“Let me help.” She reached for the buttons of his shirt.
In minutes they were both naked. Gretchen felt the softness of the carpet beneath her shoulders and hips as Marco fitted his body to her body and his mouth to her mouth.
They were both voracious in their need to touch, to taste, to meld into each other. Long minutes later, when Marco abandoned her mouth in favor of her breasts, Gretchen threaded her fingers through his hair. He teased her nipples with his tongue, then traced it slowly down the length of her abdomen. Hovering over the core of her femininity, he raised his head and gave her a smoldering look.
Gretchen felt her stomach muscles tighten, and she held her breath in anticipation. When he lowered his head again, she dug her fingers into his skull. The pleasure was so intense, she cried out. Arching her back, she held on for dear life.
She was nearing the peak when Marco moved over her again. In one swift movement he entered her, his strokes hard and rhythmic. She met him stroke for stroke as the pleasure mounted between them.
“You drive me out of my mind,” he groaned as they climaxed together.
Beneath the shadow of the grand piano, they consummated their marriage a second time. This time the pace was more leisurely, more tender and, while no less satisfying, infinitely more sweet.
Afterward, Gretchen lay spent in his arms. Ear to his chest, she listened to the strong beat of his heart and felt the first quiet ray of hope she’d felt in weeks. Was it possible after all that, after the passage of time, their marriage might turn into what she’d always dreamed of, a union based on mutual love and respect? He’d cared enough to buy her this beautiful piano. Surely that was a good sign.
For now it was enough.
For now.
Chapter 13
Twenty days later it was no longer enough, and Gretchen was spoiling for a fight.
It was Friday night; she and Marco had both had a long, hard day at work; and, instead of going out to a movie or cuddling up in front of the television together as she had suggested, she was working on a jigsaw puzzle in the den—the same puzzle they’d started all those weeks ago—and Marco was upstairs in the nursery, painting.
She had offered to help, but he’d waved her away. Paint fumes weren’t good for a pregnant woman to breathe, he’d said. She’d be much safer in a different part of the house.
He had the following week off, forty-plus hours while she was away at work to paint in, and he’d chosen tonight of all nights to begin this particular project. Couldn’t he have at least waited until tomorrow morning? Couldn’t he see that all she wanted to do was spend some time with him? She didn’t care what they did, so long as they were together.
Sadly, spending time apart while physically under the same roof was not unusual for them. On the contrary, it was the norm. Of the 480 hours that had elapsed since they’d said I do, Marco had spent 260 hours at the hospital, forty hours commuting to and from the hospital, 120 hours sleeping and approximately thirty-seven hours making love to her.
Gretchen knew all this because in a moment of frustration she had hauled out her calculator and figured it out. And how had he used the twenty-three precious, remaining hours that they could have spent together? He’d squandered them reading the newspaper and endless medical reports, checking stock prices on the Internet, raking leaves, washing cars, puttering around in the garage and, tonight, painting.
To make matters worse, she was nauseous every morning until she managed—very slowly—to down a piece of dry toast. Her waist was thickening, and her clothes were growing tight. She was in that awful in-between stage in her pregnancy, when she wasn’t big enough for maternity clothes but her regular clothes only succeeded in making her look fat.
She could cope with the long hours Marco worked, the missed dinners, even looking fat. What she couldn’t cope with were the silences whenever they were together. It seemed to Gretchen that from the moment Marco had slid the simple gold band on her ring finger he’d turned into a stranger. He never talked to her anymore, and it seemed that the only time they saw each other was in bed at night, where their lovemaking was as tempestuous as ever. While the thirty-seven hours of lovemaking had been wonderful, they weren’t conversation. And it was conversation Gretchen was beginning to crave even more than she did vanilla ice cream and dill pickles.
If the only common ground they had was sex, she often wondered, what would happen when her belly was hugely rounded with his child, when her face, feet and ankles were swollen with retained water, when her walk had turned to a penguin-like waddle, and when she was feeling anything but sexy? Would she lose those hours, too?
Maybe when the baby came, she kept telling herself, things would be different. Maybe then he would open up to her more.
Or maybe she would be even more alone.
She didn’t know how to reach him. He seemed to withdraw further from her with every passing day. Night after night she would lie awake while Marco slept beside her, and she would feel an aching, echoing emptiness. If things continued this way, she wasn’t sure how much more she could take.
This was not a marriage, she told herself as she fitted another piece into the puzzle, her temper brewing. This was two people living separate lives under the same roof.
She’d worked herself into a fine state by the time she climbed into bed and drew the covers up over her body. Her nerves stretched way past the point of relaxation and any hope of sleep, she lay rigidly on her side with her back to the middle of the bed and waited for Marco to come to her. She knew, without a doubt, that when he did join her he would expect her to make love with him.
Well, tonight his expectations were not going to be met.
Around midnight she heard the door of the nursery open and close. The tread of Marco’s shoes echoed heavily on the wood floor of the upstairs hallway. Lately it seemed that his footsteps were sounding heavier and heavier, as if he were carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and that weight was increasing exponentially with the passage of time.
