It was not a good day. Baby slept for two hours and forty minutes. Then he started with the fussing thing again. He slept again for two hours in the afternoon, but he geared up after that, and he was still fussing at nine o’clock that evening. It was Murphy’s turn to walk him, and Jordan was on the sofa, looking for answers in the ninth of her seventeen books. “It says here,” she said, her head bent over the pages, “that breast-fed babies don’t usually get colic.”
Murphy spun around and walked the other way. “Tell that to Baby.”
She fell over on the sofa, going into fits of hysterical laughter. As exhausted and as useless as he felt, Murphy puffed right up as he kept on walking. He’d never, ever made her laugh like that before, ever. Somewhere along the line, he must have turned into a comedian.
Except her laughter turned to weeping. And he had never felt so helpless. Holding the fussing baby against his shoulder, he crouched down beside her, pulling her tangled hair back off her face. “Hey,” he said gruffly. “Hey.” Which accomplished nothing, except it gave him a chance to touch her. The baby started sucking on his fist again, and Murphy went dizzy with relief. She always seemed to pull herself together when she fed the baby.
Feeling like a total cop-out, he combed her hair back again. “He’s chewing on his fist. And it’s been two hours.”
She wiped her face on the sofa, then struggled up. Without looking at him, she silently took the baby from him. The breast thing had no effect anymore—well, hardly any effect. And having him as a spectator certainly didn’t seem to bother her. So it shouldn’t bother him. Well, maybe it wouldn’t if he didn’t think about it.
Murphy looked straight ahead, out the patio doors to the sunset. He heard the baby start nursing, then a funny, startled sound from Jordan.
She was leaning over the baby as if her chest were about to explode, the most astonished look on her face, and there was milk everywhere. All over the baby’s face. On the sofa. Soaking one half of her shirt.
Murphy had heard all about this when he was about nine years old, just at that age when stuff like that embarrassed the hell out of him. About what it was like when a woman’s milk “let down.” Without saying a word, he went to the bathroom and got a guest towel and a damp facecloth and brought them back, handing them to Jordan. Another mystery of female physiology exposed and solved.
“Thanks,” she said a bit breathlessly. There was a slight pause, then she spoke again, a waver of self-chastisement in her voice. “This is really great. First I try to starve him. Then I try to drown him.”
Ignoring the naked swell of her breast beneath his son’s cheek, he squatted down in front of her. Catching her under the chin, he lifted her head so she had to look at him. Her gray eyes were swimming with tears, and he could tell she was at the point of absolute exhaustion. “Don’t, Jordan,” he commanded quietly. “You’re doing the best you can.”
He caught a whiff of the familiar fragrance of her shampoo, and his heartbeat stalled, then went berserk. It took every ounce of control he had to keep from rubbing his thumb along her jaw. Dropping his hand, he rubbed his fingers against the rough fabric of his jeans instead, the heat from her skin still buzzing along his nerve ends like an electrical current. Then he deliberately rested his arm across his thigh, waiting a second for his lungs to start working again. He forced himself to focus on the situation and not her. “If it would make you feel better to have the pediatrician check him—just to make sure everything is okay—we can make an appointment first thing tomorrow.”
Tears gathered along her thick lashes, and the look she gave him was a mixture of relief and gratitude. Unable to speak, she simply nodded, the tears spilling over.
Murphy wanted to touch her in the worst way. Instead, he got up and went to the open patio door. Bracing his arm on the wooden frame, he stood staring out, trying to disconnect. It had been bad enough before, but Jordan Kennedy with all her defenses down was almost more than he could handle. And somehow or other, he was going to have to excise this thing he had for her. Or he was going to drive himself stark raving crazy. She was the mother of his son. That was all. Nothing more. And he was not going to think about how she’d got to be the mother of his son.
He continued to stare out. Off in the distance he could hear the chatter of a lawn sprinkler, then the evening song of a robin. He watched the colors fade from the sky, trying to get things back in perspective.
