MILLION DOLLAR BABY

by Patricia Ryan

Knowing she was on the edge of climax, and that he'd done this to her, that he'd made her come apart this way, filled him with triumphant satisfaction. He felt his own release gather up along with hers, their bodies straining together, trembling…

  Their pleasure erupted like a single thunderclap cracking open the skies, rocking them with its power as they clutched at each other, breathless and moaning.

  As the tremors diminished, he rested his weight on her, carefully, his arms tight around her, his face buried in her sweetly fragrant hair, willing his heart to quell its painful pounding. Even through his jacket, he could feel the soft weight of her breasts rising and falling.

  He waited for her breathing to slow, as his was slowing, but it only grew more rapid and erratic. Presently he felt her chest begin to shake, just slightly. No sound came from her, but he realized she'd begun to weep.

  "Laura?" Dean levered himself up on an elbow. She turned away from him. He felt her silent sobs deep inside her, where they were still intimately connected. "Oh, God, Laura." Easing a hand between them, Dean drew himself carefully out of her and zipped up, pulled her nightgown down, wrapped her robe around the torn garment.

  She curled away from him and covered her face with her hands.

  Look what he'd done to her, look what he'd reduced her to, his strong, beautiful Lorelei.

  "Oh, Laura. Oh, honey." Lying behind her, Dean tucked her into his embrace, nuzzled the heavy satin of her hair. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm entirely to blame."

  She shook her head, saying something in a wet, scratchy voice that he couldn't make out – not that he needed to. The reason for her anguish was obvious. She felt as if she'd betrayed Will.

  If anyone had betrayed him, it was Dean. Two months ago, William Sweeney had died in Dean's arms after pleading, with his final breath, for Dean to watch over Laura, make sure no harm ever came to her.

  "I'll take care of her, buddy," Dean had managed to promise through his tears.

  He'd taken care of her by seeking her out while she was holed away here licking her wounds, and…

  And now she felt guilty?

  "Don't cry, Laura, please," he said, his throat achingly full. "Don't cry. This is my fault. It was my doing. If anyone's to blame, it's me."

  He held her like that for a long time, murmuring apologies and reassurances until she grew heavy and limp in his arms and he realized she'd fallen asleep. Gingerly disentangling himself from her, he slid a pillow beneath her head, pulled the quilt up over her and went downstairs.

  He headed directly for the front porch, lit a cigarette with unsteady hands and leaned against a support column to smoke it.

  Happy now, Kettering, you sorry son of a bitch? Hadn't screwed up in a big enough way recently, so you had to do this to Laura?

  She would never forgive him. He knew that. She was compassionate and she was understanding, but she'd always valued fidelity; it was part and parcel of who she was, the whole integrity thing.

  She would never forgive him for taking advantage of her while she was in mourning for Will. It didn't matter that she'd invited him to stay, with all that implied. She hadn't known what she was saying, was too dazed by the nightmare she'd endured, and was still enduring, to think straight.

  It hadn't been Dean she'd wanted, not really, despite that hum of awareness between them, that aching sweetness that had always been there. It had been simple human comfort she'd craved, the most elemental kind.

  Dean had known it on some level, but that hadn't stopped him. His desire for her had ambushed him, robbing him of what little he had in the way of scruples. He hadn't even had the presence of mind – the common decency – to think about protection. He had condoms in his wallet. He could have paused long enough to get one out, for her sake, but for the first time ever, it hadn't even occurred to him.

  Nor, apparently, to her.

  She'd been vulnerable and confused. It had been up to him to keep perspective, to keep things from getting out of hand, and he'd failed her, failed them both.

  Failed Will.

  Taking a last, long drag of his cigarette, Dean hurled it onto the gravel driveway and went back inside. At the foot of the stairs, he glanced through the living room, into the solarium, and saw Laura's enormous, half-finished seascape bathed in moonlight.

  It was true, he thought as he crossed to the solarium for a good look at the immense canvas, with its tempestuous sky and explosive waves – that painting didn't know whether it wanted to scream or cry. It was a direct reflection of Laura's current state of mind. And that had been before Dean had injected himself into the mix.

