by Webb, Peggy
“I like kids.”
Crash plucked the calendar from her hands and studied her artwork. She was going to kill him if he laughed. Or even if he smiled. He didn’t do either, and she received a temporary reprieve from being the kind of person she’d spent most of her life defending.
Instead he sat in a chair almost like a gentleman with Baxter curled up at his feet.
“I don’t know of another lawyer in Tupelo who would take cucumbers for payment,” he said.
“She told you.”
“I had to restrain her to keep her from rushing back in here and kissing your feet.”
Crash studied B. J. as if she were a brand of exotic fruit he’d found growing on his tomato vine.
“You keep surprising me, Philadelphia.”
“Why does that surprise you?”
“I thought I had you pegged.”
“Never underestimate your opponent. Any litigator worth his salt knows that.”
“You haven’t been in town long enough. Ask anybody on the street. I’m the only Beauregard living not worth his salt.”
He was totally without remorse or self-pity. Nor was he bragging. Crash was merely presenting himself in the framework of hometown opinion.
B. J. clasped her hands together under the desk so she wouldn’t do something revealing, such as caressing her bottom lip or fiddling with the top button of her blouse.
“Is that how you see yourself,” he added, softly. “As my opponent?”
Where was her barbed wit when she needed it?
“Sometimes,” she said.
“Is this one of those times?”
She licked her bottom lip. “No.”
He watched the tip of her tongue as intently as a cat studying a mouse’s hole. Too late, she realized what she had done.
“I’m glad,” he said.
She realized then the power of words to melt a heart.
But a melted heart was a vulnerable one, and so she reminded herself that the best defense is a good offense.
“Why are you here?” she said.
“Because of Baxter.”
Disappointment jolted her. She hoped he didn’t see.
“He’s doing fine, as you can see.”
“He misses his daddy.”
B. J. wished he wouldn’t keep referring to himself as Baxter’s daddy. The picture of him on the floor cavorting and laughing with the Parker children was all too fresh in her mind.
“He has me... and my sister Maxie.”
“Magic Maxie?”
“You know my sister?” A flash of jealousy ripped through B. J. Good grief, she was turning into a dried-up old witch.
“No, not personally. She’s friends with Margaret, my secretary.”
Crash picked up Baxter who immediately curled into his lap and went to sleep.
“I want to take Baxter...”
“No.” B. J. stood up, her knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the desk.
“... for an occasional outing.”
“Oh.” B. J. deflated like a pricked balloon.
“I could pick him up occasionally and take him for a spin on the Harley, or a picnic in the park. I might even take him to my house for barbecue. I’m pretty hot with the grill.”
Would he want to take her if she looked at him with soulful brown eyes and wagged her tail?
“I see,” she said.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“It’s a maybe.”
“Good.” He stood up, then set the sleeping puppy carefully back onto the chair. Baxter never stirred.
In the doorway he turned back to her.
“When Baxter wakes up, tell him Daddy will be back soon.”
She clung to her desk like a honeysuckle vine while he watched her from the doorway. Then he crossed the room in three strides and tipped her face up to his.
Warmth radiated through her, and she felt a tingling deep down in the region of her heart. He was going to kiss her. Not only would she let him, but she would respond.
She waited, breathless, and then he smiled.
“See you later, B. J. Corban.”
B. J. made herself stay away from the window until Crash’s Harley had roared away down the street. Then she raced across the room for one last glance of him. Everything about him was jaunty and carefree, and she wondered what it would be like to ride off on the back of a Harley.
Chapter Thirteen
Crash whistled “I’m an Old Cowhand from the Rio Grande,” and the wind caught his song and scattered it as he raced through the streets on his Harley. What was it about seeing Philadelphia that always made him want to whistle?
He stopped at a phone booth and called in to his office, then headed home. All the Beauregards except Crash lived in huge homes at ritzy addresses. His house was a pleasant Creole cottage in the country with enough land for horses and goats and cows. He loved animals and never tired of sitting on his back porch looking across the pasture at his small herd of Holstein.
As he parked his motorcycle he saw his place through Philadelphia’s eyes. She was a city girl; she’d probably hate every minute of being at a place some folks called the back side of nowhere.
Crash didn’t know why, but the idea of her not being enchanted with his place made him introspective and somewhat sad. He wasn’t accustomed to that either.
“Great Caesar’s cupcakes. I’ve got to put that woman out of my mind.”
He called Margaret to check on his calendar, and seeing he would be free for a few days, he packed a knapsack and headed west on his Harley. Destination unknown.
o0o
The doctor’s office was crowded with pregnant women. B. J. felt like a cucumber at a watermelon picnic. She riffled through the magazines until she came to one that talked about better homes and gardens instead of better mothers and babies.
A nurse crept to the door in crepe-soled shoes. “B. J. Corban,” she announced.
The other women stared at her as she went into the sacred back rooms. B. J. felt guilty, as if she’d won first prize by impersonating somebody.
Somebody pregnant.
Draped in a sheet and a green paper blouse, she watched as the OB/GYN poked and prodded. She shivered. Why were their hands always cold?
