his heartbeat under her hands earlier and the rejection in his eyes, she stepped away.

  Cloth rustled on the daybed behind her. She settled Sonny Buck in his crib and pulled his blanket about him. The daybed springs creaked, and John’s bare feet whispered against the floor. She stroked the baby’s forehead, skin now cool to the touch. “Are you really stashing Christmas presents for him?”

  “Yeah.” John’s soft laugh filled the room. “I’m looking forward to him believing in Santa. I never did.”

  A picture of John as a little boy with dark lashes and navy eyes like their baby flashed in her mind, and her heart ached. “My mother loved Christmas. She played Santa Claus every year, even after I’d figured out he wasn’t real. I’d have gifts from her under the tree days before Christmas, but my Santa gifts never showed up until Christmas morning. She hid them, but as hard as I tried, I never could find them.”

  “Lanie, about what I said earlier, about punishing me because your father didn’t love your mother—”

  “He didn’t.” She turned to face him, her hands clenched on the top rail of the crib. Clad only in his boxer briefs, he sat at the edge of the daybed, watching her. She glanced away before meeting his gaze again. “He married her because she was pregnant with me and my grandfather forced him. He’d become engaged to another girl after that summer fling with my mother. He hated being married to her, and he resented me.”

  John shook his head. “Why not just divorce her?”

  She laughed. “Sounds reasonable, doesn’t it? But there hasn’t been a Falconetti divorce in… Well, who knows if there’s ever been one. Grandfather expected him to live up to his responsibility by marrying her, and he expected him to stay in the marriage, whether they were happy or not. The weird thing was, my mother seemed happy. She’d wanted him, and she got him. And me.”

  “She loved you.” The statement held quiet certainty.

  A smile tugged at her mouth. “She did. I remember being small, and she would come into my room and just hold me close. She always smelled of this rose perfume…and she was always there to do the silly things that little girls want to do. I used to play in her makeup and her jewelry box, and she would let me fix her hair… She had this long blonde hair, almost to her waist.”

  He continued to watch her, and she turned away, resting her hand on the baby’s back, his breathing steady under her fingertips. Remembering, she shuddered. “As I got older, I could see she hid a lot of things behind that bright smile. The nights my father didn’t come home, she would sit in the living room and wait. Or he would come home, and I’d lie in my bed and listen to the yelling downstairs. My mother crying. I hated him for making her cry.”

  The bedsprings creaked. His hands cupped her shoulders, and he pulled her back against him. The warmth of his skin burned through the thin cotton of her nightshirt. Lanie closed her eyes, soaking in the feel of him. “The summer I was fifteen, he stayed gone more and more. And she just kind of faded. He came home one day… I remember it was in the middle of the afternoon. Cait and I had been playing tennis, on one of those days when it’s so hot you can hardly breathe. We were in my room; the door was open. We could hear them down the hall.”

  “Lanie.” His breath whispered over her ear. “You don’t—”

  “He told her he was leaving, that he loved Carol, and Mom screamed at him that he couldn’t leave. She was pregnant. And he told her that she’d trapped him that way once, but it wasn’t going to work again. He packed a bag and walked out. The house was huge—the bedrooms were on the third floor, and the master suite had a balcony that overlooked the stone patio by the pool. She jumped. I heard her scream his name and—”

  “Oh God, baby, don’t.” His arms came around her, rocking her against him.

  Unshed tears dammed in her throat. Lanie covered his wrist with her hand. “It was only July, and she already had Santa presents in the closet. We found them when we were packing her things afterwards. My father married Carol the following spring, and I had to live with them in that house.”

  His arms tightened.

  She swallowed against the tears. “When I got pregnant… My mother drilled into me that loving a man wasn’t worth what it took from you. She didn’t want me to ever feel the way she did about my father. When I got pregnant, it was like I was living her life all over again.”

  “That’s why you wouldn’t marry me.” His voice rasped against her ear.

  She nodded, his nose brushing her temple. “I couldn’t do it, trap us into something like that. We’d only been together a few months, and all we had between us was the sex even if we were living together. I couldn’t do that to him. Or us.”

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. His lips brushed her jaw. “So, so sorry.”

  “John.” She moved, turned in his arms. Their gazes locked, and she stared up at him. “I know you want more than what we had, but I can’t do that right now. Too much has happened; too much has changed. We don’t even know each other.”

  He traced the line of her lips with his index finger. “We can change that. Give me a chance, honey. A real chance.”

