She was just going to go into the kitchen to get herself a drink of water, and then she could get started unloading the car. All except for the bassinet, she qualified. The bassinet was a lovely item her mother had picked out for her, all frills and laces and perfect for a little girl.
Until Lily decided to be a tomboy. Like her.
Lynda had been the one for laces and frills. Growing up, they couldn’t have been more opposite. Lynda wanted laces, she had wanted a catcher’s mitt for her tenth birthday. Her mother had been depressed, her father elated.
Laurel was almost in the kitchen when she heard the noise. Something had dropped with a clatter, followed by a string of words she wasn’t going to allow the baby to hear until she was at least in college. Maybe not even then.
When had Christopher learned how to swear like that?
“So, you are home,” she called out.
Obviously he’d wanted to pretend he wasn’t, but too bad. It was about time she got him to help her out a little. He’d been withdrawing from her more and more ever since she’d gotten pregnant. She knew that on some level, he felt betrayed, but he needed to get over that. She thought he had when he’d found out she was having a girl, but obviously, she’d been mistaken.
She missed her last-born, missed the talks they used to have. Missed his sunny laugh. She hated that they didn’t seem to connect very often anymore.
With effort, Laurel made her way up the stairs. She was about to head toward Christopher’s room when a second noise stopped her. The sound wasn’t coming from his room. It was coming from the room next to the master bedroom. From Luke’s former room.
Had he decided to come back for some unknown reason? Oh God, what if he and Denise’d had an argument over the new arrival? He would have called, she insisted.
Laurel crept forward toward the room that had been designated to be the baby’s. The logical thing to assume was that, despite all his complaints, Christopher had decided to do a little work on the room. She doubted a burglar would be knocking around in there.
Puzzled and curious, she made her way to the room.
The smell of paint greeted her several feet before she got to the threshold.
There was plastic sheeting everywhere she looked. The rugs and furniture that huddled in the middle of the room were covered with it. And there were her men, rollers in their hands, their coveralls sprinkled with pastel pink.
Jason saw her first. “You’re early,” he accused. “You weren’t supposed to be here for another hour.”
She pressed her lips together, her throat temporarily clogged with emotion. They were painting the baby’s room. All of them—Jason, Morgan and Christopher. It went straight to the head of the line as the best present she’d ever received.
“Then I would have been forced to think that elves did this, because the men in my family have a habit of putting things off.” She sniffed, blinking back the moisture that was forming along her lashes. “So this was why I couldn’t get through on your cell this afternoon.” She lifted up the phone he’d placed on a shelf. It was turned off.
“This is why.”
Putting the phone back down, she picked her way carefully over the plastic on the floor. One wall was being turned into a mural, with nursery rhyme characters playing in a field of clover. Giving vent to his artistic side, Morgan was doing the honors. Right now, he was working on Jack and Jill.
“It’s beautiful.” She looked over her shoulder at Jason. “Thank you.”
“Hey, don’t thank me,” he told her. “This was all Christopher’s idea. He was the one who called us and shamed everyone into helping.”
“Yeah, we thought he was going to pull a Tom Sawyer on us,” Morgan added, dipping his roller into the pan on the floor, “until he joined in to do his share.”
“Christopher?” Miracles really did happen, she thought. She crossed to him. “Put your roller down so I can hug you.”
He seemed completely embarrassed. “Don’t get all mushy on me, Ma.”
“I’m pregnant,” she reminded him. “I have a free pass to get mushy any time I want.”
“Well, okay,” he muttered, setting down the roller as she’d asked. “But make it fast. The paint’s going to dry funny if I don’t finish.”
She saw right through him. Emotion embarrassed him, just as it once had his father. To let him save face, she said, “Yes, dear,” just before she hugged him. Hard.
CHAPTER 36
Because of the hour—six—the restaurant hadn’t gotten crowded yet. Without the din of voices to drown it out, she could hear the soft music being piped in. The song playing was vaguely familiar, although the name eluded her.
It didn’t matter.
What mattered was that they were here, that Jason had suggested this last “date,” bringing her to the restaurant that they’d been frequenting for years. He’d proposed to her here. And this was where she’d first told him that she was expecting Luke. More than any other spot, the Rainbow’s End was their “special place.”
“I’m so glad Christopher finally came around,” Laurel said. She closed the bright red menu and set it aside. She already knew what she wanted. The owner subscribed to the theory that if it isn’t broken, don’t fix it. Nothing had changed on the menu in the past four years, except for the prices.