Later, sitting in Dr. McKay’s office she tried not to fidget.
“You’re not pregnant, Miss Corban.”
“I know that....” B.J. was not like her sister. She didn’t take instantly to strangers, and this man was a stranger to her. She was uncomfortable discussing the most intimate details of her life, even if he was a doctor.
“I just wanted to be sure everything is all right,” she added.
“Your lab work is fine. Everything looks good.” He polished his glasses. “Are you experiencing any problems that you haven’t told me about, Miss Corban?”
“None... except every now and then I feel flushed.” She didn’t tell him that Crash was always around when that happened. “Could it be hot flashes?”
He consulted his records. “It would be most unusual for someone your age to be going through menopause.”
“Even prematurely?”
His smile was not unkind. “I’d say you have a few more years.”
She felt as if she’d been pardoned from a lifetime prison sentence.
Back at her office she raced to her answering machine. There were three messages, one from a woman answering her ad for a secretary, one from Mrs. Parker inquiring when they would go to trial and one from Helen Sullivan.
“It had been forever since I’ve seen you and Maxie and Kathleen, and I miss all of you so much sometimes I think I’m going mad. Or maybe it’s keeping up with four children that’s driving me crazy.”
Helen’s laugh was like the rest of her, lovely and inviting and so charming you wanted to sit down at her feet and listen to the sound of her voice. No wonder she’d been such a successful actress. The rest of the Forever Friends used to tease her, saying, “Don’t you ever get off the
stage, Helen?”
Now she was saying in her message, “Why don’t you and Maxie hop in the car and drive over for the weekend? I could persuade Kathleen, I just know I could, and the four of us could spend two glorious days talking and laughing and letting our hair down. Say yes, B.J.”
B. J. was oh-so-tempted. Especially when she played the messages again just to be sure she hadn’t missed one.
She hadn’t. The plain fact was, Crash hadn’t called. Maybe she’d take Helen up on her invitation.
But then a weekend with her friend would also be a weekend with four beautiful, rowdy, glorious children, and B. J. didn’t think she could stand any reminders that she was a woman with rapidly dying eggs who had been jilted at the altar.
“I’m not going to turn into the kind of woman who hovers over the phone waiting for it to ring, and I am certainly not going to turn into a horrible person who envies one of her best friends,” she announced to Baxter as she reached for her mail.
It was scanty by anybody’s standards, a flyer from Kroger announcing a special on baked chickens, a check for her work on the first rabbit case, and a letter from her friend and former law partner in Philadelphia.
Gloria’s letters were like her, brief and to the point. “I won the Wimsey case, expect big bucks. I got an invitation to a baby shower... for Stephen’s wife! I chunked it in the garbage can where it belongs. Miss you. Love, Glo.”
For no reason at all, B. J. started to cry. Baxter rubbed against her, whining as she tore the letter to bits.
Then she did something she would never have done in Philadelphia: She locked her office and went home in the middle of the day.
Dressed in sweats she curled on the sofa with Baxter on one side and a big bowl of popcorn on the other. Three Men and a Baby was playing on the movie channel. B. J. cried through the whole thing.
o0o
“I’m going to have a baby,” she said. As B. J. made the announcement, she thought about the card Helen and Brick sent every Christmas, the two of them posing as Mr. and Mrs. Claus under the tree with their four adorable little elves.
All trace of tears was scrubbed from B. J.’s face, and she and her sister were in the kitchen fixing supper. Maxie was slicing tomatoes for a salad. She never even paused at B.J.’s announcement. The knife snicked against the cutting board as she continued her dicing.
“When?” Maxie asked.
That question was typical of Maxie. Instead of asking intrusive things such as Who is the father? she got down to important things like the date of birth.
“As soon as I can find a suitable father,” B. J. said.
“Didn’t Grandma ever tell you about the birds and the bees? I don’t think the baby’s going to wait around to be born until you can find a suitable father.”
B. J. spread mayonnaise on bread, then layered on the cheese and pastrami.
“I’m not pregnant,” she said, “at least, not yet.”
Maxie put down her carving knife, and wiped her hands on her apron, a frilly pink affair she’d made on the sewing machine she kept in one corner of her bedroom.
“It takes two,” she said.
“I know. That’s the part that bothers me.” B. J. stacked the sandwiches then sliced them in half. “Sperm banks are too impersonal. I want to select my baby’s father, get to know him personally, at least for a little while.”
“It’s more fun that way.”
“I don’t plan to have fun; I just want to get pregnant.”
“I thought the two went hand in hand.”
“It’s not going to be like that. I’m going to select some good breeding stock.” An image of Crash flashed through her mind. His was a great gene pool, and more, so much more. B.J. firmly pushed him from her mind.
“That’s where you come in, Maxie.”
“Wait a minute. I don’t know any good breeding stock. All I know is a few good men.”
“I only need one, Maxie.” B. J. smiled. “Just one.”
o0o
“This is not the right kind of place, Maxie.”
They were at Bogart’s, where the music was so loud, B. J. had to scream to be heard. On the small dance floor men in tight jeans danced with women in fringed shirts and cowboy boots. If you could call what they were doing dancing.
