by Leigh Riker
Chapter
Five
Claire Spencer walked the nursery floor with her four-week-old daughter. At this rate she would soon be in the best aerobic shape of her life. How many miles tonight? Four, six? Right now, at midnight, the room stayed quiet, peaceful. The very silence—the first since 5:00 p.m.—sounded like a shout. Samantha’s small dark head lay nestled on Claire’s breast, and at the faint pressure Claire felt a slight leak of milk. Too soon to nurse, she thought with an inner groan. Please don’t wake up again.
Peter had given out an hour ago. Tossing her a bleary scowl, he’d disappeared into their adjoining bedroom and she could hear him now, snoring through the open door.
Men. There at the instant of conception, there at the moment of birth.
Claire arched an eyebrow. After that, Peter—like most of her friends’ husbands or significant others—seemed to feel their duties had been discharged. Oh, he loved Samantha. Worshipped her, really. Daddy’s Girl. But forget the sexual revolution, the equality of roles. His love didn’t include more than one diaper change per day, no BMs thank you very much, one support bottle of formula on the rare occasions when Claire managed to escape. She hadn’t been out of their apartment for more than two hours at a stretch since giving birth.
Motherhood was a bond. Like cement. No, more like Krazy Glue, and she’d stuck all her fingers together.
Immediately, Claire scolded herself. How could she think this way? She didn’t just love Samantha, she would give her life for her child—and in those horrid moments during transition labor, before she felt the insane urge to push her entire insides out into the world along with her about-to-be-born infant, Claire had feared she just might end up dying for the cause.
Middle-of-the-night madness.
Samantha stirred and Claire’s smile softened.
“We won’t tell anyone, will we, sweetie?”
Hell, she was alive. Healthy, in fact. Her bottom had finally stopped burning. She would be able to bear the thought of sex again—in a year or two. And wasn’t some of her flab starting to jell?
When Claire slipped a hand to her waist, checking its firmness, Samantha snuffled at her chest. Then she whimpered. A second later she was working herself into another first-rate howl and Claire felt tempted to join her.
“Listen, baby love. It’s time to sleep. Get it?”
As if to say I had my rest, Samantha squirmed in her embrace and Claire’s grip spasmed, making the baby scream. My God, had she nearly dropped her own child? It amazed Claire how strong an eight-pound infant could be.
“Peter,” she called in panic.
No answer. Except for his continued rumblings. It amazed Claire how much noise, in infinite varieties, a man could make in his sleep.
“Did I really want this?” she muttered to herself, about her marriage or her baby, Claire wasn’t sure.
Samantha cried harder.
Where is my mother when I need her? But Claire was a nearly thirty-year-old woman with a home, a husband, a career and a baby—and her own mother’s postcard from Fiji had come in the morning mail. Claire knew her parents hadn’t even heard yet about Samantha’s birth. Hopping from island paradise to exotic resort for the past six weeks, they hadn’t called in more than a month. In her current state of total disorganization, Claire had misplaced their itinerary.
“What is wrong with me?” she asked Samantha, tears in her eyes.
No matter how hard she cried, Samantha would shed no tears, the doctor said, for another few weeks. Claire shed them for her. In copious amounts.
Jiggling the baby, shushing her softly so Peter wouldn’t wake, she headed for the changing table. Of course. Why didn’t she think before? An infant had basic needs. Last diaper change…she calculated madly…was an hour before, just after Peter went to bed. He smelled “poo,” he said, and that was all it took to send him padding into the other room.
Claire didn’t even glance at his bare feet when he scooted across the carpet. She loved his long, elegant feet. His soft brown eyes, his sandy-gold hair. Loved everything about him, really. Except that his image as a newborn father wasn’t holding up well. This wasn’t how they’d planned things. Blinking, Claire laid Samantha on the cushioned table and fumbled with the snaps of her yellow sleeper.
Samantha screamed.
“I always thought of myself as a fairly dexterous person,” Claire mumbled. “Good thing I’m not a rabid conservationist—into cloth diapers with sharp pins.”