  I'll take care of her, buddy. Yet he'd only made things worse for Laura. What he did tonight would, if anything, intensify her grief.

  He would never change, that was abundantly clear now. Even when his intentions started out good, he couldn't help but blow it.

  Turning to leave, he saw the carton he'd brought Laura sitting open amid flattened tubes of paint and spattered coffee cans on a long worktable against the wall. Curious as to whether she'd gone through it yet, he crossed to it and looked inside.

  A sheet of heavy white paper, creased from being folded, lay on top of everything else. By the inadequate moonlight it looked like a drawing, but there seemed to be writing on it. He flipped a light switch on the wall above the table and blinked at the sudden onslaught of fluorescents.

  It was a letter, he saw, in Laura's handwriting – "Dear Will…" – but the margins were filled with little ink drawings: Rattles, a rocking horse, little shoes, teddy bears…

  Feeling suddenly starved for breath, Dean lifted the letter and read it.

  Remember that night we decided to throw away my diaphragm? Talk about beginner's luck.

  That's right, stallion. You hit the bull's-eye on the first try. Don't get a big head. I helped.

  Yes, I'm sure it's for real. And don't try to say, you weren't doubting me, because one thing I've learned about you after all these years is that you don't believe anything unless you see the proof with your own two eyes.

  I did one of those home pregnancy tests, but then, just to make sure, I went to Dr. Chang this morning. She says I'm only four or five weeks along right now, but I've got a due date! October 7 – your sister Bridget's birthday.

  So, what do you think? Sweating yet? Too late to take it back now, big guy. Junior and I have bonded.

  Seriously, I'm shaking, I'm so happy. I wish you were here. I just wish you were here, honey, to share this with me.

  Be careful over there, Will. You're a daddy now. You have a child to raise.

  Listen, about names. I know we talked about it and sort of came to an agreement, but I've been thinking, and if it's a girl, I'd really like to name her Jane, after Grandma. Everyone's naming their daughters Ashley now, anyway.

  Of course, if it's a boy, we're going with Dean. That hasn't changed.

  Dean dropped the letter in the box, gripped the edge of the table and leaned over, squeezing his eyes shut. There was more, but he couldn't bear to read it.

  Of course, if it's a boy, we're going with Dean.

  Of course. Good old Dean. The prospective father's best buddy, his closest friend in the world.

  And the prospective mother's…

  Dean swore rawly under his breath, growling out a stream of paint-curling expletives aimed at himself.

  Laura was pregnant – a good three months pregnant by now.

  "You screwup, you selfish shit…" He scrubbed at his face, calling himself every loathsome name he knew.

  She was carrying a child, the child of her dead husband, and Dean had…

  "Oh, God."

  And he hadn't been gentle about it, either. He'd waited so long to have her that, when the opportunity came, he'd just lost control.

  Had he been too rough with her? Had he hurt her? No. Laura was no silent martyr type. If he'd hurt her, she would have told him, made him stop.

  Not that he hadn't hurt her, just not physically.

  H
e hoped.

  Wearily, he shut off the lights, left the solarium and climbed the stairs to the second floor. At the open door to Laura's bedroom, he paused, watching her sleep, still curled on her side like a child. A breeze fluttered the curtains, letting a wavering veil of moonlight drift into the room and sweep across the bed.

  Laura's hair shimmered in the diaphanous light. Her skin had a pearly, lit-from-within quality to it.

  He approached the bed slowly, his gaze riveted on her. Her mouth, with its perfectly shaped lips – luxuriant, naturally pink lips he'd never been able to stop thinking about for long – was slightly open. Those spectacular eyes were closed, of course, so he wouldn't get a last look at them.

  He would never see them again.

  A salty network of dried tears coursed over one wide, exquisitely molded cheekbone, dissipating near her jaw. A tendril of hair, wavy from having gotten damp, clung to the side of her face. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Dean lifted it and smoothed it off her face, carefully, so as not to wake her.

  He didn't wake her, but he must have disturbed her sleep, because she mumbled something unintelligible in a raspy voice.

  Dean stilled for a moment, then stroked her hair, gently, soothingly. "Shh, honey, go back to sleep."

