So he resigned himself to waiting until there was a better time. It seemed he was doing that a lot lately. Making a decision, he picked the pregnancy book because it was on the couch still in the bag, rather than under his nightstand in the bedroom. Not the most astute method of choice, but he started reading.
Quickly he was pulled in by the information he was absorbing like a sponge. There were drawings of what happened as a baby grew, recommendations for what the mother should and shouldn’t eat. How much she should eat. How much weight she should gain. What she might feel. What she should record. What other women had experienced.
By the end of the first chapter he was overwhelmed. Delilah might be happy or irritable or sad and weepy—or any combination of those—for the next nine months. She might eat him out of house and home or not at all. She might run around like a chicken with its head cut off while she ‘nested’ or she might get put on bed rest.
The way Brandon figured it, the book should really just say ‘We have no clue what is going to happen to you. Good luck.’
Even though he’d been up all night by that point he wasn’t ready to stop. Wanting more information, and hoping that he could either support or refute what he’d just read, Brandon turned to the internet then, knowing full well he couldn’t trust everything he read. If the bulk of the information agreed, then he’d go with it. He was really hoping he could get a little more definition to what was going to happen. Then he might be able to make a few plans. Or something. After an hour and a half, he had Delilah signed up for discounts at three different maternity stores and had a free package of very tiny diapers on the way.
He wanted to call Delilah and ask her exactly how far along she was, so he could put it into the due-date-counter and see when their baby would come. He would also be given a daily email with a new picture of the baby’s development, but not until he produced that date.
Knowing he couldn’t call her—he’d never interrupted her at work before—he tried to guess when it might have happened. For the life of him he couldn’t figure it out. He needed Delilah to tell him what she knew. But she was at work until maybe as late as eleven and then she would head straight home and crawl into bed. She said she’d been so tired lately, with the pregnancy and all. And he didn’t have the heart to wake her when he knew she hadn’t slept well for the past few nights and hadn’t eaten much at all in days.
Eventually, he gave up and went to bed.
Chapter 31
Delilah worked every night that week. Partly because she owed a few nights to the chef who took over for her the week before on such short notice. Also because there was a good likelihood she’d need a few more days here and there just to take care of herself. So she needed to rack up some extra hours just in case. It also didn’t hurt to get in everyone’s good graces early.
She ignored the fact that her work kept her away from Brandon—and the knowledge that she still hadn’t told him anything. She saw him at lunch twice early in the week. Being out like they were, she couldn’t really spill her whole story. LeJune was a great place for light lunch, not a good place to confess. Not in the middle of his workday.
It was just an excuse, but she clung to it like a lifeline. Logically, she knew that she had a better chance with him if she came clean sooner rather than later. But she would have had a much better chance if she’d done it before she realized she was pregnant. With a sense of fatalism about the whole thing, she ignored her obligation for a while, only talking to him on the phone. Using their opposing work schedule to keep it so they weren’t ever truly alone.
If Brandon suspected anything, he didn’t say it.
She’d dreamed every time she went to sleep. That hadn’t happened to her in a long time. When it happened before, she’d tended to have the same dream over and over. First, right after David and Juliet had died, she relived watching the car go over the edge of the canyon every time she closed her eyes. That had been when she’d taken to the cooking sherry. She hadn’t really drunk it, she’d just cooked with it and didn’t cook off all the alcohol. It had been the only way to sleep without seeing it all again. The only way to rest.
Tristan gave her hell about it, and she gave up the cooking sherry. Delilah had been surprised to find that the dreams didn’t return. She’d slept well for a while. Then her brain altered things. In the next round of dreams it was she who plunged into the water and died. Again and again. For a month she hadn’t slept. But, finally, mysteriously, the dream disappeared as fast as it came. And the dreams hadn’t come back.
Lately, however, she’d been dreaming all kinds of things. Maybe because she was pregnant. She’d read that in one of those books. But her dreams weren’t repetitive. They kept morphing. Still, none of them were pleasant.
Twice this week she dreamed she managed to pull Juliet out of the river. Her sister gasped and coughed up water while David was washed further and further away. Delilah wondered what kind of sick construct her mind had made up. Over and over she watched the man she’d married drift away on a current she knew was going to kill him while she sat on the shore.
But in that dream, Juliet’s baby lived. A sweet healthy baby boy that her sister named David. A baby that made Delilah’s own arms ache when she held him because her own baby hadn’t been strong enough to survive the dive into the water to save Juliet. In the dream, Juliet showed little compassion.
That one woke her up cold.
Delilah was running on little fuel and less sleep. A condition that only seemed to make itself worse as the days went on. She didn’t toss her lunch like she had before, but maybe that was because she was eating so little. And the lack of sleep only made her more restless. The dreams didn’t stop.
The worst had come the night before. It hadn’t been as bad as the others. At least not on the surface. She hadn’t woken up in a panic, in fear, or in tears. Instead, she felt so cold and so full of dread that she hadn’t dared go back to sleep even though it was only eleven thirty when she woke up. She would just stay up until work rather than face that dream again.
