Dream Keeper (Indigo)

by Gail McFarland

  The deep breath rushed from his body and his hand moved from her back to her hair. “I wondered when this would come up.”

  Rissa stopped moving and simply rested against him. “Then why didn’t you say something?”

  “I figured that you were carrying enough guilt and hurt for the two of us, and that when you were ready to lay the burden down, I would be there to take it for you.”

  “I guess I should have known that, shouldn’t I?” When his hips shifted and his feet moved, she stirred with him, her head lifting just enough to look into his eyes. “Maybe I missed the boat on the big one, but I figured out something else today.”

  “That you love me?” He turned her again, then settled her against the broadness of his chest.

  “I’ve always known that, and I thought you did, too.”

  “I just like hearing you say it. Tell me what you figured out.”

  “We’re having a girl.” He was silent, smiling when she looked up at him. “You’re not surprised?”

  “I already knew.”

  “How?”

  “I just know, and I have faith that I’m right.”

  “Funny you would say that,” Rissa sighed. “Faith.”

  He nodded. “I think it’s pretty, too. Are you thinking Faith or Imani?”

  “Maybe both.” She blinked and looked up at him. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, she’s told us everything else. Let’s wait and let her decide.” Dench’s hand moved on her back and as he watched, Rissa’s face flushed and her eyes brightened. Her lips parted and she panted slightly.

  “She’s decided?”

  “I think Faith Imani works for her,” Rissa whispered, her hand circling the baby’s curve.

  When she lifted her other hand, her fingers beckoning, Dench offered his hand and held his breath. When she pressed his palm to the firm mound, he smiled when the baby moved. Kneeling, he framed the rounded shape of his child between his large hands, his fingers curving to trace her. Needing to be close to them both, he brought his mouth close to Rissa’s belly and whispered, “Hello, Faith Imani Traylor. I’m your daddy.”

  Chapter 19

  Wandering through her home again, Rissa found herself fluffing pillows, straightening pictures on the walls, and missing Dench, even as she tiptoed past the spot where he’d decided their Christmas tree would go.

  “I’ve got to get used to this,” she told herself when she pulled open the hall closet door. “The season’s going well, the players are healthy, and if they make it to the playoffs, he’ll be gone that much longer.” She looked at the spot near the fireplace and tried not to think about last year and the promise she’d made.

  Last year, though, it seemed like the promise was on the verge of fulfillment. Last year, there had been a huge tree with family and friends decking the halls. There had been the promise of a baby and a hell of a lot of hope. And then there was none.

  She turned away and jerked open the door of the hall closet, refusing to give the pain any energy. Determined, she spent the next ten minutes shoving things around, rehanging jackets and sweaters, turning all of the hangers in the same direction. “Okay, baby, this is what not to do with your law degree,” she muttered. Closing the closet, she went in search of her next make-work project.

  The tiny thought ambushed her, worming its way into her consciousness. We didn’t make it this far before, did we?

  The simple answer wasn’t easy and almost dropped her prayerfully to her knees. No, we didn’t. But this time is different. Seven months we’ve made it, and every day that you stay put is one more day to our advantage. One more day to the good. The baby moved, and Rissa’s path changed. Anything to avoid that damned space and the thought of another Christmas tree.

  Because this time…She squelched the thought.

  On the way to the kitchen, she found a stack of magazines and catalogues. “Wonder how the household ninja missed these?” Collecting them, she took them to the kitchen and flopped them on the high granite countertop. Touching the wall panel bathed the room in more light than she wanted, so she turned it down so that she could read at the counter.

  Pulling one of the high stools close, she pushed her hip onto the stool and heard herself puff when she settled her bulk into it. That was something new, the thickness of her body and the effort it took to move it, but to tell the truth, when nobody was looking, she liked it.

  When nobody was looking, Rissa loved everything about being pregnant. She’d taken to keeping a private journal where she logged daily weight changes and listed weekly waistline and hip changes. She kept shorthand notes of every doctor’s visit and had a special place tabbed in the book where she noted every move the baby made. And she guarded her little book jealously, not even sharing it with Dench. Let him get his own book. This one is mine.

