Bringing Up Baxter (Forever Friends, Book 3 of 4)

by Webb, Peggy

  Tonight she’d flaunted herself before a group of Tupelo’s most conservative, most socially prominent people. Why?

  Tonight she’d brazenly flirted with his brother. No, more than flirted. She’d tried to seduce him.

  The truth hit Crash with the force of a falling meteor.

  “You do want a baby,” he said.

  Her face was a dead giveaway. For a fleeting moment she looked so wistful and dewy-eyed, he almost pulled her into his lap and cradled her like a child. Then he remembered her perfidy.

  “You were using me,” he added.

  “That’s right. I was using you.”

  He’d hoped she would deny it, even if it were true. Hearing her admit the truth hurt more than he cared to think about.

  She struggled then, struggled to free herself from his grasp and get off the rug, but he held her fast.

  In spite of everything he still wanted her. In spite of his bruised and battered ego, he still loved her.

  She glared at him, her eyes shooting sparks. He felt his passion stir anew, and naked, there was no way to disguise it.

  She gave no sign of emotion except the slight tremor in her voice. “I wouldn’t have your baby if you were the last man on earth.”

  “You wouldn’t have my baby, period. Not under these conditions.”

  “Let me up.”

  “I’m not done with you yet.”

  “If you touch me, I’ll scream.”

  “It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?”

  She struggled briefly, then made herself go limp.

  “Cretin.”

  He laughed, but it was without mirth. “Looks like we’re back where we started, Philadelphia.”

  Before she could catch herself, her face softened. A man looking with his heart can see many things, and what he saw was a combination of regret, nostalgia, and longing. And as much as he wanted a little taste of revenge for what she had done, he couldn’t bring himself to punish her further.

  He brushed her dark, damp hair off her forehead tenderly, in the way of a man who loves a woman.

  “When I have a baby, Philadelphia, it will be with a woman I love, a woman I treasure more than my freedom and my Harley, a woman who can skewer me with a word and melt me with a single teardrop, a woman who thinks she hates nature but who embraces a lost shaggy dog as if it were her child.... If I love a woman...”

  B. J. sucked in a sharp breath, and her eyes searched his. He stood up and silently offered her his hand. She caught hold, then stood beside him, her teddy still off her shoulders, the snaps undone, her face devoid of makeup, and her hair tumbling over her naked shoulders.

  He’d never wanted her more. Nor loved her more.

  “Crash...”

  “Get dressed, Philadelphia. I’m taking you home.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  She didn’t even know Crash owned a car. It was a sturdy Lincoln, not at all the kind of car she’d have pictured him having. It was the kind of car a man with a wife and four children would use, the kind of car that would go to church and PTA meetings and library lectures. Not that any of that mattered. She was glad she didn’t have to ride home on the back of the Harley. She was grateful for the spacious front seat that allowed her to hug the door on her side without having so much as the hem of her skirt touch him.

  It was a silent drive home, and all the way she prayed Maxie wouldn’t be waiting up for her. She prayed that she’d be able to hold back her tears until she could gain the safety of the narrow bed in the guest bedroom.

  Then she planned to cry till next Tuesday. Or maybe longer. Maybe she’d never stop.

  The only time Crash spoke to her was to ask directions.

  “Maxwell Street,” she said. “The yellow house.”

  He parked out front, then came around to open her door. He didn’t offer his hand, and she didn’t touch him. They didn’t even say good-bye.

  It was just as well. If she’d had to tell him good-bye, she’d have cried right there on the street, right in front of Crash and the neighbors and God and everybody.

  A lamp burned in the den, and Maxie sat curled in her pink chair, sewing glasses on the end of her nose and a piece of needlepoint in her lap. She glanced up from her sewing when B. J. came through the door.

  “What in the world? You look like you’ve been run over by a Mack truck or worse.”

  “Worse.” B. J. took off her shoes and walked toward her bedroom in stocking feet. “‘Night, Maxie.”