It was too late to call Brandon, he’d probably already be in bed to get himself up and get to work at a decent hour the next morning. In fact, she’d been so exhausted that she’d been sleeping—or rather, trying to—pretty much most of the time she hadn’t been at work. Which left her precious little time to talk to Brandon about all the things she needed to.
The dream re-played in her mind while she waited for the hours to pass. She’d watched Oprah in re-run and a few infomercials, but her brain couldn’t shake the vision that kept creeping in.
She and David had been throwing a party at the house on the hill. There were numerous open white tents set up around the yard with streamers floating on a breeze she couldn’t feel. A tiny blonde toddler ran past on the over-green grass. Dressed all in white, he dodged in and out of the manicured guests, all of whom commented on how precious he was. Delilah beamed.
Tons of people were at her party. She didn’t know any of them, but she felt she ought to. David talked to all of them. They all stopped her to complement the champagne, the crustades, the canapés. It was truly the perfect party.
Then the whispering began. Hadn’t the child been wearing white? There he was again, but dressed all in blue. Delilah blinked. She chased her son. He usually came when she called him, but this time he played coy and darted away. It was Juliet, wearing a bright and shiny smile, that scooped him up. He hugged her and called her ‘mama.’ Even though she called him ‘David.’ Just like Delilah’s own little boy.
Delilah was angry, ready to point out that Juliet was not his ‘mama’ when the child in white appeared again. People were whispering about how much the two children looked alike. How much they both looked like Delilah’s husband David, and that they were both named after him. Nearly identical, the two children cooed at each other, while Juliet pasted on a serene smile and explained to everyone that she had no idea who the father of her baby was.
David, her husban
d, stepped up at the time and embraced Juliet and her little boy, he was so glad they could come to the party. He kissed her ‘hello.’ With tongue.
Delilah smiled at them, glad that her family got along so well.
But the voice in the back of her brain was clamoring to wake her up. Screaming at her to not be so blind. Her eyes opened to the ceiling in her apartment and to pain. She stared at it for a while. The dream had been so clear, even though in the dream she had been a complete idiot, oblivious to what was going on right under her nose.
She’d stayed in bed for a while before she gave up and watched TV, but she hadn’t been able to shake the disturbing, nagging feeling that she had been just as blind when David and Juliet had been alive. And, though she might have wished they’d lived, she had no idea how she would have lived with it.
She’d eventually turned off the TV and gotten dressed. Driving in to Othello and pushing herself through another early morning at work. Another day of eating very little and of still being haunted by her dreams when she was fully awake.
Not wanting to go back to sleep, Friday after work she stopped in Blessed Be to see Tristan. It was easier to confess to Tristan than to Brandon. So she used her key to let herself in the back just after nine thirty that morning. Tristan was exactly where she expected to find him—at his desk with a mug of coffee in his hands and his ledgers and receipts spread out across the desk in various piles.
He looked up as she came in and smiled before asking how she was doing, if she was still sick, and Delilah found she had a hard time getting her own information out there.
“Hey,” Tristan looked at her sideways, “did you think that maybe you made yourself sick? By bottling it all up inside?”
“No, it isn’t that.” She sighed.
“How do you know?”
Delilah opened her mouth to tell him exactly how she knew, when Yasmin stuck her head in the office, her curls bouncing like her smile. “Morning, boss man.”
Her deep brown eyes twinkled at Tristan but her stupid brother was oblivious. Yasmin had carried a torch for her brother as long as Delilah could remember. Only thing was she’d never put that torch to any herbs that would speed the process along. Delilah was so frustrated at both of them she was tempted to cast the spell herself. But then she repeated her little chant that she wasn’t going to interfere, she wasn’t going to interfere . . .
Having ignored Yasmin’s pointed look and decided that he’d accurately diagnosed his sister, Tristan’s head bowed back over his receipts. Delilah was getting ready to tell him what a jerk he was being when Yasmin’s voice called out from the front of the store for him.
Knowing her chance to tell him about the baby was likely shot, Delilah followed him out behind the front desk just for the entertainment—as dull as that might be.
Tristan smiled at some girl on the other side of the counter, as he leaned over on his elbows. This time he made eye contact with the female. “Hi, Becky.”
Delilah fought to not roll her eyes. Yasmin leaped into the conversation. “Becky said there’s only one little birch bark shard in the basket. She wanted to know if we had any more sticks in the back. I didn’t see any but thought you might know.”
Tristan shook his head, still smiling at Becky. “We had a whole bundle come in last week.” He paused, then thought. “There was that one order—. . . I saw a receipt for something like eight sticks—”
Still he muddled it. Then he shrugged. “That usually lasts us until the next order comes in. It should be here Tuesday, but there’s nothing I can really do before then. Pan Pipes in Venice might have it.”
Becky shook her head, and Delilah watched as Tristan noticed. Yasmin noticed him noticing, too. Delilah had to get out of here, she had enough trouble in her own love life without dealing with Tristan’s mess. At least Tristan seemed gloriously oblivious to his troubles. It was a shame he was so hung up on hers. She wanted to lecture him on the evils of burying his head in the sand, but outing Yasmin at the front of the store—and in front of the oh-so-flirty Becky—was not a kind idea. She really should just take her thoughts and leave.