She’d probably skewer Samantha.
Oh damn, now she was picking up Darcie’s habit. Well, why not? Like an unmarried woman living alone, Claire had no one else to talk to. For a single second she disliked Darcie. Off in Australia, drinking good wine and eating great beef—with no fear of Mad Cow disease—meeting scads of Aussie men who seemed to have cornered the good genes market in looks, except for Peter of course. Visions of Breaker Morant and Gallipoli, of Bryan Brown at his peak and Mel Gibson any time raced through her weary mind. More tears. Even the thought of Russell Crowe didn’t stop them.
“I am a disaster. Me, Claire Kimberly Spencer, VP.”
Sniffling, crooning to herself as much as to Samantha, hands shaking, she managed to wrestle off the wet diaper printed with smiling nursery characters, then unfolded the paper glob. Ugh. Not again, she thought, glad her nose had stuffed up from crying so she couldn’t smell. “More poo, sweetie?”
Swallowing, holding her breath, she cleaned, then swabbed Samantha’s bottom with baby oil, but the lighter fragrance didn’t permeate Claire’s nostrils.
Samantha wouldn’t stop crying. How could she wail that loud at the same time she wriggled like a crazed Slinky? At this rate, she’d be turning over before four months. She’d crawl at six and stand at seven and be walking by eight. Then watch out, folks. In no time she’d be ripping around the apartment, falling down the steps, pulling things off shelves, gashing her cheek on the coffee table…
“Oh, hell.”
It certainly was, at least at midnight without any sleep for the past four weeks. She envied Darcie her freedom, and she loathed men. Especially, at the moment, her own. The instigator of all her inadequacies.
“What’s going on in here?” As if she had conjured him up, he appeared in the nursery doorway in pajama bottoms, raking his fingers through his chest hair.
Claire glared at him. Samantha’s decibel level shrieked higher.
“Was this your idea?”
“What?”
“Having a…” She caught herself. “B-a-b-y. Because I have to tell you—”
“Hey, there, Samson.” Peter strolled across the room. In seconds he’d come wide-awake, like a fireman on call, and his soft brown eyes filled with such obvious love for their child that Claire had to turn away. It embarrassed her to see Peter look like that—and not for her. Now I’m a jealous witch, Claire thought. He bent over the changing table to plant a wet kiss on Samantha’s bare belly. “You’re going for the record, kid. Keepin’ your mom up every night of your life so far.”
“Hear me laughing.” Claire’s throat tightened again.
When it suddenly turned quiet in the room, her ears rang. She risked a glance at the baby. Samantha lay staring up at Peter with the same adoring look in her blue eyes. Straightening, he grinned. “She’s crazy about me. What can I say?”
“She’s the first baby ever born that doesn’t love her mother.” Her voice quavered. “I thought they didn’t smile until at least six weeks.”
Nudging her aside, he picked up the baby, cradling her like an old pro. Claire tried not to remember that she’d nearly dropped Samantha moments ago. Apparently, Peter had paid closer attention to their preparenting classes. Claire was still all thumbs. She couldn’t hold back her frustration.
“How do you do that?”
Like an inept acolyte she followed him across the room to the walnut rocker they’d bought. Peter settled into it with the baby. Claire stood watching with her hands on her hips. Pure cellu
lite. They felt like unset gelatin.
“How?” Peter said, gazing into Samantha’s eyes. She gazed back. “Practice.”
“Practice? You’re at work all day. You come home, pick her up, play cootchy coo, then watch Fox News. While I’ve been cooped up here all day, changing yucky diapers every five minutes—how can one small bundle her size pee that much?—and nursing every second between changes.”
Peter’s gaze shifted to her breasts. His eyes darkened.
“I love it when you talk dirty.”
She turned on her heel. “I’ll leave you two alone.”
“Claire,” he said, sounding genuinely puzzled.
“I was wondering how I could go back to work on half an hour’s sleep—that is, if you stay in here rocking for thirty minutes every night.”
“My pleasure.”
