Who would have ever thought Tracy Emerson, always so proper, would consider anything like this? But she was not that staid woman anymore. And that had only been a mask to begin with—she’d always been somewhat wanton, but now, with a man she actually loved, her wantonness had a wilder, but also safer feeling. She could do anything now; she would not fall too far because Brendan was there to catch her.
“I have to sit,” he said, directly against her ear.
Of course he did. He was too tall.
Even at home, to make love standing he had to lift her. He couldn’t do so here, so instead he pulled her back to one corner of the terrace where there were two wooden rocking chairs, backing into one and sitting with his legs slightly apart. Tracy glanced desperately toward the French doors, and saw that inside the party went on, no one any wiser, or even interested in what might be transpiring outside, just beneath their noses.
“Are we really going to do this?” she said, her voice ragged.
Brendan hesitated. “Only if you want to . . .”
She wanted to. No, she needed to. She needed him. In her past she had used sex in unhealthy ways, in unhealthy relationships—if they could be called that. But with Brendan it was different. Sex with him . . . it moved her. It calmed her. It felt almost as essential as taking her next breath.
She nodded so Brendan pulled her back into his lap, moving her skirts, lifting layers, arranging them so that anyone who happened by might believe she was simply sitting on her man’s lap. Then he lifted her a little and surged forward, at the same time pulling her back down. Tracy felt herself filled by him and exhaled sharply. He was very still but slid a hand under her skirt and around between her thighs. Tracy let out a startled cry because he had scarcely moved a muscle and she was coming. Not hard, but soft waves, one over the next and the next . . . She shut her eyes tightly and pressed back into him, leaning into the feeling, her mouth a surprised, silent ‘o’.
“Brendan. Sam Peroutka’s here.”
The sound of another voice, not one of theirs, startled her and Tracy instinctively moved as though to get off Brendan’s lap but he held her in place with an arm about her waist.
“You talk to him for a few minutes. I’ll be right there.”
Brendan sounded completely self-possessed but inside her, Tracy could feel him throbbing erratically, energetically, and knew from experience that he had neared his climax too. Tracy braved a look in the direction of the intruder. She knew that if he could see her clearly, she would look like what she was—a woman who had just been fucked. But it was dark, and no one would be able to make out her features. When they were alone again, Brendan began subtle movements back and forth and Tracy felt herself ascending the crest again.
“Is that . . . Is Sam Peroutka the person you need to talk to?”
“Yes,” Brendan breathed.
“So . . . go talk to him,” she said.
“No.”
“Brendan.”
“No,” he said again. And then he was grunting, clearly holding back a much louder exclamation, and Tracy felt herself flooded with him as he gritted out a garbled curse word between his teeth. He leaned against her back for a moment, recovering.
Tracy marveled at how differently she felt already. Centered. Complete.
“Maybe now you can go take care of your business,” she said with a quiet laugh, after a moment.
“Just did,” Brendan returned. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief which disappeared under her skirts. Tracy raised herself off him, feeling the wet slickness of her thighs.
“I’ve gotta go to the Men’s room,” Brendan said, laughing himself now, “before shaking hands with anyone.” He hoisted up a little and Tracy stood, smoothing her skirts and taking a deep breath. She turned to face Brendan who was still seated and had already pulled up his zipper.
“How do I look?” she asked, smoothing her skirt.
“Incredible,” he said.
And something in his voice made her look at him; sitting there, his eyes were about all she could see but she saw them perfectly and more than that, she saw the depth of feeling in them.
Tracy smiled.
________
“You okay in there?”
Brendan’s voice came to her now from the next room where he was in bed, watching a game on television. For him to be home so early was unusual but he’d come in coughing and with a low-grade fever, so had gone straight to bed. Tracy jumped in with him, because it was a novelty for them to be in bed together these days just to lay about the way they used to. Still, her plan had been to take this pregnancy test in private before he got in, and having to do it with him in the next room was not optimal, but she just hadn’t been able to stand the wait.
Tracy stuffed the test into the trash can near the bottom and washed her hands, going back out into the bedroom and crawling into bed next to Brendan. He smoothed a hand over her rear as she crawled over and finally settled in next to him, reaching for the novel she’d been trying to get through for the past week.
“Maybe soup?” Brendan said.
“What?” Tracy looked at him.
“Before you went into the bathroom, you asked if I knew what I wanted to eat,” he reminded her.
“Oh . . . yes,” she reached out and touched his forehead with the back of her hand. His forehead wasn’t just warm now, it was getting hot. And he was sounding a little more nasal. Tracy set aside her book to get out of bed.
“Where you goin’?”
“To make you that soup.”
“No, just order some,” Brendan said. He pulled her back toward him and wrapped himself about her.
Wow, he was blazing hot . . .
“Okay, I just need to go get the menu then. I’ll order something else as well in case you get hungry later.” She tried to get up but once again, Brendan held her back.
Tracy smiled.
“What?” he asked.
“I don’t want you to be sick, don’t get me wrong,” she said. “But . . .”
“But . . ?” Brendan rested his head on her abdomen.
“I like it when you need me for a change, and let me take care of you.”