The problem was she was just too tired to move from where she’d perched her butt on the edge of the counter. Probably because she was pregnant. And it wouldn’t help that she was crashing from a sugar high. She’d drunk three ginger ales during her shift and eaten a caramel cake, the only thing that looked appetizing in days.
Becky sighed. “It’s probably my fault. I think I saw that guy grab a whole bundle of them last week. I should have said something, told him he only needed one. But I was busy talking to you.”
Delilah saw the smile tighten on Yasmin’s face. She had to tell Tristan about the mess he was in. So he knew even if he decided he didn’t want to do anything about it. He just seemed so clueless.
Tristan leaned across the counter toward Becky, “Was he dangerous or just a beginner?”
“Beginners can be dangerous.” Yasmin snorted and walked away, probably trying to get out of the charged air. Clearly, the woman was headed for a heartbreak. Delilah felt for her.
Tristan was too blind to feel, and he volleyed to her retreating back, “Glad to see you can acknowledge that.”
Yasmin didn’t turn. Her hands went into the air in a plea to the gods as she disappeared into the stockroom. But they all heard her, “That’s why you teach them!”
Becky stifled a giggle at the obviously longstanding argument. “I don’t think he was dangerous. Just . . . ignorant. And he did have some spells cast on him.”
“Really?” Tristan leaned further forward and Delilah started to wonder if the two would wind up bumping mouths in a minute. If maybe she should leave them alone. Tristan’s voice sounded very curious, as though beginners didn’t come in here with spells basically spilled on themselves every day. “Just what was it that he did to himself?”
“That’s just it.”
Delilah hauled her tush off the counter edge. She’d seen enough. Time to go home.
Becky’s voice followed her though. “Someone else did it. It seemed like he . . .”
The voices faded as Delilah grabbed her purse and headed out the back door. At the last moment she turned around, knowing she would have to get in her brother’s face to tell him good-bye. Since she hadn’t told him she was pregnant she needed to stay in his good graces, too.
All this niceness was starting to eat at her.
As she got near the front she cleared her throat just a little, so Tristan and Becky wouldn’t think they were alone and lock lips or something right there over the counter. Also, Yasmin might not be so nice if she saw.
Tristan turned only partially. “Maybe he was one of Delilah’s conquests.”
Becky raised her eyebrows at that.
Delilah couldn’t believe he’d said that, and to a virtual stranger. She jumped to defend herself before she could think better of it. “I haven’t done that since—”
Tristan cut her off, but his attention was on Becky. “Delilah casts on guys in bars who . . . bother her.”
Delilah let out a breath. At least that was only part of the truth. And not horribly embarrassing. She should have had more faith in her brother. She should have had more sleep.
Becky shook her head and spoke to Delilah. “I don’t think this guy would have been a ‘bother.’ About this tall.” Becky raised her hand over her own head indicating about six feet.
Delilah shook her head, she hadn’t done anything like that since Brandon. Just look at all the trouble that one caused her. She was done. Finito. Quits.
But Becky kept talking. “Brown hair, a little bit of curl to it. Definitely sexy.”
Delilah blinked.
Tristan finally paid attention, his focus sharpening on his sister as she focused on Becky.
Becky just kept talking. “Good looking. Straight nose. Green, green eyes.”
Delilah’s mouth fell open. The description fit. Perhaps a bit too well. Her brain was turning that over a
nd coming up with ‘no way,’ when Tristan’s voice broke into her thoughts.
He practically yelled. “Rotisserie Guy!? I met Rotisserie Guy and I didn’t know it?”
Becky jumped back, obviously startled by Tristan’s reaction and by the fact that she had been clearly cut from the conversation she started.
Delilah shrugged and tried to brush it off, even though it sounded incredibly like him. “Probably not.”
She prayed that were true. How bad would her life get if Brandon and Tristan wound up in cahoots?
Tristan pestered Delilah to give a more thorough description of Brandon to Becky to see if she could make a positive ID. But Delilah had nothing more to give. What could she possibly say? His identifying marks are a mole on his left upper thigh and a bite mark on his right pectoral. If Becky had seen those, Delilah didn’t want to know. And Becky sure didn’t sound like she knew the guy.
Tristan pestered her for more information. “You have to figure it out. I want to know if that was Rotisserie Guy in case I see him again.”
She was definitely in shock that Brandon might have been in here. And she wasn’t thinking straight, because she tried to come up with something to add to Becky’s description that would tell them if it was or wasn’t Brandon they had seen. After a few moments Delilah was at her wits end, she couldn’t come up with anything that worked, anything that really did him justice. Unfortunately, he holds me like I matter or Did he seem really trustworthy? wasn’t going to cut it either.
“Come on Delilah. What’s Rotisserie Guy’s name?” Tristan nudged her.
She was angry by that point. She didn’t want it to be him. “Brandon.”
Becky blinked and perked right up. Which just made Delilah more upset. “This guy was named Brandon.”
WishCraft Page 23
