* * *
Toward the end of March, Maura popped up to visit. Actually, she didn’t so much pop up as appear mud-spattered and timid at the door when Derek answered it.
With little more than a raised brow at her timidity and nothing at all to acknowledge the mud—which was inescapable in Vermont in March—Derek reached out, clutched a handful of her sleeve and pulled her in from the wind. Since the night of her confession, he had come to think differently of her. He believed that she’d been legitimately duped. As streetwise as she sounded at times, she was still naive. She didn’t know the world as he did. How could she have suspected that she was being used, particularly when she’d fallen for the guy? She’d been hurt, and for that Derek felt partly to blame. So he pulled her into the house, took her coat and bag, gestured for her to leave her muddy boots on the mat, threw an arm around her shoulders and led her in search of Sabrina.
During her three-day stay, she gave Derek only one tense moment. That was when, in the process of general conversation, she mentioned having seen Richard shortly before she came north.
Derek questioned her on it as soon as he got her alone.
At first, she simply grinned. Then she took mercy on him and explained herself. “I thought about it a lot after I left here last time, and I realized that if I suddenly ended the relationship, he’d get suspicious. A slow cooldown was called for. But then, the more I thought about him and about Noel Greer and what they’d done to me—and to you and Sabrina—the more angry I got. So I decided to use Richard right back … He thinks,” she said smugly, “that you and Sabrina are hunting down a hot lead in New Orleans.”
“New Orleans?” Derek asked, then his mouth began to twitch at the corners. “What made you think of New Orleans?”
“Every year at this time I’m thinking that I’ve missed Mardi Gras again. That’s my kind of party, y’know?”
Having reveled his way through more than one Mardi Gras, Derek knew. He could just imagine Maura there. It was her kind of party—so much so that he promised to fix her up with a wild date there the next year, but only if she played it safe with Fraling.
“No more fake leads, or he’s apt to punish you for it,” Derek warned. “He’s a snake of a man. Just ease yourself out of the relationship as comfortably as you can.”
Two days later, though, Maura called from New York to give Derek the name of the “exclusive and ultra-discreet” private investigator, the “private investigator’s private investigator” who worked out of Arlington, Virginia, the man Fraling had recommended when she’d told him she had a friend who wanted condemning evidence against her husband and his lover.
The detective wasn’t as exclusive and ultra-discreet as Fraling had thought. An easy hundred-dollar bill bought the information that he had indeed once been hired to photograph Lloyd Ballantine in a compromising position. A second hundred produced the pictures, a third the fact that the woman with Ballantine had been married to a congressman. A final hundred produced the woman’s name.
Derek and Sabrina felt they’d gotten a bargain.
Without pause they flew on to Tallahassee, where the woman, Janet LaVine, now happily divorced, was living. She was an incredible source. Once assured that her name would never be used, she told of the affair she’d had with Ballantine—afternoons here, evenings there, clandestine meetings that spanned a six-month period and ended not because her husband had found out but because she feared he would. It seemed that Justice Ballantine liked his sex kinky. Blindfolds and handcuffs she hadn’t minded, but riding crops left telltale marks on the skin.
Perhaps because she found Derek attractive or because she felt she was educating Sabrina or simply for the power trip of it, she talked on and on. She told of how she had first met Ballantine, how he had carefully guarded their trysts, how he had found no fantasy too wild.
When Derek expressed disbelief, she grew bolder and provided him with the names of others who, if they were willing to talk would verify what she’d said. The “if they were willing to talk” was a critical factor. Nearly all of Ballantine’s women had been married. Some still were.
Unfortunately, Janet LaVine knew nothing about corruption on the court, blackmail, or the existence of the Ballantine files.
On the way back to Vermont, speeding along in the Saab at a smooth seventy miles per hour on I-93 north of Boston, Derek had a blowout. The car fishtailed wildly, then veered toward the side of the road. By the time he had guided it into the breakdown lane and stopped, he and Sabrina were badly shaken.
Derek had never had a blowout before. He didn’t understand how it had happened. His tires were new and of top quality. They were steel-belted to prevent just such an occurrence. If he didn’t know better, he’d have guessed that someone hidden in the woods had used his tire for target practice.
He said nothing to Sabrina about that suspicion.
* * *
Even without it, Sabrina was having a rough time. She was finding that no matter how hard she worked or how long the hours, she was still thinking a lot about the baby. She tried not to. She tried to forget that it existed, but her body wouldn’t let her. Approaching the three-month mark, she was feeling some relief from the fatigue and the nausea. In its place, she felt fat. She knew she didn’t look it, knew that no one could tell, but she could. The small, subtle changes were a constant reminder of what lay ahead.
Since she didn’t want to think about that, she worked harder. A full-fledged member of the team now, she spent hours working with the others in the barn; and when she wasn’t there, she was in the upstairs den or in the kitchen. With the arrival of April, she began planning the vegetable garden that she intended to put in the yard, and there was always another wall to wallpaper or pair of curtains to make in the house.
Sleeping was something she did only when she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer, and if she awoke in the middle of the night unable to fall back to sleep—which happened often—she crept from the bedroom and found something to occupy her mind.