  “Wait a minute. You can’t just go to bed and leave me hanging. Where did you go? I saw Crash follow you out. Were you with him?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Maxie had a sixth sense that told her when not to argue. She picked up her needlework and started stitching with a fury.

  B. J. looked at her sister curled in the plush chair like a doll somebody had forgotten to put to bed. When they were little, B. J. was the one who had tucked her in. Maxie wouldn’t go to sleep without telling everything that had happened to her that day. She had a knack for making each event seem like the most fascinating adventure or the most horrible crisis in the world.

  After she’d finished a recital of her day, she would cock her head to one side, look at B. J. with her big blue eyes and say, “Now, tell your day.”

  They had held nothing back from each other. But they were no longer children. Life was no longer simple.

  Her stockings made a swishing sound on the carpet, the bedroom seemed a million miles away, and suddenly B. J. needed the comfort and security of a familiar routine.

  “Maxie.”

  Maxie took one look at her, then raced out of the chair to embrace B. J.

  “Come over here.” Maxie led her to the sofa, then sat down beside her and caressed her hair as if she were a child. “It’s going to be all right.”

  B. J. leaned into her sister. “I want to tell my day,” she whispered.

  The sisters looked at each other, then Maxie grinned.

  “Is this going to be a long story?”

  “A very long story.”

  “I’ll make tea.”

  Tears pushed their way to the surface, and B. J. didn’t even try to stop them. Maxie came back with two cups of tea and a box of tissues. B. J. sobbed through the entire first cup.

  Maxie refilled their cups, then sat in her pink chair and took up her needlepoint.

  “Talk whenever you’re ready,” she said.

  “What are you making?” B. J. asked.

  Maxie held up the needlework. Take the risk and the angels come was stitched in bright pink, and around the slogan danced fairies and elves in leaf hats, cats and dogs in tutus, elephants and zebras in garlands and crowns, all in vivid, glow-in-the-dark colors. It had all the hallmarks of a Maxie original.

  “For you,” she said. “For the nursery.”

  B. J. pressed the tissue over her mouth to stifle a sob, then blew her nose and took a long sip of tea.

  “There’s not going to be a nursery—not now, not ever.”

  “Things can’t be that bad.”

  “I’ve made a complete mess of my life. I’ve lost everything that was important to me.”

  “You’re probably overreacting. I know you’re older and wiser and smarter than I am, but you do tend to overreact, B. J.”

  “If you’re going to sit there and pass judgment, I’m going to bed where I can wallow in my misery in peace.”

  B. J. slammed the cup into the saucer with the intent of stalking off, then broke out in a fresh gale of weeping.

  “Good grief.” Maxie went to the kitchen and came back with another box of tissues and a plate of brownies.

  “Here, chocolate always makes me feel better.” Maxie passed the plate, and B. J. took two. “I’m going to horsewhip that man. What did he do to you, B. J.?”

  “That’s just the problem. He didn’t do anything.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Not what I wanted, at least.”

  Ma
xie completely lost interest in her brownie. “No, you didn’t. Don’t tell me you decided to use Crash as the father of your baby.”

  “It was horrible, absolutely horrible.”

  “Was he that bad?”

  “No! He was magnificent.”

  “Magnificent?”

  “Oh, Maxie.” Her sister’s name came out as a wail.

  “What in the world happened?”

  B. J. blew her nose. It was time to face the truth.

  “I tried to use the man I love,” she whispered.

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Are we talking about the same man? The one you met in the mountains? The one you scathingly refer to as Tarzan on a Harley?”

  She remembered how he’d first looked on his Harley, like a magnificent beast in need of taming. Was that the moment she fell in love with him? Or was it the night she’d wallowed on him naked then stood in the rain with him cuddling a frazzled little puppy? Or was it when he’d kissed her in his judicial robe? Surely it was before tonight, for the moment he’d touched her she knew, knew without a shadow of a doubt that only one man could possibly feel so perfect—the man she loved. He hadn’t merely penetrated her body; he’d penetrated her heart and soul. And she’d wanted him as she’d never wanted another man. True, she’d begged for him, but not merely because she’d wanted a baby. Too late she’d realized she wanted to be a part of him, wanted him to be a part of her.