“I wondered how I’ll pump enough milk for Samantha every morning before I leave here.” She marched toward the bedroom. “Now I wonder how I’ll ever drag myself home.” In the doorway she turned, blinking. “Peter, I’m not cut out to be a mother.”
“You’re just tired, babe.” He yawned. “More tired than I am.”
Claire went into the other room before her fresh tears spilled over. Samantha was the most perfect, most adorable baby in the world. She was part of Peter, part of Claire. But Claire had never imagined this job would be so hard.
“Maybe it’s time to hire a nanny.”
Leasing suitable space for Wunderthings’ first Australian store had proved to be as frustrating for Darcie as finding the right man. Not one to give up in either case, the next Thursday she stalked ahead of Walt up the steep slant of King Street to the corner of George and the entrance to the Queen Victoria Building.
“This is a long shot,” Walt complained, huffing mildly at the climb from Darling Harbour. “The real estate agent must be out of her mind.”
“No, she’s perfectly sane. Otherwise she’d be walking with us, not sitting back at her office at the bottom of this hill answering her voice mail.”
“You have a point. She won’t even show up here.” Scowling, he reached out to open the heavy door into the first-floor level of the mall. “She knows better than I do that this is a wild-goose chase.”
“Reserve judgment.”
Walt had been grumbling all day and Darcie wanted to snap back at him, but she knew better. By their second week in Sydney, she’d convinced him that her evenings with Dylan were harmless recreation after the long days of hunting for retail space. Dinner, a few drinks—Darcie omitted the rest of Dylan’s “entertainment”—kept her sharp for work the next day, she argued. She didn’t want to destroy all her progress now.
On the main floor they picked their way through the throng of shoppers. Smartly dressed women, men in suits and ties. Darcie made a mental note then voiced it. She needed points with Walt. She suspected he would be difficult about spending this much money on rent.
“See? Busy executives, career women, uppercrust young moms with fancy strollers.” She blocked out an image of herself at FAO Schwarz, with Merrick. “We’d need to stock mostly the top of our line here. These people aren’t shopping for bargains. They want quality and style.”
“Hmm,” Walt murmured, turning his shoulder to avoid a man on the run. He eyed the guy’s charcoal-gray suit, his paisley tie. “You could be right.”
Darcie didn’t give him time to doubt. “None of your sale bras in this store. These guys will buy lace-trimmed bustiers for that Valentine’s Day gift. Thong panties in silk.”
Walt shushed her. “No need to announce it over your personal PA system.” He glanced around, as if embarrassed.
“Sometimes I wonder why you took a job with an underwear company.”
Walt was a prude.
He merely glared. “Where did you say the empty shop is?”
“Second level. Right in the middle. Perfect.”
“For Victoria’s Secret, maybe. We have a long way to go.”
“We’re young, we’re enthusiastic, we’re energetic—” she flung out both arms “—we’re Wunderthings!”
“Jesus.”
Smiling, Darcie led him past the other shops—evening gowns, swimwear, trendy casual clothes, jewelry galore, opals everywhere—to the escalator. On the way they passed stained-glass windows, lots of gleaming dark wood, floors inlaid with intricate tiles. Innovative storefront displays.
“This is a beautiful building. I like what it says to me for our products.”
“I knew I should have brought Greta Hinckley instead.”
Darcie grinned over her shoulder. “Greta would have talked you into some tiny storefront in The Rocks, The Strand, the Pitt Street Mall—remember that last place with all the jeans and T-shirt stores?—and you’d curse the day for the next three years until the lease expired.”
Darcie crossed her fingers in front of her so Walt wouldn’t see and said, “I think you’ll be impressed with what the QVB offers.”
“The Accounting Department won’t. And Legal—”
“We’ll take care of them.”
At the top of the escalator, she stood and gasped. Right in front of them, across the aisles running along either side of the central railing that wound around the long oval and showcased the other levels—a popular “people watching” attraction, she realized—sat the empty shop. Sparkling clean display windows, an inviting entrance…
She grabbed Walt’s hand. In her other she clutched the door key.