He was going to have to keep reminding himself that this was only temporary—that there was no chance it could be forever. They had established this bizarre kind of truce months ago. And that truce had now altered and changed shape since the birth of their son. Because of the baby, there was a new kind of familiarity between them. And that alone was risky, but what was even more dangerous was that this kind of total exhaustion bred a kind of goofiness—like her falling over laughing on the couch. He had never seen that side of her before—and that side was just a little too disarming.
Murphy stood at the window until all but a few slashes of orange faded from the sky, until his own lack of sleep started catching up on him. Wearily dragging his hand through his hair, he turned.
The scene before him was like a punch in the chest. Jordan had fallen asleep nursing the baby, and the baby had also fallen asleep, a drool of milk running from the corner of his mouth onto her soft, smooth skin. The room was filled with twilight, except for one table lamp at the end of the sofa that cast a soft glow on both their faces. It was a scene that had the impact of a body blow. This was one picture he didn’t need the camera to record. And this was going to be a picture that would remain with him until the day he died. His hands in his pockets, he stood watching them for the longest time.
Finally he went around the sofa, experiencing an empty, aching sensation in the middle of his chest. Trying not to wake either one of them, he slipped one hand under the baby’s butt, the other under his head. But when he started to lift the feather weight off Jordan, her arm immediately clutched the baby and her eyes flew open. Bending over her, he met her uncomprehending gaze. “It’s okay,” he said very softly. “I’ve got him.”
She stared up at him for a moment, then she relinquished her hold on the baby, letting him take his son from her, her eyes drifting shut. And Murphy knew she could not have done anything that made his chest fill up more.
The trip to the doctor’s was pretty much a waste of time. Baby Munroe was an angel and slept through the whole thing, except when the doctor examined him. The doctor’s advice, on a scale from one to ten, rated a zero. Baby Munroe had a simple case of colic. Murphy didn’t see anything simple about it.
The doctor reiterated all the advice that was contained in Jordan’s seventeen baby books and gave them more literature on colic, as well as a gentle lecture on new-parent anxiety attacks. And how that was bad for the baby, especially when Jordan was nursing. He also gave them a prescription for drops if it got any worse. Suppressing the urge to grab the man by the throat, Murphy wondered if Dr. Jackson had ever, in his whole life, spent even five minutes alone with a colicky baby. He thought not.
Feeling somewhat testy after the appointment, Murphy didn’t mess around. He got the prescription filled before they left the building, in the pharmacy located on the ground floor. The only real conclusion the trip to the doctor produced was that Jordan was going to need another vehicle. Getting a baby’s car seat in and out of her sports coupe was a pain in the ass. And his truck was just too dirty for a new baby. She needed something big and safe. A big 4Xx4 sport utility. One that was built like a tank.
They barely spoke on the way home, except to discuss the number of prints they wanted when he dropped off the rolls of film they’d taken of their progeny. As soon as they got back, Jordan went into her bedroom to change. When she came out, dressed in a pair of leggings and another baggy shirt, her hair yanked back in a practical ponytail, it was as if one person had walked into the bedroom and a totally different one had come out. And it was as if Murphy saw her
for the very first time.
On her visit to the doctor, she had been the consummate professional, her hair perfectly groomed into a French fold, her blue power suit perfectly tailored, even her jewelry was elegant and understated—she simply radiated an aura of competency, self-assurance and efficiency. He’d never really thought about it before. Those qualities were what Jordan Kennedy was all about. But when she came back into the living room, dressed to cope with a fussy baby, Murphy saw, for the first time, that all the window dressing was not what she was about. It was all camouflage. It was a persona. It was something she slipped on to create and transmit an aura of confidence, competency and self-assurance. It was all one grand cover-up.
The realization shook him up so badly that he had to go out on the terrace to integrate this stunner. It was a role, for Pete’s sake. The whole time, she had been playing a role. Lord, but he couldn’t believe how thickheaded he’d been. What a damned dunce. And how bloody blind. It was there all along, staring him right in the face—but he’d just been too stupid to see it. But he knew he was right. The real Ms. Jordan Kennedy was always carefully concealed from public view.