“Appearances can be deceiving, B. J. Sometimes there are a few lawyers in this crowd.”
“I’ll bet. The ones partial to the bottle.”
Nonetheless, B. J. scanned the room looking for somebody in a three-piece suit with a briefcase beside the table. A strapping hunk in a muscle shirt winked at her across the room.
That’s when she began to have her first doubts about her plan. In theory, it was perfect. She’d find somebody with good genes and a partiality for women with brains. She always skimmed over the next part of her plan, the part known as The Seduction. Years of winning had taught B. J. to focus on results.
And the result of her one-night stand would be a baby who would be exclusively hers, no legal hassles, no commitments, no messy emotional entanglements.
Two of her female friends in Philadelphia had chosen to be single parents. Of course, they’d gone about it differently, but the fact was, single parenthood was a route more and more women in high-powered professions were choosing.
B. J. had always wanted children, and she knew she’d be a good parent. But she wasn’t the kind of woman who waited around for nature to take its course.
“I take the bull by the horns,” she said.
The band was on a break, and Maxie threw back her head and roared with laughter.
“The bull’s coming this way, B. J. And he looks like he might have a twelve-inch horn.”
B. J. looked up to see the muscle-bound jock who had winked at her striding in her direction. When he was two tables away she saw the tattoos on his arms, swords and snakes with a fire-breathing dragon thrown in for good measure.
She bolted toward the ladies’ room. Maxie found her bent over the toilet heaving.
“Here.” Maxie tore off paper towels and handed them to B. J. “In case you need them.”
B. J. washed and dried her face. “I knew I shouldn’t have worn this red dress,” she said. “Red always attracts the wrong kind of man.”
“What do you call the right kind of man?”
“Somebody in a starched shirt.”
o0o
Crash got as far as Arkansas before he realized that riding aimlessly had lost its savor. The sunsets were spectacular, the scenery inviting, the people he met along the way interesting, but something was missing.
Sitting on a picnic bench in a roadside park in Conway, Arkansas watching cardinals picking up crumbs, he understood what was missing. He didn’t have anybody to share it with. There was nobody he could turn to and say, “Look at that sky. Did you ever see such color?” or “Does this move toward political correctness make you think of the McCarthy era or the Salem witch hunts?”
He flicked a few crumbs in the direction of the birds. A brilliant male cardinal shooed away a rival male while the duller-feathered female had her turn. He’d heard that cardinals mated for life.
There was a certain beauty in that concept, a certain rightness. If it happened in nature, it couldn’t be all bad.
Crash dumped the rest of his lunch into the garbage can, strapped on his helmet, and headed toward home. The closer he got the more excited he became. That had never happened to him before.
On the outskirts of Tupelo he stopped at Ballard Park to do some serious thinking. The Harley scared the ducks on the lake, and they flapped out of the water and hid in the bushes. Crash coaxed them out with bread crumbs, then sat beside the lake wondering what he was going to do next.
The answer wasn’t long in coming. He was headed toward Philadelphia. He’d been headed that way all along, maybe ever since he’d met her in the Smokies.
Smiling, he strapped on his helmet and revved his engine. Funny how a woman could get under your skin without your ever
knowing it, and then, bingo, all of a sudden the light bulb comes on and you realize your heart knew it all along.
o0o
Baxter recognized the sound of the Harley. He was at the office door barking a full two minutes before B. J. knew Crash was coming. When she heard him whistling up her walk, she raced to the bathroom and applied lipstick, as flustered as a schoolgirl.
She heard him before she saw him. He came through the door without knocking and his big boom of laughter filled her offices.
“Daddy’s home!” he yelled over the sound of joyous barking. “That’s my boy. Jump up here and give Daddy a kiss.”
Her heart pounded so hard, she pressed her hand over it to calm herself down before she walked into her own reception room. He was tanner than she remembered, blonder, more virile, more handsome. The first thought that ran through her mind was “What a gene pool.” The second made her blush.
“Hello, Philadelphia.” His eyes raked her boldly over the top of Baxter’s head. “You’re overdressed for a picnic at the park.”
This was typical Crash: show up without calling, snap his fingers, and expect her to jump through a hoop.
“There’s a perfectly useful invention called the telephone.”
“There are better ways of communicating.”
The center of his eyes were so gold, they dazzled her. He set Baxter on his feet, then stalked her. She stood in the doorway waiting. He braced his hands on either side of her, pinning her against the doorframe.
“Shall I show you what they are?” he said, his breath a soft caress against her cheek.
“No.” With an effort, she remembered who she was, who he was. “I don’t intend to jeopardize my career over a forbidden tryst with some hotshot judge who thinks he’s God’s gift to women.”
He roared with laughter. “There you go, using those million-dollar words again.” He pulled her roughly to him. “I don’t have jeopardizing careers in mind, just a simple old-fashioned kiss.”
“Let me go,” she protested, but not with any conviction. The fact was, she longed for his kiss the way a desert wanderer longed for a cool drink of water.
“I won’t even use any tongue, if you say so.”
“Neanderthal.”
“If the shoe fits...”