  Possibilities danced before her. A man who loved her. A family. Forever. Squashing the spurt of cyni
cism that said she was courting trouble, Lanie nodded. “I can do that.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  After zipping her jeans, Lanie turned sideways and looked at her reflection. She sighed, remembering the sets of crunches she labored through before bed every night. Obviously, Sonny Buck had ruined her flat stomach for life. Turning away, she grabbed her white long-sleeved T-shirt and tugged it on.

  Nerves fluttered in her stomach. The days of John’s scheduled visitation crawled now, since they’d turned those evenings into date nights. They spent the evening with the baby, and when Sonny Buck was tucked in for the night, they spent time with each other, doing something they’d never really done before—talking. Lanie checked the clock a hundred times a day, counting off the minutes until John arrived.

  She brushed her hair, arranging the heavy mass so it covered her incision scar. The hair was slowly returning, but she still looked like the victim of a really bad barber. She replaced the brush on the dresser and opened her jewelry box. The silver infinity pendant lay on top, glittering and mocking. Her fingers hovered over it for a moment before she pulled out a silver choker with a turquoise slide instead.

  The doorbell rang, and she closed the lid. While jogging down the stairs, she closed the choker about her neck. Anticipation making her giddy, she opened the door. “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself.” On the porch, John grinned at her. His hair still shower-damp, he wore jeans and a black golf shirt. He hefted a plastic shopping bag. “I hope Chinese is okay.”

  Her mouth watered, more from his clean scent than the food. “Sounds great.”

  His grin widened. “Do I get to come in?”

  “Oh!” Laughing, Lanie stepped back and wiped damp palms down her jeans. “I’m sorry.”

  He moved by her into the house, brushing his mouth across her cheek. Her skin tingled under the brief caress. She followed him to the kitchen, appreciating the way the faded denim hugged his thighs.

  “Where’s Sonny Buck?” he asked, pulling paper cartons from the bag.

  She dragged her gaze from the muscles moving beneath his shirt. “He’s asleep.”

  He stopped, staring at her. “You’re kidding.”

  “His schedule’s been off all day.” She resisted a smile at his disappointed expression—he looked like a little boy who’d just been told his best friend couldn’t come out and play. “Give him an hour or so.”

  “I guess,” he grumbled and pulled a crab rangoon from a carton.

  Laughing, she opened a container of shrimp with broccoli. “Careful. I’ll think you want to see him more than me.”

  “Hardly.” He shot her a look, the hot “eat you alive” expression she hadn’t seen since the night Sonny Buck was ill. Sudden arousal tingled in her stomach before he dropped his gaze. He tugged chopsticks from the shopping bag and clicked them at her. “Want to eat in the living room?”

  What she really wanted was to forget the agreement they’d made to get to know each other before they made love. She wanted to drag him upstairs, pull his shirt free from his jeans, press her lips to his stomach. Heat flashed through her with the images. Looking at her own bare feet, she swallowed and forced a cheerful tone. “Sounds great.”

  Stomach full, John stretched out on the carpet, hands behind his head. Just being here, in Lanie’s presence, knowing Sonny Buck was safe and secure upstairs, filled him with a lazy satisfaction. The day’s stress began to ease out of his body. He could stay right here and never move again.

  Lanie’s toe nudged his ribs. “All right, O’Reilly, you still have to help clean up, even if you did buy dinner.”

  He didn’t open his eyes, but a grin tugged at his mouth. “Tell you what, Falconetti—I’ll stay here, you clean up, and I’ll let you take advantage of me later.”

  The toe nudged a bit harder. “Nice try, but that’s not part of the deal.”

  With an exaggerated groan, he rolled to his feet. While Lanie collected their used glasses, he gathered cartons and took them to the kitchen. Resigned, he eyed the almost-full trashcan. He didn’t live here anymore, and still she left this chore for him. “Lanie, I’m taking out the trash.”

  Outside, he tossed the bag into the curbside container. Sea air rolled in, hazy under the streetlights. The clean, damp smell filled his nose. Taking a deep breath, he turned towards the house. Light spilled from the windows, falling in squares on the postage stamp yard. He blinked, nerves shivering under his skin. His dinner solidified into a cold lump in his gut.

  Shaking off the feeling, he jogged up the front steps. He’d left the front door open, and the foyer light cast a square of light on the small porch. His stomach tightened further, images of running through this door with Dennis Burnett on his heels flashing in his head.

  The bathroom door stood open, the light on and shining off the white tile floor. He froze, Lanie’s exasperated voice washing over him. “John? You’re not going to believe what I did. I cut myself on that chipped sink edge, and I can’t get the first aid kit open. Damned child resistant latch. Help me, would you?”