No bloody wonder she had walked out on him.
“What would you like for lunch?”
Murphy held his stance. It was a good thing he’d had time to get his reaction under wraps, or the whole realization would have been written all over his face. Making sure there wasn’t a trace of expression on his face, he turned and leaned back against the brick retaining wall. She had washed her face, and from the dull look in her eyes, the trip to the doctor had used up whatever reserve of energy she had. He stared at her a minute, then straightened, suddenly, irrationally angry with her. It had all been camouflage. But damn it, she’d never needed to play those kinds of games with him. Never.
“What I would like,” he said, his tone a little too curt, “is for you to stretch out in that lounge, get a little fresh air and some sunshine. I’ll take care of lunch”
He did a lot of slamming and thumping in the kitchen, burning off steam. Then he did a whole lot of talking to himself. So he’d missed that about her before. So what? It didn’t change anything. She’d made it pretty clear their former relationship was over and done with. And he wasn’t going to stick his neck out again. But he was playing on a different field now. She could have terminated the pregnancy, but she hadn’t. And now she was the mother of his child, and she was doing her level best to be a good one. He owed her for that, if nothing else. It was time he bloody well grew up. But as soon as he came to that conclusion, he promptly backslid and started wondering what else he had missed.
Making sure he had all the food groups covered, Murphy listened for his son, who was still sleeping in his car seat in the living room, then carried the loaded tray out onto the terrace.
Jordan was semireclined on the lounger, one arm covering her eyes. Setting down the tray on the wrought-iron table beside her, he draped a chunk of paper towel across her lap, then dragged over another chair.
Avoiding his gaze, she adjusted the arms of her chair so she was in an upright position. His expression thoughtful, Murphy watched her. It was apparent that she’d read his temper pretty accurately when he stalked into the kitchen, and if he was reading this new Jordan correctly, she was uncertain of him and awash with guilt. She had obviously shed her armor along with her blue power suit.
He passed her plate and she took it, still not meeting his gaze. Knowing the only way he could make it better was to lighten the mood, he grinned and kept his tone casual. “I have a plan.”
She looked up at him, a confused look in her eyes. He gave her a warped smile. “I think our Dr. Jackson needs a dose of reality, so how about we take the kid over to his house tonight about midnight, and let him have a go at looking after him. Then we can both get a good night’s sleep.”
A hint of amusement lightened her eyes, and the tiny dimple at the corner of her mouth appeared. “I don’t think your extended medical plan will go for that”
Murphy chuckled, lifting his bottle of beer off the tray. “Damn. I figured he deserved it after his brush-off today.”
The expression in her eyes clearly lightened, and Murphy was pretty sure she had just put two and two together and come up with seven; she thought his bad mood was because of the visit to the doctor. And he was quite happy to let her think that.
“Well, at least we know the baby is okay.”
After taking a long swig from the bottle, Murphy leaned back in the chair, drilling her with a long, pained look “We can’t just keep calling him Baby, Jordan. Whether we want to or not, we’ve gotta give the kid a name. They won’t let him start school if we don’t.”
She grinned, taking a forkful of cold chicken. “I was thinking of Ivan.”
Murphy stared at her, wondering where that name had come from. Who’d call their kid Ivan? Then a mental light bulb came on. “Ah,” he said, his tone knowing. “Ivan the Terrible.”
As she mixed the dressing into her salad, the dimple reappeared. “It seems appropriate somehow.”
“We could call him Rover and teach him to speak and roll over.”
She shot him a quick look, her eyes glinting with amusement. “That’s awful.”
He grinned at her. “We could call him Tank—he sorta rolls over anything in his way.”
She chuckled and plowed through some more food, then glanced at him, her eyes more animated that he could ever recall. “Tank’s too—too American. How about something more historically Canadian, like Wilfrid?”
