With Child

by Janice Kay Johnson

  “What?” Mindy whispered.

  “He adored you, you adored him.” Cheri Walker gave a brittle smile. “I was the outsider in our family. The guest who smiled and pretended she felt perfectly at home.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “It hardly matters anymore.” She picked up Jessie and bounced her against her shoulder, as if the subject were over and done with.

  “It matters.” Mindy was still reeling from her mother’s revelations. “We both loved you.”

  Patting Jessie’s back, her mom said, “I know your father loved me. I…miss that.”

  “So much that you had another man in your bed before Daddy was even cold?” Mindy was horrified at how caustic she sounded, how cruel.

  Spots of color touched her mother’s cheeks. “So you did see him.”

  “How could you?” she asked, with all the heartbreak and shock of her fourteen-year-old self.

  Her mother very carefully laid Jessie down. Head still bent, she said, “Do you remember the funeral? When I tried to hold you and you tore yourself away from me and cried, ‘I want Daddy!’?”

  Mindy shook her head, then said, “No. I…really don’t remember much about it.”

  “If I’d died instead, you’d have been sad but not distraught.”

  “That’s not true!”

  Her mother gave a sad laugh. “Let’s not kid ourselves. But it doesn’t really matter whether it’s true or not. It’s what I felt. That you didn’t really love me, and the one person who had was gone.”

  “So you went looking for a quick substitute?” More cruelty, but she’d needed so desperately to say this.

  Her mother flinched again. “I’m afraid so.” She was quiet for a moment, her eyes unfocused. Very softly, she said, “I’ve been looking ever since.”

  “You always have a man madly in love with you!”

  “Love? You’re an adult now, Mindy. You know better than that. What the men in my life do give me is an illusion of love. Most of the time, that’s enough.”

  Past a knot in her throat, Mindy managed to say, “I did love you.” She drew a breath. “I do.”

  Her mother’s composure seemed to crack. “Thank you for saying so.”

  “You don’t believe me.” What mother didn’t believe her own daughter loved her, even if their relationship wasn’t perfect?

  “I suppose…” Her mother faltered. “I always believed I forfeited your love when I had such a hard time, oh, knowing how to be a parent. I can tell it comes easily to you, but I felt so awkward from the beginning. Just holding you felt…strange.”

  Perhaps her primary emotion should be hurt, but instead it was pity. Mindy tried to imagine not knowing how to hold Jessie, not having the instincts she’d discovered had lain dormant just waiting for that moment when the nurse had handed the bundled, red-faced baby to her.

  Trying to understand, she asked, “Do you know why that was?”

  “You never met your grandparents.” Her mother gave another of her brittle laughs that Mindy had always taken as uncaring. “You didn’t miss a thing. My father wasn’t physically abusive, but he was so critical I never felt as if I’d done anything right. I never had the chance to think, Dad is proud of me. And my mother was always in her bedroom weeping. I realize now that she was suffering from clinical depression, but then…then it felt as if she couldn’t be bothered to tear herself from her own unhappiness enough to care about my report card or to shop for a prom dress for me or…” She stopped, gave a funny little shrug. “Well, I suppose it’s easy to psychoanalyze myself now. But I always thought, I won’t be like her. And then I was.”

  “No.” Face wet with tears, Mindy scooted from the easy chair to the coffee table. “You weren’t. I did know you loved me. I just…wanted to be closer to you. Especially after…after Dad died. I needed you so badly.”

  Her mother sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. “You’re ruining my makeup.”

  Mindy gave a watery laugh. “Maybe you should quit wearing it, like me.”

  Her mother shuddered. “I look old without it!”

  “You know perfectly well that you’re beautiful.”

  Sounding much as usual, she retorted, “I know no such thing.”

  But Mindy only laughed and used her shirtsleeve to mop her own tears. “Okay, so tell me. This Mark guy. You don’t think he’s really in love with you?”

  “Actually…” Was she blushing? Was such a thing possible? “I think he might be. He’s a very nice man, Mindy. I know you don’t want to meet him, but…”

  “What on earth would make you think I don’t want to meet him? Of course I do!”