“You always take care of me,” Brendan said sounding surprised. He lifted his head to look at her. “Even when I’m not sick.”
That wasn’t how it felt to her. Brendan was her rock-solid-sure-thing, the person in her life who she knew would always be there to take care of it; whatever ‘it’ was. Riley was too, but in a different way. She had a husband now, young kids. Even their time on the phone was shorter than Tracy would have liked, but she understood. But Brendan, no matter what he was doing, no matter where he was, would come to her if she said she needed him to. Just knowing that made her feel taken care of.
“No,” she shook her head.
“Tracy, sweetheart, look at me.”
She looked. His eyes were bleary. This was going to be a full-blown flu, for sure.
“I never have to think about a meal, or a clean shirt, or a clean house, or a dental appointment . . .”
“Have to do my part to take care of that million-dollar smile,” she joked. But Brendan’s face remained serious.
“I never think about getting toothpaste or toilet paper or orange juice; or bringing gifts for our god-kids. I don’t worry about paying the bills on time, or missing a flight, or even charging my damn phone.”
“Doing those things . . . that’s nothing, Brendan,” Tracy said shaking her head.
“It’s not nothing, baby. I get to wake up and go out into the world and do whatever I have to do out there, because I know that whatever needs to happen in here, you got me.”
Tracy smiled, looking directly into his eyes.
“That’s not nothing. Especially when you have to go out into the world too and do what you gotta do. And you do it, and you kick ass.”
Tracy leaned in and kissed him briefly on the lips. Even they were hot.
“I better go order you
that soup,” she said, gently extricating herself from him.
Heading out of the bedroom suite, through the ultra-modern apartment and up to the kitchen, which was in the loft, Tracy noticed as though for the first time that the steps were steep, winding and had wide spaces between them. A toddler could break their neck trying to navigate these stairs.
She froze. A toddler.
She was already thinking about toddlers and she’d only known she was pregnant for fifteen minutes. And she hadn’t even told Brendan yet. But that wasn’t the kind of thing you told a man when he was sick in bed with the flu.
But she could tell Riley . . .
When Brendan was sleeping, which was sure to be soon, she would call her from the kitchen and together they would share a couple of screams and strategize about how she should break the news. Despite herself, Tracy felt a faint glimmer of excitement. A baby. God, could she even do this? Be a mother?
She shook her head and focused on the task at hand, rifling through one of their kitchen drawers and finding the menu from a nearby Chinese restaurant. Calling in a large chicken noodle soup and a spicy chicken with broccoli order, Tracy headed back downstairs where she found Brendan half-asleep and curled into a body pillow. He looked for a moment like a little boy. Like the little boy they might have. Her heart swelled. In the bathroom she found some Tylenol and brought it to him with a glass of water, and after he took the medication, made herself as comfortable as she could with the weight of Brendan’s head on her abdomen.
When the food came he was still sleeping and Tracy had to slowly move his head from her stomach to go pay for it. There was a damp spot, where he’d been perspiring as he slept. Probably a good sign that the Tylenol was helping. Tracy took the food up to the kitchen and spooned some out for herself, reaching for the phone and calling Riley.
As her friend answered the phone, Tracy could hear in the background the soft cooing noises of the new baby, Cassidy. She was as beautiful as her brother Cullen had been, and of course her parents doted on her. But Tracy especially liked the look on Shawn’s face when he stared at his little girl. It was a different look than he had when he looked at his son, more tender. Tracy’s heart broke a little every time she saw it.
Brendan would be the same way, she knew. If he had a little girl, he would be like Shawn was, or more so. He treated her like a little girl sometimes, which she loved.
Tracy took a deep breath. “So guess who’s knocked up?” she said.
As expected, Riley gave a loud and sudden shriek and Tracy laughed. On the other end of the line, Cassidy, startled by the sudden noise began to cry. But even that could not stop Tracy’s happy laughter.
________
“You can look now,” Dr. Kim said as she manipulated the wand, pressing it against Tracy’s abdomen, moving it back and forth. “See there?”
Tracy looked. It all looked like an amorphous blob to her, but then off to the side, there was a flicker, a rhythmic movement.
“That’s the heartbeat,” the doctor confirmed. “See it?”
Tracy nodded, dumbfounded.
“Looks great. Amazing, isn’t it?”
Tracy nodded again, still unable to speak, but before she even knew it, a tear had escaped the corner of her eye. Dr. Kim grasped her hand.
“Happy news,”
“Yes,” Tracy finally spoke. “Very happy news.”
At Riley’s insistence, she’d made an appointment for during her lunch break, just to confirm. And she was glad she had, Tracy thought as she left the doctor’s office. In her purse she had a printout of the ultrasound, graphic evidence that it was real. She was going to be a mother. Tonight when she got home, she would tell Brendan, finally.
Keeping this to herself had been brutal, made easier only by the fact that he’d been sick for three days out of the seven since she’d found out. Time at home with him had been primarily about making sure he was comfortable, bringing him food and changing bed-sheets. She was busy with that and he felt like crap, so it was easy to put off telling him.