Mesmerized and totally disarmed by this silly side of her, he continued to play the game, not wanting it to stop. “Nah. Too stuffed-shirt: You need a name he can play hockey with and not get creamed. A name with muscle, like Bruce.”
They spent a good half hour bantering back and forth, and miracle of miracles, Rover/Wilfrid/Bruce slept through it all, probably hanging in there until they came up with a decent, wearable name for him.
They finally got serious, and by the time Murphy had worked his way through his second beer, they had agreed on James Jeffery Munroe. They even filled out the registration form
Murphy had known right from the beginning that she wanted the baby to carry Murphy’s last name. But now that it was there in black-and-white, it really hit home. Jordan Kennedy was going to make darned sure her son knew who his father was.
Their lunch break was the one island of tranquillity they had all day. James Jeffery was not a happy camper. The new bunch of literature stated categorically that colicky babies had fussy periods, and those fussy periods were usually isolated to certain times of day. Murphy figured James Jeffery needed to grow up and read all the literature.
Abandoned by science and the medical profession, they drafted their own battle plan. Jordan was to try and get all the sleep she could at night. With the blessing of good old Dr. Jackson, they agreed that Murphy would give James Jeffery a bottle during the night so Jordan could get more than two hours of sleep at a crack. Murphy, who could sleep standing up, would crash during the day.
They got all their ducks in a row. They even ordered a single bed from one of the major department stores, and Murphy agreed to pay an exorbitant delivery fee to get it delivered the same day. That went in the nursery.
It was a great plan, except it didn’t work. No one could sleep when His Highness was running wide open. But other than being so damned tired that he fell asleep buttering toast, Murphy figured they were managing as well as could be expected.
And Jordan never ceased to confound, to amaze. It was as if the trip to the doctor’s defined her role. As if she realized that they were on their own, and she assumed the role of both protector and guardian.
There were times Murphy felt as if he were some sort of secret voyeur, watching her with his child—times when he swore she’d turned into another person. Every ounce of energy, every ounce of attention, was focused on the baby, and not once had she even come close to losing her patience. Before, when she was
the other Jordan, she had been absolutely fastidious about everything, herself included.
Now the whole apartment looked like a heavily bombed war zone, and for the most part, she looked as if she’d been dragged through a wind tunnel backward. And it was obvious she couldn’t care less. She had more important things to attend to. The welfare of their son was her first and only concern.
Murphy caught himself watching her, over and over again, wondering what other surprises she’d hidden under that ice-princess exterior.
But then, he would catch her watching him with the baby, too, and there would be such a wealth of emotion in her eyes, as if his holding their son was something special, something that touched her in a profound way—as if the father-son connection was something very rare and wonderful. And he wondered if he would ever figure out all the pieces that made up the real Jordan Kennedy.
And there were more pieces than he could count. He discovered another one exactly seven days after he’d returned from Toronto—and found himself a father. They had eaten dinner in shifts because James Jeffery was doing the squirmy thing. The baby hadn’t been outright fussy, but he kept wriggling around because he was uncomfortable, and they knew from experience that if they kept moving with him, he might settle down.
Murphy had taken a shower in preparation for his evening shift, and he came out into the living room with just his blue jeans on, a towel draped around his neck. He entered the room and stopped short in the archway.
Jordan was in the big old cane-back rocking chair he’d brought over from his place, rocking back and forth, James Jeffery tucked in the crook of her arm. She had on one of Murphy’s Harley-Davidson T-shirts and a pair of leggings, and wads of fair hair had escaped from the ponytail and fell around her face. A book lay open on her thigh. He gave a half smile when he considered his T-shirt on her body. Milk production was in excess, so that was definitely no longer a problem, but getting the laundry done was. Her shape had changed considerably since things had started to happen in the production department. And out of sheer desperation, he had fired that T-shirt at her two hours ago. But maybe that had been a big mistake. There was something about a woman’s breasts in a black Harley-Davidson T-shirt.
Murphy's Child Page 5
