He settled beside her on the throw rug, his back against the tub, his arms resting across his raised knees. “What we did may have been premature,” he began. “But I refuse to regret it.”
“Good for you.” Rising as though she couldn’t bear his close proximity, she tossed her crumpled tissues into the trash and grabbed a new handful from the box on the counter. “In the meantime I’ll be on the receiving end of stares and gossip. I’m the widow who acted like a slut with a man who just buried his wife. There’s no telling how many listings this will cost me. I’ll be lucky if I don’t get kicked out of choir!”
“No one needs to know.”
She shot him a give-me-a-break look. “How does that work? Baby bumps can’t be hidden for long, especially with my wardrobe.”
True, her slim sheaths, tailored suits and pencil skirts would define the obvious, but that was not what he meant. “Genevieve, what I’m saying is, by then we’ll be married.”
“Just like that?”
Having concluded that she didn’t want any part of romance right now, he figured that exhibiting strong pragmatic thinking would gain a better reaction. “It takes care of two important issues—the baby’s security and gossip.”
“We barely know each other. We’re certainly not in love.”
Marshall wondered how she would react if he admitted to being on his way there and had been for some time. What was more, he knew she was at least physically attracted to him. Quite a bit, he amended—and that wasn’t merely his trampled ego talking. If he knew anything about Genevieve Gale, it was that she would never be the loose woman she dreaded being labeled as. She had to have some feelings to be intimate. That was a start as far as he was concerned. An appealing one.
“What’s more,” she continued when he merely stood watching her unravel, “I have a house, you have a house—”
“We’ll sell yours.”
“I happen to love my house. Sell your house.”
“But there’s more room in mine—space for a nursery and an office for you.” No sooner did he speak than he saw her square her shoulders and lift her chin.
“More isn’t necessarily more.”
Bad move, Roark, he warned himself and immediately backpedaled. “There’s truth in that. What would be your solution?”
“I don’t know,” she wailed. “I’m not ready to have this conversation.”
At least she wasn’t crying her eyes out as she had been. “Then let me get one more thing said,” he began. “I’ve always wanted children.”
Genevieve hid behind her tissues for several seconds before curiosity won out. “Why didn’t you?”
Given that she wasn’t at her most receptive, he took his time formulating his reply. “I’d already broken my own promise not to marry Cyn until she quit smoking. I wasn’t going to have a child’s health or its future with its mother compromised by that.”
Genevieve’s expression was on the verge of being censorious. “She must have been devastated by that decision.”
“You’d be wrong. In the end she was relieved and said as much. It was one of the things that helped me get through that time.” Accepting that he had to return to that painful time in order to move forward, he said, “Cynthia lost her twin brother when they were teenagers. He took his own life. Eventually she and I had to accept that she would never get over that, or be able to have a mature and complete marriage with me.”
“I’m sorry.” Suddenly Genevieve didn’t seem to know where to look. “I had no idea.”
“You weren’t supposed to. No one was.” He wanted to get up and take her into his arms. He hadn’t meant to make her uncomfortable, just to correct preconceptions and clear up misconceptions. “Bryan had issues with their father, but I don’t think anyone ever understood the full extent of his problems. Afterward, Cynthia spent the rest of her life feeling like half a person, forever anxious and trying to fill the gaping hole Bryan left in the family, which was impossible, since her father believed if anyone had been expendable in the family it was her.”
Genevieve gasped. “How horrible. And the cigarettes eased her anxiety.”
Marshall shrugged. “Cigarettes, alcohol, drugs du jour or prescriptions. As she beat the others, smoking became a stronger crutch. In the end it was the one thing she couldn’t shake.”
“Yet, she still wanted to be buried back with her family?” Genevieve asked.
“With Bryan. It took considerable persuasion, but her ashes are with him now.”
Genevieve turned away and took up the washcloth folded neatly on the vanity counter. Wetting it, she covered her face. She stayed like that for several seconds before rinsing the cloth and replacing the soothing compress on her feverish and tearstained face. “I appreciate what it cost you to go over that again, and to live with such disappointment,” she said at last.
“I hated sharing such grim details when you’re already upset.” Marshall gave her what privacy he could by gazing down at his tightly clasped hands. “But you deserved to know.”
Laying the cloth on the sink’s edge, she faced him. “I needed to know, but strangely it doesn’t change anything.”
That had his breath stalling in his lungs. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Cynthia wasn’t the only casualty in your marriage. You paid a price and I’m not sure you realize the size of it. You’re not ready to jump into another relationship. I’ve heard psychologists say that you should wait one year for every five years you were married before entering another legal union.”
Did she think he wanted to wait until their child was practically in preschool? “That’s the thing about theories—life tends to circumnavigate them…when it’s not turning them into fertilizer.” Seeing that she didn’t care for his reply, he added quickly, “It’s not that I don’t recognize we’ll have challenges—”
“Marshall,” Genevieve interjected wearily, “I’m dealing with a shock that is going to change my life. Again. I need to think, and I can’t do it with you here.”