He walked quietly past the bed, and a second later the soft glow of the bathroom light snuck its way into the room. Gretchen didn’t make a sound while he washed his face and brushed his teeth. A quiet rustling indicated he was removing his clothing and depositing each item on the bathroom floor.
She felt another shaft of irritation. She knew that in the morning he would gather them up, take them out into the hall and feed them to the clothes chute. Still, was it asking too much to expect him to put his dirty clothes down the clothes chute when he took them off?
After turning off the bathroom light, Marco climbed, naked, into bed with her. As she had predicted, he immediately slid his arms around her and drew her close. A minute later she felt his growing arousal pressing against her.
“No,” she said, pulling back. It was the first time she had denied him.
She felt him rise up on one elbow and look down at her in the darkness. “Something wrong?”
“I’m just not in the mood.”
“I see,” he said slowly.
After a long silence he lay flat on his back. Gretchen waited, but he didn’t say anything else.
“Don’t you want to know why I’m not in the mood?”
“I’m assuming you’re tired,” he replied.
She turned on her back then, but made sure their bodies didn’t touch. “I’m wide awake, Marco. I came to bed an hour ago. If I was tired, I would have been fast asleep by now.”
“Okay.” He sounded wary. “Since it’s obvious you want me to ask, why aren’t you in the mood?”
“Because you just can’t ignore me all night and expect me to suddenly desire you.”
Sitting up, he reached over and snapped on the bedside light. “Ignore you? I was painting the nursery. How was that ignoring you?”
Gretchen sat up, too. For the first time, the blatant masculinity of his broad chest and the rippling muscles in his arms failed to arouse her. She pointed to her barely rounded stomach.
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“And it was imperative that you paint the nursery on this night, seeing as how I’m about to pop any second now.” She made her voice as sarcastic as possible.
He looked taken aback by her attack. “The furniture will be here at the end of next week,” he said stiffly. “I just wanted everything to be ready. I assumed you did, too.”
“You assumed wrong. As of four hours ago you have the next nine days off. You didn’t have to paint tonight, but you chose to, anyway. Do you have any idea why? Or do you need me to spell it out to you?”
“I told you why I chose to paint.” The wariness had turned to defensiveness. “Obviously, you have a different spin on things.”
She was nearing the end of her rope. “You’re damn right I do. You’re deliberately shutting me out, Marco. You’re avoiding me. You’re punishing me for depriving you of your precious bachelorhood.”
He looked at her as if she’d started speaking in tongues. “Where’d you get that ridiculous notion?”
“From your behavior over the past three weeks, that’s where. The only time I have your complete attention is when we make love. Do you know how that makes me feel?”
She didn’t wait for his reply before giving him an answer. “Like a prostitute, that’s how. Like my services have been bought and paid for, with this house, the ring on my finger and that piano downstairs.”
She was stretching things, but not far. She was in a fighting mood, and the words certainly got his attention.
A spark of anger flared in Marco’s eyes. “Are you saying my touch makes you feel like a prostitute?”
“No, Marco. I’m saying that I feel like the only time you really want me around you is when you need to satisfy your baser urges. That’s what makes me feel like a prostitute. The only time I see you is at night, in this bed.”
He was silent for a long minute. “I told you what marriage to me would be like. I’m dedicated to my career, Gretchen. Most of the time we’ll have to spend together will be in this very bed.”
“But not all of it,” she responded. “Like tonight. You told me you worked long hours, Marco, and I accepted that. I don’t need a nursemaid, and I don’t need someone to entertain me twenty-four hours a day. What I can’t accept is that you’ve stopped talking to me altogether. Even when you’re here, you’re not here.”
“I do talk to you,” he maintained.
She nodded. “Yes, when the occasion calls for it. Like when you want to know if the dry cleaners delivered your shirts, or where I’d like you to hang a particular painting. Otherwise, you have little to say to me. You’re acting like you’re still single. You’re not trying, Marco.”
He suddenly looked weary. “What do you mean, I’m not trying? We bought a house together, Gretchen. Together we’re making it into a home. We’re going to have a baby. How much harder can I try?”
“You can give of yourself.”
He shook his head. “I don’t even know what that means.”
All the anger went out of her, and she stared down at the bedspread. One finger traced over its pattern. “That’s the problem.”
“What do you want from me, Gretchen? Just tell me, and I’ll try to give it to you.”
She looked up. “I want you to talk to me. For starters, you can tell me about what happened at work today.”
This time Marco seemed to be the one who’d reached the end of his tether. “You want to know what happened at work today? Fine. I’ll tell you what happened at work today. I saw a homeless man who will probably go blind soon, and maybe even lose a leg, because he’s a diabetic and doesn’t take good enough care of himself. I treated three gunshot wounds, one of which proved to be fatal. I shocked a thirty-eight-year-old man’s heart back into beating. I treated a fourteen-year-old girl who had been gang-raped and who will never be able to bear children as a result. Do you want to hear more?”
“No,” she said quietly, holding back tears. “I’ve heard enough.”
“Isn’t this a lovely conversation we’re having? Doesn’t it make you feel all warm and cuddly inside?”