  Because of love. Only because of love.

  “He’s magical, Maxie,” she whispered. “And I never knew I loved him until it was too late.”

  “It’s never too late, B. J.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Maxie passed the plate once more.

  “Have another brownie. If you really love him, we’ll think of a way to get him back. Tomorrow we’ll come up with a plan.”

  Looking down at her outrageous red dress and sexy shoes, B. J. felt like a woman waking from a bad dream. First she’d tried to turn herself into an outdoors type and then she’d tried to turn herself into a vamp.

  “I’m through with plans, Maxie. I’m through playing games. From now on, I’m going to be myself.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Crash sat up all night thinking about what to do next. By dawn he knew that there was only one thing to do. The only problem was, it involved more people than just himself.

  He climbed aboard his Harley and set out to his brother’s house.

  “You look like hell,” Joe said, holding wide the door. “Come on in.”

  Walking into Joe’s house was always like walking into a museum. Everything looked old, well preserved, and cataloged, expensive antiques from France and England, ancient hand woven rugs from Persia, priceless jade statues from China. Even this early in the morning, there was not a piece of furniture, not a knick-knack, not a doodad out of place.

  Crash always entered carefully, feeling like the proverbial bull in a china shop.

  Today was no different. He leaned against the mantel to keep from having to sit in the chair.

  “Does anybody even live here?” he said.

  “I’ll ignore that crack.” Joe nodded toward a wing chair. “Have a seat.”

  “I don’t want to wrinkle the cushion.”

  “For Pete’s sake.” Joe tossed the cushion onto the floor. “Sit down before you fall down. Now, tell me what’s wrong.”

  Now that he was there, Crash had cold feet. “Didn’t sleep, that’s all.”

  Joe checked his watch. “Let me get this straight. You got me up at six o’clock on Sunday morning to tell me about your insomnia.”

  “Yeah, I guess I did.”

  “What do I look like? Somebody who rolled off a watermelon truck?”

  Joe was a perfect brother, supportive without being pushy, concerned without being dictatorial, unfailingly kind. Not only that, he was Crash’s best friend. Always had been, always would be.

  There are times in a man’s life when he has to trust somebody, and that somebody happened to be sitting across the room from Crash, his hair tousled from the night’s sleep, his cheeks covered with beard stubble, and his socks on wrong side out.

  “It all started with a woman,” Crash said.

  “Aha.” Joe made a steeple of his fingers. “Would it be the woman in red?”

  “Who she is doesn’t matter. What happened does.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t quite know myself.”

  “Take your time. This is not a court of law.”

  “Spoken like a jackass.”

  “Finally, the baby brother I know and love.”

  Joe went into the kitchen and came back with two cups of coffee and a plate of English muffins. Crash smiled ruefully.

  “My brother, the unflappable genius. You’re always prepared, aren’t you, Joe?”

  “Eat your muffin, Nat.”

  They ate awhile in silence. Over coffee Crash worked up enough courage to get to the point.

  “That’s a drastic solution,” Joe said after Crash had finished explaining his plans.

  “Drastic situations require drastic solutions.” He strapped on his helmet. “Besides, if you don’t keep moving, you die.”

  Joe clapped his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Take care, Nat.”

  “Same to you. I’ll be back to dance at your wedding, but I hope it’s not to that mannequin.”

  “Nat...”

  “Okay, okay.” When he was astride his Harley he gave a salute. “See you around, Joe.”

  “Crash, wait.”

  Joe hurried over to the motorcycle, concern written all over him.

  “Are you sure about all this?”

  “How can a man be sure about anything?”

  Joe studied the two mockingbirds in the giant magnolia that presided over his flower garden.