But now, with the picture to prove it, she couldn’t wait. She shouldn’t.
Tracy stood on the corner of Seventh Avenue and hailed a cab. She seldom visited him unannounced at his office but if there ever was an occasion that warranted it, this was the one. While waiting impatiently for the driver to make his way through the noonday traffic, she tapped her feet and more than once took out the ultrasound to look at it, just one more time.
When she walked into his office, Brendan’s eyes lit up. She was one of only a handful of people he’d given instructions to his assistant to allow back without waiting. He was sitting behind his enormous desk. It was made of reclaimed wood from an old barn in the Pennsylvania countryside Brendan had told her with pride the first time she’d visited him there. He liked things like that—things with a history, things that were once something else and had been remade. Behind the desk were CD jackets that had been mounted in black lacquer frames, lined up in perfect symmetry and just beneath them, and behind his executive chair, a credenza piled high with files.
Apart from the desk—which contrasted with the modernity of all the other pieces in the room—everything looked crisp and brand new. On the desk itself were more files, paper strewn about and a large Apple computer which Tracy happened to know Brendan scarcely ever used. His work seemed to be conducted by iPad and iPhone these days, which made it harder to get and keep his attention when he was supposed to be just kicking back at home.
But now, surprised by her popping up unexpectedly, he came from behind his desk and pulled her into a hug, kissing her when she raised her chin and got on her toes.
“What’re you doing, slumming down here?” he asked, resuming his seat.
Instead of taking one of the plush chairs opposite him, Tracy went around and pushed his chair back, arranging herself on his lap. Brendan wrapped his arms about her waist and pressed a kiss into the side of her neck.
“Now if you get fresh with me, I’m going to have to call security,” he warned as he kissed her. “Because I have lots of work to do today.”
“Mr. Cole, you asked me to remind you about lunch. It’s almost one-thirty.”
Brendan’s AA’s name was Brett and she was probably about twenty-six. She had a short trendy bob and wore dark synthetic fabrics that looked like they would combust if she went near a flame. When Tracy had once remarked on it to Brendan he’d laughed and told her Brett was a vegan and didn’t believe in wearing any byproducts of living things, not even cotton, which Tracy thought was ridiculous. The toxic fumes from the factories that made Brett’s synthetic clothing probably did exponentially more to harm the environment each year than anything carnivores and people who wore leather and cotton could do in a lifetime.
But the real reason Brett got on Tracy’s nerves was that whenever she was near or had to speak to Brendan, she got this fawning look in her eyes; it was obvious she had a monster-crush on her boss.
“Would you like me to order you that Philly cheesesteak you like from next door?”
Brendan had begun to answer but Tracy spoke over him.
“No, Brett. Mr. Cole won’t be having a Philly cheesesteak today. If you could just bring me the menu, I’ll find something and let you know.”
Brett paused, looking uncertain, waiting for Brendan’s confirmation. Tracy looked at her evenly and for a moment it was like a Mexican stand-off. Finally, Brendan leaned to the side, looking around Tracy, still on his lap, so Brett could see him.
“You heard the Boss-Lady. No cheesesteak today. We’ll see what else they have if you bring us the menu. Thanks, Brett.
“Who names their girl-child Brett anyway?” Tracy muttered when she exited the office.
Brendan laughed. “Stop hating on my staff. You don’t like anyone who works for me, do you?”
“Or with you either. They all seem to be eager twenty-something year old women who smile a lot.”
“That’s the music business, sweetheart.�
�
“Why couldn’t you just be a plumber instead?” Tracy joked, turning around and fidgeting with the button at his collar.
“Here’s the menu, Ms. Emerson.” Brett had returned. Tracy reached a hand behind her without bothering to look at the young woman as she took it.
When she was gone, Tracy got up and went to take one of the other seats, opening the menu to find Brendan something healthy to eat. And while she was here, she may as well get herself something. She was beginning to feel a little nauseous, which happened mostly when she hadn’t eaten. And of course, it also happened when she smelled food. It was a real lose-lose situation this morning sickness thing. Which was more like all-day sickness honestly . . .
“Trace.”
“Hmm?” She turned the menu over in her hands. This restaurant should be named Heart Attack Central. Every other item was some grease-filled, fried or over-sauced . . .
“Tracy.”
“Yes, Brendan, what is it?”
She looked up, exasperated that she couldn’t find a simple chicken salad among their seemingly hundreds of selections.
“All kidding aside,” he said. “You need to try to be a little bit nicer to my staff. They’re young, they work hard . . .”
“What?”
“I said you need to . . .”
“I heard you,” she said. “I’m just having trouble comprehending what you mean.”
“Trace, c’mon. You know what I mean. Just now you barely looked at the poor girl when she handed you the menu, and when you do look at her, it’s like she just spit in your face or something.
“And when you come in, you never really speak to anyone unless it’s to tell them to do something, and even then, you sound like you’re . . .”
“Wow.” She slapped the menu down on his desk.
“I’m just telling you what I see. I know you’re better than that. But everyone else around here, going on what they see alone? I’d bet they think you’re a bitch-on-wheels.”
Maybe Never Page 2