  “Oh.” For a moment, she appeared flustered. “He’s not anything special to look at.”

  “Do I care?”

  “You have that lovely Quinn.”

  “Mom, I’m moving out the day after tomorrow.” The reminder was a stab of pain. “Quinn isn’t mine. He felt obligated, because of Dean. That’s all.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Her throat felt thick. “I’m sure.”

  “What a shame. Such a nice house, and he seems to have plenty of money, and so handsome…” She sighed with seeming regret.

  Mindy couldn’t summon her usual irritation. So, okay, her mother was being her usual shallow self. But then, she didn’t know Quinn. Not really. And that was Mindy’s fault, because she never invited her mother over when Quinn was home. She was ashamed to realize it hadn’t even occurred to her that Mom might want to be included at Thanksgiving or Christmas.

  “I love you,” she said again, impulsively.

  Her mother didn’t seem to hear her. “Dear, I’m afraid Jessie has done something nasty. Did I mention that diapers were my least favorite part of being a mother?”

  Mindy only laughed again, surprised them both by hugging her mother, and lifted her baby girl from the couch.

  “Yup. She does stink. Can you wait while I change her and nurse? I could make sandwiches.”

  “Certainly.” Her mother smiled at her, sniffed, then said, “Oh, dear. I must have a lash in my eye.”

  FRIDAY NIGHT, her last in this house, full-fledged panic set in. Mindy wanted Quinn to say, “Don’t go. Stay with me,” but she knew he wouldn’t. He could be madly in love with her, and he wouldn’t say it. His pride would never let him.

  And who was she kidding? He’d probably close his bedroom door tonight and do a little tap dance, because he’d have his house and his life to himself again.

  He’d brought home Chinese takeout. She had made an effort to look more presentable. Instead of sweats, she had on jeans, a long-sleeved, form-fitting turtleneck and real shoes.

  Peeling off his leather jacket and unbuckling his shoulder holster, Quinn nodded toward her feet. “I didn’t know you owned any shoes.”

  “I actually have several.” She scrunched up her nose. “I just tend to trip when I wear them.”

  A shadow crossed his face. Guessing that he was recalling the funeral, she felt tactless.

  “I remember.” Holster and gun in hand, he said, “I’ll be right back.”

  He always took the gun into the bedroom. She didn’t know whether he locked it up, or just dropped it with the holster onto his bedside table. She was just as glad he didn’t make a habit of tossing it onto the counter. Guns made her nervous.

  The evening was colored by the excruciating knowledge—to her—that tomorrow night she’d be in her own apartment and Quinn’s house would be his again, as devoid of her presence as if she’d never been here at all. He was quiet tonight, but more relaxed, as if he didn’t feel he had to be as careful since she’d be gone so soon.

  They talked about baby milestones and how soon Jessie would be rolling over, then sitting.

  “She changes every day. I go to work and come home to find she’s grown up a little more while I was gone.” Quinn was silent for a moment, head bent as he gazed at the cup of coffee he cradled in his hands. “I’ll miss seeing her as often.”

/>   What about me! Mindy wanted to cry. Will you miss seeing me?

  “She’ll miss you, too.”

  His mouth twisted into a semblance of a smile. “Thanks for saying so.”

  “You don’t think she will?”

  “Yeah.” He sounded both sad and resigned. “I think she might.”

  Don’t let us go, she begged silently. Ask me to stay forever.

  But she didn’t want him to ask when it was Jessie he loved, Jessie he’d miss. Not her. So, after a minute, she said with difficulty, “You can visit whenever you want, you know.”

  He gave her a distracted glance. “Thanks.”

  With coffee for him and herbal tea for her, they moved out to the living room. Quinn sat at one end of the couch, Mindy at the other, the distance between them feeling symbolic to her. If they’d been the friends they pretended to be, she’d have sat next to him, perhaps rested her head on his shoulder. She had always liked to touch. Only with Quinn did she feel so…restrained.

  And contrarily, so hungry for touch.