“Let’s take a look.” Darcie didn’t have to. She was already convinced.
In another five minutes, so was Walt.
“We can try to argue them down on the monthly rent,” she told him. “Oh, Walt.” Darcie spun around in the center of the empty room. When she walked toward the rear and the tiny adjoining office, the storage area, her heels tapped on the wooden floor. “This needs refinishing, but they should throw in a bit of sanding and polyurethane for the price, don’t you think?”
“Not unless they want our business here. The city fathers didn’t.”
“There’s not another lingerie shop like ours. They’ll snap up Wunderthings. They’d be crazy not to.” She gazed from the rear of the store to the front windows. People walking past glanced in, a woman with a kindergartner gazed inside, looking curious. Darcie dug in her bag for a business card, held it up so the woman would wait, then strode to the open door and handed it out. “Please, take this. And do stop by again when we’ve opened.”
“I will, thanks.”
Walt followed her. “We haven’t even seen a lease, Darcie.”
“Details, details.” She peeked outside at their nearest neighbors. “We’re between an opal shop and a store that sells power suits. We can’t lose. From the skin out, it’s three-stop shopping, right on this level. How much better can it get?”
In her bones, Darcie knew this was perfect.
“And downstairs, on the lower level, there are food stores galore. What could be more convenient?”
“A few hundred thousand in the account,” Walt muttered.
“You’re so cheap.”
The real estate agent stepped in from the hall, a smile on her face. She’d known how Darcie would react to this site. She’d given them time to fall in love with the place.
“Marvelous, isn’t it?”
“We’ll take it,” Darcie said.
“Now wait a minute—” Walt protested.
“You know I’m right.”
Or so she needed him to think.
He sidled close to her. “What’s that Aussie doing to you every night? I’m supposed to be the boss here.”
“You are the boss.” She batted her eyelashes demurely. And gestured at the real estate agent waiting in the doorway. “Now, please, deal with the nice lady.”
“What’s it like, buying—I mean, dealing for—a sheep?”
On the following Monday Darcie asked Dylan the question, her hand in his while they strolled along at Circular Quay. He gave her a l
azy smile that nearly lightened her growing sense of impending loss. With hot dark eyes.
“Not like buying a pair of bikini pants.”
“No, I wouldn’t think so.” She flushed faintly but plowed on. In an abstract fashion Dylan’s sheep station fascinated her. She couldn’t imagine living in the middle of nowhere, as he did, but the business itself impressed her. So did his continued presence right here. Buying sheep was Dylan’s official reason for lingering in Sydney, for which she was grateful, but Darcie was another. His time, he’d assured her, was flexible. “You need a new ram for your herd, right? Breeding stock.”
“Flock, not herd. A herd is cattle.”
“Do you have the cow-sheep thing going on here? War between the ranchers like in the Old West?”
He smiled. “Where do you get your information?”
Darcie tapped her forehead with her free hand. “Right here.”
Dylan tucked a strand of her hair behind one ear, sending a shivery sensation through Darcie’s whole body. “Your mind is a scary place, darling.”
“It’s an active place. Creative. My mother always said so—not in a complimentary way.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t conform then just to prove her wrong.”
Uh-oh. Dangerous territory. Darcie wasn’t going there. Not now, not again.
“Let’s just celebrate Australia Day, and leave our mothers at home.”
As if he remembered their conversation at the aquarium, Dylan didn’t disagree. Swinging hands between them, he walked her to the catamaran that had started its tour at Darling Harbour, then stopped to pick up passengers here. The sun shone, the breeze stayed light, the day seemed perfect, really, like the QVB. Darcie meant to enjoy it. And Dylan. It was her last day in Australia, a fact she wouldn’t dwell on. Yesterday he’d taken her to a shop on Crown Street filled with stunning Aboriginal art, as if they had all the time in the world. But Darcie suspected, despite his reassurances, that he should get home. Tomorrow, she and Walt would be on their United flight to Los Angeles and Dylan Rafferty would become part of her past. There seemed no way to avoid it.