  She was still smarting from the day Nia had pulled it from her purse and sat in the middle of Marlea and AJ’s kitchen turning the pages. When Marlea took the little pink and blue book from the little girl, she’d flipped through it, finding Rissa’s notes.

  “So what is this?”

  She’d held the book, teasing, just out of reach. When Rissa reached for it, Marlea had lightly tossed the book to AJ. Sensing a game of Keep Away in the making, AJ caught the book and held it just out of reach, leaving Rissa stomping and screaming.

  Thank goodness Dench came along when he did. Using his height and a little stealth to good advantage, he’d come up behind AJ and snagged her book, which she’d promptly hugged to her breast and hustled out of their house.

  Thank goodness for Dench. Looking down at the heavy swell of her breasts gave her a little thrill. Letting her hand fall just a little lower to find and comfort the bulge of her baby drove the thrill deeper, touching her at her very core, and she couldn’t stop herself from curving her hands around the tight ball of her baby.

  Warmth, a wave of sudden undeniable love, swept over her, leaving a comfortable smile in its wake. I’m glad we did the ultrasound before he left. It was funny, Dench had been the one to ask for the pictures, to insist on having one at each visit with Alexis Stanton, and to keep the scrapbook. Who would have thought that this little girl would have captured her father’s heart so quickly?

  Still smiling, Rissa reached for the television remote and pressed the buttons. She kept the sound low and watched the images move until she grew bored. Ignoring the television, she reached for the stack of magazines and catalogues. Flipping the top one open, she saw Dench’s notes scribbled across the corner of the pages and shook her head. “How is it that the man who is responsible for erecting a moving wall of men can take the time to make sure that we choose the precise shade of delicate pink for your nursery?”

  She felt the little bubble of happiness and smiled. “Yeah, I like him, too.”

  Trading one magazine for another, she yawned and turned pages. Bored, she closed the book and pushed it away. “Well, Faith, here we are on a Saturday night and it looks like everyone in the world has something to do except the two of us. And if I hadn’t been told to take it easy, I would find something for us to do. But I won’t, I’ll sit here just like I promised Dench—and you.”

  Though the baby sent no psychic message, she did send a bright flash of pleasure straight to Rissa’s heart, making her smile and sigh aloud. Faith Imani Traylor was an emotional little girl, even though she wasn’t here yet. “But soon, sweet girl, soon.” Both hands went to her stomach and she felt the quickness of the baby’s movement and the flush of pleasure renewed itself.

  “You know your name,” Rissa whispered, comforted and amused by the thought. “It was kind of funny that Dench and I came up with similar names. Faith seemed so right because I believe in you, little girl. I believe that you are ours and that Dench and I are destined to love you for our whole lives. And he loves the name Imani because he’s as confident that you belong with us as I am. And your grandmother wanted me to be sure that you know that ‘faith is the substance of things not s
een.’”

  Rissa didn’t mention the look her mother gave her when she tried to explain the baby’s communications. As a matter of fact, every time she mentioned it, people seemed to give her an odd look, and it was getting old—she’d written that in her little journal, too. “Maybe I should just keep you to myself.”

  Leaning against the high kitchen counter, she reached across and flipped through another set of catalogues. It seemed that the more they bought, the more catalogues and magazines showed up at the door. Even Rose Kirkwood, the household ninja, had begun to complain about their sheer volume and overwhelming frequency. “And on top of that, I am just getting flat-out sick of looking at baby furniture and amenities.” She looked down at her belly and gave it a pat. “No offense.”

  Apparently none was taken as the baby was still when Rissa walked across the tile floor and shoved the catalogues into the recycling bin. “So now what do we do? The only person I know who would be hanging around is Yvette, and I am so not about to call her and play Twenty Questions all night.”

  And that’s exactly what a phone call to her partner would become. Yvette still couldn’t get over Rissa and Dench first refusing to ask about the baby’s sex, and then deciding that the munchkin was a girl. When it turned out that they were right, the woman went into curiosity overdrive. ‘How did you know? When did you know? What was the first clue?’ I swear, I ran out of answers for her after the first hundred times she asked. And then when she started to tiptoe around my feelings, I thought I was going to have to choke her!