He looked away. “Why do you think I never talk about my work? Because I live with it twelve to sixteen hours a day. Because here in this peaceful refuge we’re building together, for a few hours each day, I can get away from the sights and smells and sounds of death. I can forget what so-called civilized human beings do to each other in the name of love. I may be dedicated to my job, but I don’t want to live with it twenty-four/seven.”
His words only served to underscore exactly how little they knew about each other.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I never realized. I won’t pry anymore.”
Marco bit off a curse and thrust his fingers through his hair. “No, Gretchen,” he said. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I understand what you’re saying. Really, I do. I guess I’m just not used to living with anyone. I’m not used to sharing a bathroom, let alone my thoughts. I’ll try to do better.”
“I will, too.”
He shot her a smile. “How was your day?”
“I went to the obstetrician,” she said.
“Is everything okay?” he asked quickly.
His obvious concern soothed her frayed nerves.
“Everything’s fine,” she reassured him. Excitement filled her voice. “I heard the baby’s heartbeat for the first time.”
He sat up straight. “You did? How did it sound?”
“Fast. And very strong. The doctor said it was good and strong. It was the most wonderful sound I have ever heard.”
He reached over and placed his hand across her belly. Regret filled his eyes. “I wish I could have been there with you.”
“I wish you could have, too,” she said softly.
He raised his head, and his gaze met hers. “How’s the morning sickness? Getting any better?”
She hadn’t realized he was aware that she suffered from it. Perhaps he was paying more attention to her than she gave him credit for.
“It’s about the same.”
He nodded. “Give it a little more time. It should pass.”
“I don’t have much choice, do I?” she replied with a grin.
An answering grin played about his mouth. “No, I guess you don’t.”
She sobered. “I miss the laughter, Marco. The fun.”
“I miss it, too,” he said. “But we’re not on an adventure here, Gretchen.”
His hand still rested on her belly, and she covered it with both of hers. “That’s where you’re wrong. We are definitely on an adventure here. It’s called life. It’s faster than any roller coaster, higher than any Ferris wheel. It’s the most thrilling ride of all…if you’ll only climb on board.”
His thumb started making slow circles on her stomach. Gretchen caught her breath at the shiver of desire that radiated outward from his touch. When she looked into his eyes, they glittered with invitation. He circled his free arm around her shoulders and drew her to him.
“I know another thrilling ride,” he whispered seductively while nibbling on her earlobe. “That is, if your mood has changed.”
Because she loved him so much, and because she felt closer to him than she had for a long time, Gretchen allowed herself to surrender to Marco’s lovemaking. But even while she was trembling at his touch, in the back of her mind she couldn’t escape the niggling realization that he had neatly sidestepped the subject.
It had been a long day. After working for twelve hours, which included eating her lunch at her desk, Gretchen had returned home to practice for the piano competition for an additional three hours and, after weeks of effort, to finally place the last piece into the jigsaw puzzle. A glance at her watch told her it was eleven-fifteen.
Yawning and rubbing at the crick in her neck, she sat back to admire her handiwork. She was so tired her eyes were nearly crossing, but she didn’t want to go to bed just yet.
During the evening rush hour, a runaway truck had plowed into a crowd of pedestrians in downtown Pittsburgh.
Since he hadn’t come home yet, and since Bridgeton Memorial Hospital boasted one of the most advanced trauma units in the area, Gretchen knew that Marco had to be one of the physicians feverishly working to save the injured. She knew the toll the experience would take on him, and she wanted to be awake and waiting for him when he got home. Even if it meant she’d be asleep on her feet tomorrow at work.
Her gaze ran over the puzzle again. She supposed that a small part of her, deep inside, had wished it could symbolize her marriage to Marco, that each piece she entered would cement it tighter together. Maybe Marco had felt similarly, because, instead of tearing it apart and returning the pieces to the box, he’d gone to the effort of having the puzzle transported in its semicompleted state during the move.
She felt her lips twist wryly. She really was a cockeyed optimist.
“You finished it,” Marco said from the doorway.
“Hi,” she said, whirling to face him. He looked exhausted, and the grim set of his mouth told its own tale. Gretchen’s heart went out to him. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I didn’t want to disturb you, in case you were asleep. Sorry I’m so late.”
“Can I get you something to eat? There’s roast beef in the refrigerator. I could make you a sandwich.”
He shook his head. “I’m not hungry. Why’d you wait up?”
“I saw the news tonight,” she replied. “I know about the accident. Was it as bad as they described?”
His face took on a haunted look. “Worse.”
“How many victims?”
He tossed his coat onto the leather sofa. “Fifteen total. Seven of them were transported to us, three of them life flighted.”
In the twelve days that had passed since their argument, things had gotten better between them. It had helped that Marco had had that week off from work. The more he’d relaxed, the more he’d opened up to her. Several nights Gretchen had even come home from work to discover that he’d prepared dinner.
“How are they doing?” she asked.
“Three are in intensive care, in guarded condition. Two were treated and released. One is in critical condition, but his vital signs are good. He should improve rapidly.”
Promises, Promises Page 21