  There came a soft little grunt of acquiescence, and she didn't stir again.

  He lifted the quilt over her shoulders, tucking it around her as if she were a fragile thing that needed safeguarding.

  Too late for that.

  He leaned over her, placed a feather-light kiss on her hair and whispered, "It's been beautiful knowing you, Lorelei."

  Rising, he left the bedroom without looking back, lifted his duffel and uniform from the floor of the landing, went downstairs and drove away.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  «^»

  Under a bright, cold, midday sun, Laura, bearing a net bag filled with oranges, climbed onto the porch that wrapped around three sides of the Blue Mist Bed and Breakfast, gave a perfunctory rap on the front door and opened it. She and Kay hadn't stood on ceremony since the day they'd met, five years ago.

  Turning in the doorway, she gestured to Janey, making her way across the snow-crusted lawn that separated the two houses, clutching a grapefruit with both mittened hands, her gaze trained on her hoots as she concentrated on stepping precisely in her mother's footprints.

  "Hurry up, little monkey!" Laura called. "Don't want us eating all the pancakes before you get there, do you?" Sunday brunch with Kay – and, during the summer, whoever happened to be renting rooms from her at the time – had been a ritual with them for years, just like Chick Flick Night on Thursdays.

  Laura liked rituals. They made her feel secure and grounded among those she cared about, imparting a very real sense of comfort that she could use right about now. Her visit to Dean in Portsmouth two days ago had left her reeling, emotionally. A nagging remorse had scratched away at her well-being ever since, producing a malaise that resisted her heroic efforts to rise above it. Her antidepressant of choice – Hershey's Kisses with Almonds, a whole bag of them ingested at regular intervals over the past thirty-six hours – hadn't so much as made a dent.

  Janey picked up her pace and followed. Laura into the house. "My nose is wunning, Mommy."

  "Here." Snatching a tissue from her pocket, Laura traded it for the grapefruit. "Remember – leave your boots and coat by the front door," she instructed as she kicked off her own boots. Juggling the fruit, she wrestled herself out of her parka and hung it on Kay's antique coat tree.

  The mingled aromas of bacon, coffee and hot buttermilk pancakes drifting through the house made Laura's stomach gripe emptily. All she'd had to eat that morning was half a container of vanilla yogurt on her way out the door to church.

  "Meet you in the kitchen." Mouth watering, Laura padded in her stocking feet past the front parlor and oak-banistered stairway, through the dining room with its economy-size table set for four – four? – and into the spacious, sun-washed kitchen with its teacup wallpaper and eyelet curtains.

  "Laura!" Kay, standing at the massive industrial stove cooking pancakes, turned to her friend with a peculiar, strained smile. "You're here!" Turning back to the stove, she asked, a little too brightly, "Where's Janey?"

  "She's coming."

  "Good. Good."

  Laura thunked the oranges and grapefruit on the tiled countertop. "Kay, how come the table's set for four?"

  "What?" Kay flipped a pancake, but without her usual skill; it landed partly off the griddle, but she didn't seem to notice.

  "There are four place settings on the dining table, not three. Is someone else—"

  "Oh, hey, listen, you should get that fruit cut up. The bacon's done, and the pancakes are almost there."

  "Uh…" Laura reached for the wooden cutting board. "Is something wrong, Kay?"

  "What do you mean?" Kay asked without looking at her.

  "I mean you're acting a little … crisped around the edges."

  "No, I'm not."

  "Yes you are."

  "I'm just dying of hunger, that's all. How was church?"

  "How was church?" Laura chuckled disbelievingly as she lifted Kay's biggest knife off its hook, placed the grapefruit in the middle of the chopping board and sliced it in half, releasing its tart-sweet perfume. "Now I know something's up." The one time Laura had managed to bully her friend into coming to church with her, Kay had fled midway through the service with "the worst fake migraine I've ever had."

  "What do you mean?" Kay flipped a couple more pancakes, none too adeptly. "Just 'cause I've got issues with organized religion doesn't mean I can't show an interest."