She left the room, leaving Marshall with no choice but to follow. It didn’t sit well to be summarily dismissed, but he knew neither of them was reacting appropriately at the moment. They were both suffering from information overload.
“Will you at least call the office and let them know you’re all right? When I told her that I’d be checking things out over here, Ina asked me to let her know what I learned.”
Halting in the middle of the kitchen, Genevieve looked ready to flee back to the bathroom, this time to be ill. “They know you’re here?”
“They were glad to hear from me. You’ve been acting stranger than when you had the bug that we now know was morning sickness.”
“Is.”
Unable to contain the joy bursting from every vein and pore, Marshall sighed. “Ah, Genevieve, all I’m saying is that now would be as good a time as any for them to realize there’s a man in your life.” Coming toward her, he stopped only to slip his arm around her waist to draw her close, closer, until they were pressed abdomen to arousal. “Whatever you decide, know this—I’m not going away any more than that fetus in your womb is going to stay the size of a pinhead. Think about it. And while you’re at it, think about this.”
Lowering his head, he kissed her as if his life depended on it.
It did.
Genevieve listened to Marshall drive away, her legs still too weak to rise from the chair she’d collapsed into when he’d finally released her. He’d certainly had his say.
He’d frustrated and troubled her as much as he’d sent her hormones into havoc, but he was right about her having stayed in poor communication with the girls at the agency.
She reached for her BlackBerry and rang the office number and breathed deeply, hoping she could be as calm and reassuring as she needed to be.
Ina must have been watching the keyboard because the first ring had only started when she pushed the line button.
“Thank you!” she declared as soon as sh
e lifted the handset. “Do you know we were debating calling the police?”
“What did you three do, flip a coin—heads it’s Marshall, tails it’s 911?”
“So Mr. Roark found you?”
“I wasn’t exactly lost.”
“He’s a nice man and he cares about you very much. How are you? You don’t sound like yourself.”
And probably never would again, Genevieve thought, but forced herself to look at things from her receptionist’s perspective. “I’m okay, just a bit nasally. I’m sorry for making you worry. Is everything and everyone okay over there?” The best way to keep attention off her was turn it back onto the office.
“Sure. Except for people whose calls you’re not returning. Hint, hint.”
“That’s the other reason we’re talking,” Genevieve said. “I need you to do that for me.” She went through the list of people she wanted to reschedule. “Any questions?”
“Only a dozen. I’ll edit them down to one—when do we see you again?”
“Tomorrow. I’m pretty sure I’ll be back on track by then.” Now that she knew what “ailed” her, she could work to keep symptoms under control…after she did some online research. She wasn’t yet ready to confide in friends and employees any more than she was ready to disclose anything to the general public.
“Did you hear that?” Ina said above chatter in the background. Then she giggled. “That was Avery saying that we can buy you more time if you’re contagious.”
Genevieve replied, “I think you’re safe. But thanks again for keeping things operational so well.”
“Not so fast,” Avery said, getting on the line. “Are you sure you should get back yet? You’re sick, right? You didn’t take off to have some plastic surgery done or a boob job?”
That woman, Genevieve thought. She really should pair her up with her mother. Too tired to think up a better comeback, Genevieve simply replied, “I think I’m finally developing what you all complain about in the autumn and spring—allergies.”
“Uh-huh. Taking anything?”
“You know I don’t like pills.”
“What did Roark-the-licious think the problem was?”
Avery was too sharp for her own good. “Did you get the contract on the Merriman house?” she asked instead.
“You must be feeling better. You’re dodging questions as well as you ever did. Merriman—we’re doing a second viewing tomorrow morning. And I got a referral today for a nice little two thousand square footer that should last about twenty-four hours after we put it online and stick the sign in the yard.”
“That’s what I like to hear. And Raenne?”
“Poor sweetie…her great white fisherman stepped on a rusty nail left by their roofing people and she’s getting him through a visit to E.R.”
It wasn’t long ago that Raenne’s husband, Rick, went crazy with a staple gun on their wind-damaged roof and stapled his thumb to the shingles. The man was a danger to himself out of a bass boat. And expensive. “It’s a wonder he didn’t fall off the roof.”
“It’s a wonder he got up the ladder in the first place,” Avery countered.
“Did she have to reschedule a closing?”
“Thankfully nothing is pending in that department before Wednesday next week.”
Feeling her tummy rebel from the stress of trying to stay upbeat, Genevieve wished them a good night and disconnected. It was a relief to have that over with for the moment, but she really needed to call her mother, who was thoroughly capable of calling Marshall should the mood suit her.
Sydney picked up immediately. “Darling, what on earth? This is the longest you’ve been out of touch since—well, too long.”
She’d almost said, “Since Adam died,” and Genevieve was grateful she’d caught herself in time. No need to assist her mother in dissecting and performing psychotherapy on her life. “I apologize for that.”
“When I last called your office Ina thought you caught a bug. Did you go see Dr. Kelly for a shot and antibiotics?”