  She kept stealing glances as if she would never see him again, studying his mouth and wondering what it would feel like on hers. And his hands—large and strong, they were always gentle with Jessie, and yet so safe.

  Only, the sight of them didn’t make her feel safe. Instead, a shiver of pure sexual need ran through her at the idea of those hands framing her face, stroking down her throat to her breasts and her belly and then lower yet.

  Mindy desperately fixed her gaze on the coffee table, trying to keep her breathing shallow. What was she doing? He’d be horrified if he even guessed what she was thinking!

  Or…would he? She lifted her mug to her mouth and glanced at him over it.

  His knuckles showed white where he gripped the mug. Despite his easy posture, she would swear he was sitting as stiffly as she was. The creases in his cheeks were deeper than usual, and as she looked he rotated his head just the smallest amount, as if he didn’t want her to know his neck was tight.

  He might just be bored. Tired. Unhappy about something that had nothing to do with her. She was dreaming to think otherwise.

  But…what if?

  Then he could do something. Say something, she thought. But he hadn’t, and he wouldn’t. Close to tears, she closed her eyes and struggled for composure. It was a very, very good thing that she wouldn’t be living with him anymore. This was too hard.

  She groped with her feet for the shoes she’d slipped off. “I think I’d better go to bed. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

  “Right.” He set down his coffee mug, swore. “Mindy…”

  Those damn tears were starting to make her vision blurry. She swiped at her eyes. “I know you hate being thanked, but I have to do it one more time.”

  He stood. She did, too. The couple of feet between them didn’t feel like so much now. She must have taken a step. Or maybe he had. Because all of a sudden, his arms were closing around her and she was hugging him fiercely.

  “Mindy,” he said, in a ragged voice she’d never heard, and she tilted her head back to see his face.

  Something unfamiliar came over her then. Ignoring every warning she’d given herself, every deep-rooted inhibition, Mindy rose to tiptoe and pressed her mouth to Quinn’s.

  For a moment he was completely still. She might as well have been kissing a statue. A sob escaped her and she was starting to pull back when a sound seemed to be wrenched from Quinn and one of his hands came up to cup the back of her head. The next instant, he kissed her, or accepted her kiss, she didn’t know. It didn’t matter. She was too utterly lost in sensation, in intense gratitude because now she knew what being in his arms felt like, and it was magic.

  Her lips parted and his tongue drove in. One hand gripped her buttock and lifted her, pressing her against him so she couldn’t miss his arousal. Her body throbbed with awareness, with need. She gasped for air when his mouth lifted, then hummed with pleasure as she sought his mouth again.

  But his lips weren’t there to meet hers. His body had gone rigid; his arms dropped from her and he strained away.

  Her own hands fell to her sides. She hated, oh, hated, to see his face, because she knew what it would show. Revulsion, shock, anger. Please not pity.

  There was no pity, but every other emotion she’d feared blazed on his face as he backed away from her. In a thick voice, he said, “Dean hasn’t even been dead a year. God, I’m sorry, Mindy. I’m sorry.”

  He was sorry because he had to reject her. Sorry because he’d been tempted even for a moment to kiss her back. Most of all, he was sorry for her, because she was…was…

  She pressed her hand to her mouth. Her stomach roiled. She was like her mother. Oh, God, just like her. A sad widow who wanted another man in her bed with indecent haste, because she couldn’t bear to be alone.

  “No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”

  Quinn’s expression changed, but she was hardly aware.

  “Mindy…”

  “No!” she cried, half fell over the coffee table, and ran for the bathroom, where she lost her dinner and her self-respect.

  She had never been so grateful in her life as she was to see that the lights were out and Quinn’s bedroom door was shut when she emerged.

  She’d have to face him in the morning. But not now. Not now.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “ANOTHER STORE AGREED TODAY to start carrying my birdhouses,” Mindy said.

  Quinn lay stretched out on her floor with Jessie on his chest. “Great!” he said, and lifted the baby to swoop her through the air like an airplane.

  She laughed in glee. Quinn was way more fun than Mommy.