  "Well, at least you didn't call it 'organized superstition' this time." Setting the grapefruit halves on the big, cut glass platter they used for fruit, Laura started whacking the oranges into wedges. Janey turned her nose up at grapefruit, but she could put away oranges like a machine.

  "Mmm, smells yummy in here!" Janey exclaimed as she entered the kitchen.

  "Hey, monkey," Laura called over her shoulder as she chopped. "What took you so long?"

  "I was talkin' to Dean Kettle-wing."

  Laura's knife stilled in midslice. Her gaze shot to Kay, who met it sheepishly. "Laura, I, uh…"

  "Morning, Kay," came a man's voice – Dean's voice – from behind her, and then, more softly, "Laura."

  Laura felt as if her chest were being crushed in a vise. Yanking the knife out of the orange, she turned to find Dean standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

  Next to Janey.

  Dean and Janey together. They'd been talking. Laura struggled just to draw a breath.

  Dean, dressed in an age-softened Henley shirt and jeans, his hair pulled back into a ponytail, squatted on his haunches and stage-whispered to Janey, "She doesn't look happy to see me."

  "You just think that 'cause she's pointing a big knife at you," Janey whispered back, "but I don't think she knows she's doing it."

  Kay pried the knife out of Laura's hand, set it on the counter and grinned like a lunatic. "Everyone hungry?"

  "Dean," Laura said woodenly, "what the hell are you doing here?"

  Janey slapped a hand over her mouth in reaction to the "hell," and possibly also to the depth of Laura's ire; she had rarely seen her phlegmatic mother angry, and never seen her rude.

  Piling the last of the pancakes on an already heaping platter. Kay said, "He, uh, he showed up yesterday evening and asked if I rented out rooms during the winter. I said not usually, but only 'cause there's so little demand. I gave him a special off-season weekly rate and put him in the Sage Room 'cause it's got the firepl—"

  "I asked him." Laura took a step toward Dean, who rose to his feet with that shuttered expression she knew all too well. "What are you doing here?"

  When Dean hesitated, Janey jumped in. "Mommy, this is the man that gave you the million—"

  "I know who he is," Laura said shortly. "Janey, it was Mr. Kettering I went to see over
the weekend. I gave the money back."

  Janey looked stricken. "You gave it back? But what about Mr. Hale's boat?"

  "Janey, please," Laura said. "I'm trying to talk to—"

  "We can talk while we eat," Kay inserted too cheerily as she handed the platter of pancakes to Dean. "Would you mind putting those on the dining table? I'll get the coffee and bacon. Janey, you grab the juice – you know where it is, right?"

  "Yup!" Janey scampered over to the big steel refrigerator and hauled it open with both hands.

  "And, Laura, if you'll bring the fruit out—"

  "I'm going to kill you for this," Laura muttered between her teeth as Kay passed by her.

  "Fair enough, but can we eat first? I really am starving."

  *

  "What's this about a boat?" Dean asked as he mopped up a puddle of syrup with his last bite of pancake. Kay had seated him directly across from Laura, forcing her to make eye contact with him at regular intervals all through brunch – except when she had studiously avoided doing so. No one seemed to have noticed Laura's almost complete silence during the meal. Even the taciturn Dean had contributed more to the conversation than she had.

  Kay said, "There's a used sailboat Laura's got her eye on."

  "It's a Pwecision 18!" exclaimed Janey, perched on a stack of phone books at the head of the table. "Waleigh Hale is selling it. It's five years old, just like me. Only Mommy says we can't afford it."

  Laura sighed as she lifted her coffee cup.

  "A Precision 18," Dean said. "Nice boat. How much is this Wally Hale asking?"

  Laura choked on her coffee at the notion of such a venerable old personage being mislabeled "Wally." "It's Raleigh Hale," she said through a chuckle she couldn't suppress. "His family founded Hale's Point, a couple of towns over."

  Dean caught her eye and said softly, "It's nice to see you smile."

  Laura looked away quickly and caught Kay eyeing her with a smile that said verrry interesting. Partly to undercut whatever revelation Kay had come to, Laura added an edge to her voice and said to Dean, "Look, I don't know where this is going, but it doesn't really matter how much Raleigh is asking for the boat, because—"