  Rissa grabbed the remote and went to stand in front of the television. Thumbing the buttons, she started to flick through the channels. Eight hundred channels of programming, and I can’t find a single show to watch. She stopped on a channel featuring a doctor talking about childbirth. When the program didn’t seem to offer any new or relevant information, she started to press buttons again.

  Going to the premium channels that Dench swore were work related, she flicked through football, wrestling, and some kind of extreme cage fighting—nothing she wanted to see. She waited long enough to watch a preview of Jimmy’s fight, and approved when the full shot of him zoomed onto the screen. He looked good, rather like a hero compared to his older opponent, and the announcer made “The Showdown in the South” sound exciting.

  But I have to wait an hour for the excitement.

  It was nearly ten, and she’d already talked to Dench. He wouldn’t care if she called again, but he might worry if she did, and he had a game tomorrow. Rissa looked from the clock to the phone, and decided against the call. Marlea and AJ were speaking at a Presidential Fitness Council event in Washington. Connie and Jeannette had taken Libby up on a visit to her timeshare in the mountains. Sierra Clarence was probably already at Phillips Arena. “And my mother is on a date. Everybody has a life but me,” she sulked, folding her arms over the baby bump.

  Unwilling to be forgotten or overlooked, the baby telegraphed a quick reminder of her presence, making her mother burp and slap her chest in response. Then the baby moved, a silky little stroke. “Okay,” Rissa amended, taking the hint. “Everybody has a life, except us.”

  Her eyes went back to the clock. Almost ten. “If we can stay awake another hour, we can watch Jimmy’s fight.” The idea filled her with a quick sense of purpose and she left the remote on the counter and turned her attention to assembling snacks and building a tray for her viewing pleasure.

  Waiting for corn to pop, she scoured the kitchen cabinets until she found the hoped-for ingredients, and she silently blessed the household ninja. For a few guilty seconds, she was glad that Dench was out of the house as she poured a box of Milk Duds into hot popcorn. He hated the combination, and since her pregnancy, she couldn’t get enough of it. She and the baby were almost giddy with anticipation when she dipped her hand into the bowl and shoveled the chocolate and caramel-coated popcorn into her mouth.

  Letting the salt, sweet, and crunch tease her tongue and fill her mouth was an almost sensual treat and she stood chewing, savoring it. “Some things are not meant to be shared, even when you love a man,” she said aloud. She scooped another handful and stood with her eyes closed, chewing. A few more kernels left her licking her fingers and giggling. “I know that this is not what Alexis Stanton had in mind when she told me that I would have to find a sexual alternative.”

  And goodness knows that hadn’t been easy on either of them.

  The whole idea of not being able to completely share themselves was frustrating, to say the least. The dancing had worked at first, and it was still nice, but…Now Dench, who hated running, was running with AJ and Marlea every time he got the chance. And I’m stuffing myself with popcorn and Milk Duds.

  It was growing more and more frustrating to be so intensely close, to touch so profoundly, to move so intimately, and to have the freedom to do everything except to cross the lines of physical intercourse. “Thank God I love the man for so much more than his body. And that he loves me for more than just my physical charms. Who knew that sexual congress was really that big a deal?” Then she thought about it and giggled again. “It got Adam and Eve in a boatload of trouble, though.

  “Better stick to popcorn. Oh, and maybe a hotdog.” The thought turned her to the refrigerator and she again blessed the household ninja for stocking up on hotdogs, chili, and coleslaw. Quick and greedy, Rissa nuked the hotdog and chili while she toasted the bun. Even the smell made her lick her lips as she assembled her sandwich.

  She added the bowl to her tray and took her time maneuvering it and herself to the table in front of the television. Setting the tray in easy reach, she grabbed the remote and levered herself down onto the sofa. The championship bout was in Atlanta, and Phillips Arena was going to be filled to capacity—one reason she was staying home and watching it on HBO. “All I need is to get down there, pushing and shoving through a crowd like that.”