  He laughed back at her, his often somber face as bright with merriment as baby Jessie’s.

  Mindy shook her head in bemusement. Who’d have ever thought the word fun would apply in any way to Brendan Quinn?

  Settling Jessie back on his chest, Quinn asked, “You’ll let me know if your money gets short?”

  In mock offense, she retorted, “I’ll have you know I’m becoming quite prosperous!” Then she made a face. “Okay, I’m not making enough to live on yet, but I’m getting there.”

  And she was. Mindy was amazed at her success. She’d apparently found a niche. Country-style decorating was still hot and magazines increasingly touted the allure of “outdoor rooms.” Seattle had half a dozen stores that specialized in garden art and pottery. Three of them now carried her birdhouses, as did a couple of gift shops. A plant nursery she’d approached the other day had expressed interest. If her birdhouses kept selling the way they had been, she would soon have trouble producing them fast enough.

  “Someone suggested a Web site.” She sat cross-legged next to Quinn, her back against the couch. “But I don’t know. I’d have to pay someone to build it and maintain it. And then I might have to make a whole bunch of identical birdhouses. And that seems boring.”

  “But profitable,” he pointed out, swooping Jessie again.

  “Mmm.” She mused for a moment then said, “Oh, well. It’s just something to think about. Can you stay for dinner? I thought about ordering a pizza.”

  He didn’t often stay; usually he stopped by for an hour after work, or later in the evening on his way home from the gym. He’d say hi to her, then lavish attention on a delighted Jessie.

  Tonight, he surprised her by agreeing, “Sure. Sounds good.”

  They’d been going on this way for a month now. She and Jessie entered through the side door to his garage every day, after he was safely gone to work. There, Mindy worked in fits and starts as Jessie allowed. She’d found an old chaise hanging on the wall, which she sat in to nurse. Much of the day, Jessie napped contentedly in the playpen Mindy had bought from the Bensons. Fortunately, she seemed impervious to the whine of the saw and the drill and even the wham of her mom pounding with a hammer.

  About an hour before Quinn usually got home, Mindy tidied the work space and she and Jessie slipped out. She was trying very h
ard to be unobtrusive.

  When she’d first moved out, he’d gone several days before stopping by. After he’d all but flung her from his arms and she’d fallen over the coffee table running away, moving day had been horrible. With Selene and her boyfriend and another friend helping, Quinn and Mindy had managed to avoid looking each other in the eye. Which had made the first time he’d stepped into her apartment more than a little awkward. She’d thought about saying something blithe like, “Wow, that kiss! Wasn’t it silly?” but face to face with him, she couldn’t do it. The kiss was the farthest thing from silly.

  So they just didn’t mention it. And in avoiding the subject, it loomed like Mount Saint Helens letting off bursts of steam, obviously ready to erupt. They just pretended it wasn’t there and wouldn’t explode in fire and ash someday.

  Mindy still hadn’t dealt with her horror at her own behavior. So, okay, she had a better understanding of her mother now. That didn’t erase the memory of how passionately, at fourteen, she’d hated and despised her for inviting a man into her bedroom when Dad had only been dead a few weeks. Dean had been gone longer—but not that much longer. A little over ten months now.

  The weird part was, those ten months could have been two or three years. Mindy had trouble remembering who and what she was back when she’d first discovered she was pregnant. Maybe the fact that these ten months had been so eventful had something to do with it. If Dean hadn’t died that night, she probably wouldn’t have changed so much. She would still believe she was in love with him, and with the birth of Jessie she’d be convinced they were a perfect family. Quinn would still be Dean’s difficult friend instead of her savior and a man of complexity and depth then unimagined by her.

  At least, she thought her world would still be sunny and simple. But she wondered sometimes how Dean would have handled her need for bed rest. Would he have been willing to come home straight from work to wait on her, as Quinn had done? To give up fishing expeditions and eighteen holes of golf with his friends followed by drinks, because she needed him? Or would he have been solicitous when he was home, and full of excuses when he wasn’t? He’d always been restless, wanting to eat out, have friends over, go somewhere.