  He was not one to make hasty judgments or hasty decisions. Ask anybody who knew him, especially his fiancée. She’d been trying for months to pin him down on a wedding date.

  “Nat, you know I’d do anything in the world for you. Why don’t you stick around for a while, think things through. I’ll help you out any way I can.”

  “Thanks, Joe. A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”

  Joe was thoughtful another long while, drumming his fingers against the Harley and studying the fountain nestled among his roses.

  “You already told me you don’t want to discuss the woman, and I don’t mean to delve into your personal problems.” Joe cleared his throat. “The trail to the altar is long and fairly arduous, but I’ve made it this far. I don’t deem myself an expert, but I might be of assistance with this matter of the heart.”

  “I’m afraid it’s too late for that, Joe. I’ve already messed things up royally. Besides, the lady and I don’t see eye to eye on anything except a dog.” Crash fastened his helmet, then saluted. “See you when I see you, pal.”

  His brother hugged him close.

  “Maybe I’m not such a hotshot in the love department—it’s a common failure among the Beauregard men. But I do know this. Running away from problems is not the answer.”

  Crash thought about his farm and his legal degree and his Harley and the big wide world outside Tupelo. A fire burned in his soul, and all he knew was that he had to confront it and contain it or it would consume him.

  “I’m not running away, Joe; I’m running toward.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Her case file was open on her desk, the one she secretly called “The Rabbit Who Ate Tupelo.” Her reception area was empty, her office was empty, her conference room was empty.

  B. J. took out a yellow legal pad and made a list of things to do. She wrote “hire legal secretary” at the head of her list. Next she wrote “client contacts,” but her heart wasn’t in it. Her heart was still in Crash’s country retreat.

  She made a little moaning sound, and Baxter licked her legs. In the hall, the antique clock she and Maxie had found at an auction bonged the lunc
h hour.

  When she’d been living in Philadelphia she was often too busy to eat lunch. Dinner, too. Sometimes she’d order in, but mostly she’d sit at her desk and work straight through.

  “I’ve got to get busy or I’ll never build that kind of practice in Tupelo,” she said. Baxter was the only one there to hear, and he thumped his tail in what she considered an extremely intelligent and understanding manner.

  “A power lunch. That’s the ticket.” She went to the closet in her office and took out a navy blazer. It was beginning to get hot in Mississippi, but B. J. knew the rules: To play the power game you had to dress the part.

  She put on her blazer, tightened the pins in her French twist, then studied herself in the bathroom mirror. For all appearances she was exactly the same woman who had come to Tupelo weeks ago. On the outside she looked the same. It was the inside that felt different.

  Her heart wasn’t in power lunches, either. Her heart was lying crushed on Maxwell Street where Crash had left her three days earlier without even saying good-bye.

  B. J. went to her break room and dug around in the refrigerator for some cucumbers. She didn’t hear Maxie come in, didn’t know her sister was in the room till she snatched the bag of cucumbers out of B. J.’s hand.

  “Just as I thought,” Maxie said.

  “What?” B.J. felt defensive. Ever since her ill-fated evening of attempted seduction she’d been wanting to bite somebody’s head off, and Maxie’s would do. She snatched the cucumbers back. “Do you mind? That’s my lunch.”

  “We’re going somewhere that serves real food.”

  “Like what? Chocolate almond fudge with marshmallows on the top?” She jerked a chair out from the table and sat down. “No, thank you. I’ve had enough of your interference, Maxie. Go paint dragons on somebody’s walls.”

  “I don’t have to paint a dragon. She’s sitting in my sister’s chair.”

  B. J. took a vicious bite of her cucumber. “That’s what happens when you turn into a dried-up old maid, Maxie. You start breathing fire and brimstone.”

  Maxie sailed her sassy sailor hat onto the table, then straddled a chair facing her sister.

  “I suppose it’ll be orthopedic shoes and a walking cane next.”