Derek watched and said nothing. Between fear that someone intended him harm and would have no qualms about wiping Sabrina out with him, fear that the names Janet LaVine had given him would lead nowhere, and fear that the Ballantine files didn’t exist after all, he was very tense.
He didn’t want to upset Sabrina. He didn’t want to pressure her. He wanted to give her the kind of strong, silent support she seemed to want.
The trouble was, he’d never been a master of strong, silent support. He’d always been a talker, a doer—particularly when he felt that someone was doing wrong. That was how he felt now with Sabrina, but since he wouldn’t let himself say it aloud, the frustration festered.
It was inevitable that at some point he would explode.
Chapter 18
IT HAD been a long day. Derek had spent part of it with Jason, trying to work out the strategy for a story on the use and misuse of surplus political campaign funds, part of it on the phone tying to contact some of the women whose names Janet LaVine had given him, and part of it trying to connect in some way, shape or form with Sabrina.
He hadn’t been particularly successful on any of those fronts. He was tired and testy. Dinner had been a hectic affair, with eight people jumping up and down from the table and four conversations crossing each other—and having finally cleared the farmhouse of everyone but Sabrina and him, he wanted her to sit for a while and relax.
“When I’m done here,” she told him as she wiped crumbs from the table, “I’ll just load the dishwasher.”
He went into the living room, threw himself down on the sofa and waited. After fifteen minutes of brooding that did nothing good for his mood, he strode back to the kitchen to find Sabrina kneeling on the counter. Half of the contents of one upper cabinet was beside her. The other half was pushed every which way on the shelf.
“What are you doing, Sabrina?” he asked.
“I can’t find the cinnamon,” she answered, shoving aside a box of ric
e. “I’ve been looking for it all week. Do you remember using it on toast?”
Derek ran a hand across the back of his neck and looked at the floor as he said, “No, I do not remember using it on toast.” He looked at her. “I thought you were finishing up in here.”
“Almost done,” she said.
Trying his best to be accommodating, he returned to the living room and waited another five minutes.
“Sabrina?” he called.
“Coming,” she called back.
He paced the floor, spending a bit more patience with each step. Finally, he whirled on his heel and stormed back into the kitchen. Sabrina had a large bowl cradled in her elbow and was using a long wooden spoon to stir something that looked suspiciously like batter.
“What are you doing?” he asked, making no attempt to hide his annoyance.
She spared him the briefest of glances. “As long as I had everything out, I thought I’d make muffins.”
“Muffins.”
“Banana.”
“Banana muffins.”
“You like them for breakfast.”
Derek stared at her in disbelief. “You’ve been up since six this morning. You’ve worked all day—writing, running to town for food, cooking, writing some more, turning soil in the garden, running back to town for computer paper, changing the sheets on the bed, cleaning up in here—and now that it’s nine-thirty at night, you’re making banana muffins for breakfast?”
She tipped up her chin. “Is there anything wrong with that?”
It was just the invitation he needed—or perhaps just the goading, since he’d heard a hint of defiance in her tone—because he dropped all pretense of indulgence.
“Yes, there’s something wrong with it,” he said, hands on his hips, dark brows shelving darker eyes that bore into hers. “You’re doing too much, Sabrina. You’re pushing yourself ten, twelve, fourteen hours a day without taking a legitimate, do-nothing-but-put-up-your-legs break. Everyone else takes legitimate, do-nothing-but-put-up-your-legs breaks, but by the time they’re into that, you’re into something else. You’re doing too much. It’s not healthy.”
“Sure it is,” Sabrina scoffed, stirring the batter more vigorously.
“You’re pregnant. You’re supposed to take it easy.”
“The doctor said I could do whatever I wanted.”
“In moderation. But you don’t know the meaning of the word. What in the hell are you doing—auditioning for superwoman of the year?”
She shot him a scowl but kept on stirring.
“Put that thing down,” Derek growled, and before she could do it herself, he was across the room, taking the bowl from her arm and depositing it none too gently on the counter.
“Derek—”
“I want to know what you’re doing. Are you trying to wear yourself to a frazzle—wear me to frazzle watching you?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why are you driving yourself this way?”
“I like keeping busy. I’ve always kept busy.”
“Not like this. Not with this self-inflicted nonstop labor.”
“I enjoy it.”
“You don’t look like you do. You look tense and intense. You blot out everything else but what you’re working at.”
“That’s called concentration.”
“It’s called neurosis. It’s unnatural, given what’s happening to your body right now. What is it, Sabrina? Are you daring that baby to miscarry?”
Sabrina was stunned into silence for a minute, but only for that. Something perverse inside her was livid. “What an idiotic thing to say!”
“Is it?” he asked, straightening one long, ropy arm against the counter. “Think about it. Since the doctor confirmed you were pregnant, you’ve been snowballing—and I’m not talking about your body, because except for your waist and breasts you’re thinner than ever. I’m talking about work. Each day you take on a little more, then a little more. You dash from one activity to the next, and I can’t believe you get satisfaction from any of them because you don’t give yourself the time to sit back and smile.”