  Help me. His mother’s voice pounded in his head.

  His back against the wall, he stared at tiny drops of blood against that white tile, the red running together into a haze over everything. Nausea churned in his gut, and he closed his eyes, struggling for breath. In the dark, images swirled—Lanie’s still body, blood, his mother’s open, staring eyes.

  “John?” Concern hovered in Lanie’s voice. She touched him, a firm hold on his arm. The metallic scent of blood rushed up his nose. His stomach heaved, and he bolted for the door.

  He made it as far as the porch and leaned over the railing, a helpless retching shaking his body. A dim awareness of Lanie’s gentle touch on his back invaded his consciousness, and he focused on that warmth, trying to break free of the dark mire holding his mind prisoner. Stroking his hair, she whispered to him, soothing words she used with Sonny Buck.

  Finally, the heaving stopped, and he rested his damp face on the railing. Tremors racked his body, his knees threatening to give out. Lanie’s lips brushed his nape. “John, come on. Let’s get you inside.”

  He rotated his forehead on the cool painted rail. Throwing up like a wet-behind-the-ears rookie, over a little blood. Losing it in front of the one woman who needed him to be strong. He sagged and felt her hands buoy him up.

  She pulled him toward the door. “Come on.”

  When he wanted to move under his own power, his body refused to cooperate. He leaned on her heavily, her shoulder under his arm, her arms about his waist. Moving like clumsy participants in a three-legged race, they made it to the couch. She pushed him down and pulled away. “I’ll be right back.”

  Sprawled where she left him, John closed his eyes. Humiliation crawled under his skin. Weakness wasn’t an option, and showing vulnerability in any form was a good way to get kicked in the gut. He’d learned that lesson at a young age, and life had underscored it for him over and over.

  “Here.” Lanie pressed a glass into his hands, and he opened his eyes, staring into a golden liquid the color of her eyes. She smoothed a cool, damp cloth over his face.

  He jerked his head away and tried to push the glass back at her. “I don’t want it.”

  “Tough cookies.” She slid a hand into his hair, holding his head still and bathing his face. “You’re shaking, your face is white as a sheet, and your mouth probably tastes like crap. Drink it.”

  His gaze locked with hers for a moment. She watched him with a look that said she wouldn’t give an inch, and he was too exhausted to fight her. With a muttered curse, he tossed off the liquor. The Scotch burned all the way down, and for a moment, he feared he would throw up all over again.

  She nodded, grim satisfaction firming her generous mouth. “I’m going to take care of my hand.” His gaze dropped to the white rag wrapped around her palm, and his stomach lurched again. He closed his eyes, willing the bile down. “Stay here.”

  Stay here? Didn’t she realize he
didn’t have enough strength left to move? He listened to her move about and tried to still the tremors in his arms and legs. Every sound jerked along his already jangling nerves.

  “John?” Her hand curved along his jaw; the couch dipped beside him with her weight. He opened his eyes to find her kneeling next to him, her golden eyes dark with concern.

  The sympathy chafed. “I’m fine.”

  “Liar.” Her fingers slid behind his nape, working at the knotted muscles there. He stifled a groan. “Face it, O’Reilly, your inviolate male ego is shot to hell. Neither one of us is fine right now. Shut up and let me help you.”

  Her fingers worked magic on him, easing the painful tension. His eyes closed. Drawn to her, he slumped sideways. His face brushed her shoulder. The warm scents of vanilla and cinnamon enveloped him, soothing the remembered fear away. “You get off on giving orders, don’t you?” he mumbled, his lips numb.

  Her fingers moved into his hair. “Just with you.”

  With a sigh, he pressed his face against her collarbone and let his arms wrap around her waist. He wanted to get lost in her, allow her to absorb him. The fear and trembling faded, leaving warmth and something he couldn’t define in their wake. Something he hadn’t experienced in years. He tried to pin it down, but it fluttered and moved, dancing just out of reach.

  She massaged the length of his spine, and he groaned, pulling her closer. “You can order me around all you want, if you just keep…doing…that.”

  “We’re going to talk about what happened later. You know that, O’Reilly.” Her words ruffled his hair, fingers moving up his back.

  Boneless, he moaned and nodded, her skin like silk under his cheek. “Yeah, I know.” Right that moment, he didn’t care. The stress—days and weeks and years of it—evaporated under her touch. He just wanted her to go on touching him, wanted to let himself be touched.

  Peace. That’s what it was. He’d forgotten what it felt like. The idea flitted through his mind before vanilla and cinnamon and darkness took him under.