“Oh, I wasn’t that far gone.” Except emotionally. “I took a relaxing drive in the sunshine without once looking at property and had a couple of lazy naps.” The sun had been shining, she told herself, so it wasn’t a total fib, and actually the soup Marshall made her was healing.
“Excuse me? The last midday nap you had was the day I stopped breast-feeding you.”
Good grief, Genevieve thought, resting her head in her hand. She did not have the strength for this now. “Mother, you never breast-fed me. Are you getting me confused with one of your fictional children again?”
“The point is,” Sydney replied with a note of haughtiness, “as soon as you started on solid foods, you kept the hours of a Wall Street workaholic—alert and checking on me and everything else in the house from seven to seven, then sleeping like your crib was wired to our bed, reacting to the slightest creak.”
“Too much information, Mother.”
“A fact of life,” Sidney replied. “I only hope I’m still alive when you learn that.”
“Me, too. But only so I get to hear how you explain to a toddler that you’re too young to be called Grandmother or Nana and want to be called Aunt Sydney.”
“Exactly why did you ring me?” Sydney drawled. “Like you, I do have a day job.”
The words stuck in Genevieve’s throat. “I wanted to tell you…well, funny that you were just mentioning…” She couldn’t do it over the phone. “Do you want to have lunch in the next few days?”
Brightening, Sydney replied, “Why that’s lovely, dear. Better yet, let’s have another foursome dinner with Marshall. That went well, didn’t it? Even Bart likes him, and you know how protective he is of you.”
“Give him my love. Umm…let’s make it just the two of us this time, okay?”
“If that’s what you want. Tomorrow would be perfect for me.”
“See you at noon.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to tell me something now? You sound a bit—stressed.”
Genevieve had learned to avoid “the whole truth and nothing but” with her since before she’d graduated from high school. “You complain that we never talk enough,” she demurred, “and just when I try to block you some time—”
“Okay, okay.” Sydney could be heard tapping a pen on her desk blotter. “Does tomorrow make me sound too anxious?”
“Works for me,” Genevieve said with forced enthusiasm.
“Do you want me to meet you somewhere or will you pick me up?”
“I thought I’d pick up something and bring it to you.”
“I see. You really do want to talk. Well, why don’t I have Dorothy prepare something for us then?”
“My treat. Holler if your schedule changes,” Genevieve said, neither affirming or denying the intent of her visit. “I will, too. Bye.”
It was a terrible way to end a conversation—leave a hundred-and-one questions in her mother’s mind—but she didn’t see a way around that short of saying, “Wait and see.” Had she tried that, her mother would make Pulitzer Prize–winning journalists look like amateurs as she sniffed out her story.
Before she lost her courage—and the last dredges of her energy—she made one more call. She keyed the personal number of her physician, Dr. Paige Kelly. She and Paige had gone to school together and had remained good friends. As she hoped, her old schoolmate knew Genevieve would not abuse a private number and called back within minutes.
“What’s wrong?” were the general practitioner’s first words.
“Are you on the run or can you slot me five minutes of your time?” Genevieve asked, knowing this was the one person she could confide in.
“When I see your number on my cell, you can count on it being safe. Talk.”
“I need an ob-gyn’s number. Someone less than local, who you respect and whose staff will keep their mouths shut.”
“Genevieve.” Paige drew a deep breath. “Don’t tell me?”
“Yeah, go ahead and sa
y it. I’m worse than an out-of control teenager.”
“As a true friend, I can’t. I’m too happy to know you actually met someone who made you feel like a desirable woman again. As your doctor, okay, you took a stupid risk. Do you at least have a sense that he’s healthy?”
“Yes, that’s the least of my concerns.”
“That’s reassuring. And the pregnancy? Are you planning on going through with it?”
Genevieve’s eyes burned with new tears. “Oh, Paige. How can I not? You know my moral position and on top of that, this might be my last chance.”
“At thirty? I doubt it. But good for you. I know you have the courage to get through this. So do I know the father?”
That would be the question for the next weeks, maybe months. “He’s new in town.”
“No!” Paige gasped. “That Dallas hottie—the one whose wife died not long ago?”
“Thanks, friend.” Genevieve all but ground her teeth. “You’ve just fulfilled my worst nightmare. If you can put that together when we haven’t talked in two months, my hope of keeping this under the radar for a bit is as naive as thinking Marshall won’t pressure me into marriage every day until I crumble under pressure. How on earth did you hear about him?”
“I happened to spot him in the hospital a few times during those last days.” Paige whistled softly. “Boy, the old adage about still waters running deep is true. You are something else, girlfriend.”
“Paige, be kind. I already have morning sickness. I thought for the first time in my life that I’d caught the flu. Don’t make me vomit all over this BlackBerry.”
After a wry laugh, her doctor replied, “Stock up on soda crackers and biscotti. With luck, that part of things will stop shortly. You didn’t take any cold meds for those misdiagnosed symptoms, did you?”
“Nothing. I haven’t even touched a glass of wine since the night it happened. I guess I did have some kind of sixth sense.”
It Started with a House... Page 9