“I get satisfaction—”
“I know what you’re doing, Sabrina. You’re running. There’s a problem here, and rather than face it you’re running. You’re terrified of having that test, terrified of having that baby, so you’re cramming anything and everything into your day to keep from thinking of how terrified you are. Why can’t we sit and discuss it, for God’s sake?”
“Maybe because you have other things on your mind,” she accused.
“Hold it. There is nothing of higher priority in my mind right now than you and our baby.”
“Oh?” She needed to lash back, and she had the means. “Is that why you grab the Times first thing each morning and act as though you’re thumbing through to get an overall feel for the news before you read the specifics, when I know that all along you’re looking for word on Greer? I’m half thinking you want him to fly ahead in the polls so he’ll have that much farther to fall when you topple him. But you don’t talk with me about that, do you?”
“You don’t want to hear. You never liked the idea of what I was doing.”
“I accepted it,” she said quietly. “I knew that you had to work it out in your own way. So why can’t you let me work out my problem my own way?”
“Because it’s not just your problem, and because I don’t like the way you’re playing Russian roulette. That’s my child, too. I want it pampered a little.”
Sabrina took a small step back. She braced herself against the counter and tried to look composed. “You think I’m doing a lousy job.”
“Sabrina—”
“That’s what you’re saying. You’re telling me that I’m a negligent mother. You disapprove of what I’m doing.”
“Yes, I disapprove. You’re driving yourself too hard. You’re risking your own health and that of the baby. But I want that baby, Sabrina.”
“And you think I don’t?”
“If you do, you have a strange way of showing it.”
She threw a hand into the air. “Just because I’m not sitting around with my feet up on the sofa, I’m not pampering this child, therefore I don’t want it. That’s incredible!”
“Forget the child. Think about you. It’s not good for you to be pushing yourself—”
“I’m a lousy mother. That’s the gist of your accusation. As much as you give lip service to the fact that Nicky’s problems weren’t my fault, you’re not sure. You’re afraid I’ll do the same thing—”
Her words were cut off when Derek took her shoulders and gave a quick shake. His eyes were dark, the vein at his temple pulsing. “That’s wrong! I’d be telling you to take it easy even if you’d had ten other perfectly normal, healthy babies. You’re pregnant, Sabrina. Pregnant women don’t deliberately run themselves into the ground!”
“I’m not doing that.”
“No?”
“No. And you can take your hands off me, unless you’re planning to shake me again—which would really make mockery of your concern for my physical condition.”
Only then did Derek realize how his fingers were biting into her skin. Straightening them, he lifted his palms from her shoulders, held up his hands and stepped away. “I think,” he said tightly, “that we have a communication problem here. I love you. Yes, I’m worried about your physical condition, but I’m also worried about your emotional state.”
Her insecurities crowded in on her. “You think I’m unstable.”
“Of course I don’t,” he muttered. “But face it. You’ve been through an ordeal with one child and now you’re pregnant again. Any woman would be tense. I think that you are under a perfectly understandable strain—”
“And I can’t handle it. Is that it? Well, let me tell you something, Derek,” she said. “I’ve handled far worse than this. What makes you think I’ll crack? Or is it the macho male viewing the weak, shriveling female?”
Derek glared at her,
then drove his fingers through his hair, which fell right back to his forehead. He didn’t seem to notice. “Christ, this is amazing. It’s getting worse. I try to talk with you, and you twist every word. It’s like I’m walking on eggshells around here and every goddamned one of them is cracking.” He turned as though to leave, then turned back. “I’ve been trying to take cues from you. I haven’t talked much about the baby or your fears because I haven’t wanted to upset you more—okay, maybe I have some fears of my own about the baby, and I don’t want to think about them either, but ignoring it is getting us nowhere fast. Because I think about that baby anyway—and I know you do, too—so not discussing it is useless. Maybe we’re doing this all wrong. Maybe we should be out walking through baby departments looking at bibs and booties and whatever else parents-to-be look for.”
“How can we do that,” Sabrina cried, “when we don’t even know if I’ll carry to term? If that test shows something wrong—”
“Goddamnit!” Derek boomed, gray eyes afire with indignation. “That’s where you’re wrong. You are assuming that something’s going to be wrong, when the chances are so, so slim of that happening.” The frustration he felt was painful, and his expression reflected that. “You say you’re a realist, Sabrina, but if that were so, you’d be looking at the statistics and jumping for joy in anticipation of having a healthy baby. The statistics are in our favor, and if statistics aren’t real, what are? Why in the hell do you look at the dark side?”
Shades of old arguments flickered in and out of her mind. Nick calling her an alarmist. A pessimist. A purveyor of doom. “Maybe,” she told Derek in a shaky voice, “that’s just the way I am.”
“Like hell it is,” Derek burst back. “You are a strong, sensible woman, only you’ve been burned once and now you’re so afraid of going all out for happiness and losing it that you’re taking chances. Is it superstition? Do you somehow feel that if the baby manages to survive you it’ll be strong? Or are you really inviting it to up and abort itself?”
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