  Stimulation, of all sorts, was on the prohibited list, too. The last thing I want or need to do is break the stitches of the cerclage, she thought. Especially since we’ve come this far. Only five more weeks, and we’re into the ‘safe’ zone. Six weeks and we’ll be right at Christmas and close to the start of a new year. I can do five weeks easy.

  Five weeks sounded like an eternity.

  Pulling a nest of cushions around her body, Rissa punched a fist into the pillow at her hip and pulled at it. When that didn’t help, she moved and shoved it into the curve of her back—better. A second pillow went under her knees as she curled into her corner of the sofa. Remote in hand, cellphone, popcorn, hotdog, and ginger ale in easy reach, she settled in to watch.

  Billed as “The Showdown in the South”, this was Jimmy’s first serious fight as a heavyweight and Gervais Tabac, the current champion, had done his best to dominate and intimidate him in all of the prefight interviews. To his credit, Jimmy stood his ground with grace, dignity, and a quiet smile.

  Watching shots of him preparing for his fight, Rissa couldn’t help feeling a little rip of pride. Reporters spoke well of his record, liking his stats. Contrasting his time in the ring with the current champion, they lauded him as a ‘clean’ and skilled young fighter, and were charmed by his modesty. Regular comparisons to Thomas “Hitman” Hearns kept cropping up, and he was humble enough to reply that while he was flattered, Hearns had established himself as a legend and the kind of fighter that he hoped to become.

  Enjoying her hotdog, Rissa half-listened to what the announcer had to say. A lot of it was canned, a script that she’d reviewed endlessly, but some of it was genuinely interesting and featured shots of Jimmy running and sparring. There were other shots, taken earlier in his career, that chronicled his growth as a fighter. Some of them were really cute, like the one from his days as a welterweight, and the one with him holding his tiny son in the palm of his boxing gloves.

  “And tonight, this young man is ready…”

  “More than you know,” Rissa told the announcer.

  Over the months le
ading up to the fight, Jimmy had bulked up, adding more than thirty pounds to his lean frame. And he wears it well. Rissa smiled, finishing the hotdog. No wonder Sierra is so proud of him. He’d trained intensely, learning to alter his fighting stance and speed to accommodate his increased size, and Rissa watched with interest as he entered the ring.

  Tabac, in black shorts, was long-limbed and thick, square and menacing as he prowled the ring. Jimmy, in white shorts with a bright red side stripe, was calm and attentive as he stood in the center of the ring waiting to do the job he’d come for. On the referee’s command, the fighters touched gloves and moved toward each other.

  Rissa pulled her knees close and clutched a pillow.

  Commanding the ring, Jimmy was fast and as graceful as ever, firing shots from both the left and the right hand with deadly accuracy. He moved in with telling blows and scored easily, but it was evident that he’d learned something that she’d heard Dench tell his defensive linemen—the best way to avoid a hit is to get out of the way. And Jimmy had it down to a science.

  By the start of the third round, Tabac was sweaty and showing the wear of his effort. Jimmy was points ahead, and his style showed in the refinement of every finished move. Rissa reached for her popcorn, munched and smiled. Dench was right. My boy is a gentleman boxer. Moving with a breezy, almost choreographed energy, Jimmy drove strong punches into the body of his bigger opponent. Desperate, Gervais Tabac swatted at his challenger who kept stepping out of range.

  “Uh-huh. Can’t lay a glove on him, can you?” Rissa taunted the screen. There had been a lot of ugly talk from Tabac before the match, but watching the fourth round, it was easy to see that the talk had been just that as he swung and failed to connect. “Hey batta, batta, batta, swing!” Rissa crowed.

  Jimmy danced close and delivered a series of flawless jabs and a hook to Tabac’s chin as the bell signaled the end of the round. Rissa applauded loudly. “Ha! Training will tell,” she shouted when the instant replay tried to track the speed of Jimmy’s punches. Even slowed down, they were a blur. Tempted to call Sierra, she grabbed her bowl of popcorn and settled in for the remainder of the match.