Jason grinned. Work on the nursery had been completed more than two weeks ago. Laurel was still talking about it. He liked seeing her so happy. “It was bound to happen sooner or later, especially since this time, you’re having a girl.”
She hadn’t thought that the baby’s gender really made that much of a difference to Christopher, only that he was embarrassed that his parents were sexually active and the world knew about it because she was pregnant. “Do you think that has anything to do with it?”
Jason paused to give their orders to the waiter, then picked up a roll and began to butter it.
“That has everything to do with it. A little boy,” he continued, “even though he’s initially someone to teach and guide, eventually represents competition. A little girl, however, is a little Kewpie doll to our sons.”
That would be setting progress back by fifty years. Laurel set down her diet soda and rolled her eyes. “God, I hope not.”
“At least for the first five years. You’ve got to give them some space to enjoy having a little girl in the family.”
Laurel sighed slightly. “In five years, Lily will be spoiled rotten.”
He finished his roll just as the waiter returned with their meals. Jason moved his bread dish aside to make room for the plate. “That’s the plan.”
She didn’t know if he was kidding or not, but visions of tantrums and pouting flashed through her head. “That is not the plan. You don’t want to have to deal with the fallout when our ‘spoiled rotten’ daughter reaches her teens.”
Jason was teasing her. She could see it in his eyes. They were smiling. “All right, so just how long can we spoil her?”
She had an answer ready. “Until she’s on solid food.”
Jason knew better. She was always the first one to melt around a baby, but he played along. “You are a hard woman, Laurel Mitchell.”
She stopped eating long enough to look down at her distended stomach. Had it ever been really flat, or was that just a faraway dream? She sighed. “Not now, but I intend to be.” Laurel thought of it in terms of a day-by-day routine. It felt daunting already. “It’s going to be hard to get back into shape, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” he deadpanned, sinking his fork into his mashed potatoes. “I’ve never been a pregnant forty-five-year-old woman before.”
“Neither have I,” she countered, shifting slightly in her seat, “and that was an opening for you to say something supportive.”
Jason raised an eyebrow. The longer he was married, the more convinced he was that every woman should come with her own manual. Just when he thought he was on the right track, someone switched the route. “It was? Sorry. You k
now, I do better with a teleprompter.”
Amusement curved her mouth. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Damn, she really wished the baby would settle down. Each time she opened her mouth to take a bite, Lily would execute a high kick. Was she trying out for the Bolshoi Ballet? “So what do you think of being a grandfather?”
“Love the concept,” he told her, “hate the name.”
She thought of her own grandfather. He’d died when she was twelve, but he’d seemed ancient to her even though he’d only lived to be sixty. There was a built-in image with the label, one that brought to mind white hair and soft food. She understood Jason’s reluctance to embrace it.
“We’ll come up with a better name,” she promised. The next second, she felt her eyes water as Lily kicked again. If there’d been two of them inside her, she would have sworn they were having a rumble.
Jason shrugged as he continued eating. “We’ve got time.”
“That’s what you said about Lily and, look, I’m about ready to pop.” In fact, she added silently, it felt as if she was doing that right now.
He seemed unfazed. “We’ve still got a month.”
“We,” she repeated. As if they were actually going to go through this together. Men were so loose with their words sometimes. “Which part of the labor do you want to take? The beginning or the end?”
Jason nodded, taking her point. “We’ll shoot for it,” he answered glibly. “Rock, paper, scissors.”
Her mind made an involuntary side trip down memory lane. “You might have to shoot me if this one is anything like Christopher.” She shivered. “Ten long hours of absolute hell.”
He remembered better than she probably thought he did, Jason thought. He hated seeing her go through that. “There’s always a C-section,” he reminded her.
There’d been a story on the local news the other evening. A lot more women were going that route these days than ever before. To her it was a last resort, to be done only if the baby was in danger. Despite the pain involved, she wanted to have Lily naturally, the way she’d had her others. Laurel was convinced that it had helped to create a lasting bond between her and each of her sons. If possible, she wanted to be awake and lucid when Lily drew her first breath, not half-unconscious.
“We’ll put that on the back burner,” she told him, then caught her breath as another really sharp pain telegraphed itself through her, starting at her navel. For Jason, she forced a smile to her lips as she shifted in her chair for the umpteenth time. This time, she gripped the armrests as she did so. She could feel herself sweating. Southern California in November was not as cold as most places in the country, but it still didn’t usually have the kind of weather that induced perspiration.
Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t been able to really get even marginally comfortable for the past two days.
Just as she placed her hand on her stomach, she felt another strong jolt. “Of course, there might not be any need to consider a C-section. Lily just might kick her way out.”
He put down his knife and fork and looked not at her eyes but at her stomach. “Baby’s being active again?”
“She’d have to be shot with a tranquilizer gun to go down to ‘active.’ This isn’t active, this is a class-five hurricane that I have inside of me.” There it went again, another shock wave. “A hurricane training to be the next welterweight champion of the world.”
He was almost finished with his meal. What was left could be taken home, as could hers. He noticed Laurel had hardly eaten any of her dinner.
“Do you want to go home?”
She shook her head stubbornly. “No, this might be the last time we get to go out to eat as a twosome for a very long time. You’re going away on business next week and by the time you get back, I might be so large, I won’t fit into anything except for a U-Haul.”
Reaching across the table, he placed his hand on hers. “You’re exaggerating again. You’re not even as big as you were when you had Christopher.” He saw Laurel grin. “What?”
“I think you’re finally getting the hang of this supportive stuff.”
He withdrew his hand and picked up his fork again. “Slow and steady, that’s my motto. Okay, we’ll stay. But if you start feeling sick, tell me and I’ll take you home, understood?”
“Understood.”
Lily seemed to settle down then. For almost fifteen minutes. But just as the waiter was bringing out the dessert, the baby went into high gear, kicking even harder than before.
Laurel put down her fork. She was starting to feel like one of the astronauts in Alien, just before the creature popped out of their chests. Granted that in her case the center was a little lower, but the feeling, she was sure, was the same.
It began to feel very warm in the restaurant again. There were more people now and the noise level had gone up, contributing to the odd feeling that was beginning to wrap itself around her.
“You all right, Laurie? You look a little pale.”
Jason’s voice sounded distant. She forced herself to focus on it. Forced herself to sound as if nothing was wrong when she was beginning to feel that it might be.
“Pale is my natural color,” she quipped. “That’s why there are seven little men following me everywhere.”
“No, paler,” he insisted, leaning over the table and peering at her face. “You look paler than usual. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m eight months’ pregnant, Jason. I haven’t been all right for about two months now.”
Jason shrugged, letting the matter drop. He raised his hand, signaling for the waiter to come with their check.
“You know best.” He wasn’t about to get into an argument over it, not with her hormones out of kilter. She could go from zero to banshee in less than sixty seconds and he for one was not about to get caught in the crossfire.
“Um, Jason?”
Hand still raised for the waiter, Jason glanced at her. Her voice sounded odd. “Yes?”
“Could we go now?”
“That’s what I’m trying to do, honey. Soon as I get the waiter’s attention.”
“Sooner.”
“What?” Jason looked at her, puzzled. “Why?”
She pressed her lips together, taking a breath. It didn’t help. The pain just became sharper. So sharp she couldn’t speak for a moment. And then she did.
“Because my water just broke.” There was no shifting away from the pain. “Jason, I’m in labor.”
CHAPTER 37
“No, you’re not,” Jason retorted with feeling once he regained the use of his tongue. “You’re just eight months’ pregnant, Laurie. You can’t be in labor.” All three of their other children had arrived at least a couple of days past their due dates. There was no reason to believe that Laurel’s pattern had changed.
Another wave of near-immobilizing pain began speeding toward her. Laurel shrugged her shoulders helplessly in response to Jason’s protest. He could protest all he wanted to, she knew what she knew. The baby was coming. Very soon.
“I know exactly…how pregnant…I am,” she told him, gritting her teeth. “But…Lily…wants…to be…different. She…wants…to…be…early.” Every word was an effort. With each one she uttered, Laurel fought back a cry of pain.
The owner of the Rainbow’s End, Aldo Grimaldi, a restaurateur for the past twenty-nine years, was drifting from table to table, as was his habit each evening, asking patrons if everything was to their liking. As he approached Laurel and Jason, his warm smile froze, then disappeared, replaced by a look of concern. He knew his regulars by name and Laurel and Jason were two of his oldest customers.
The dapper-looking man quickly made his way over, stopping at Laurel’s chair. “Is anything wrong, Mrs. Mitchell?”
“I’m about to…give you…another patron,” Laurel managed to gasp out just as the waiter arrived in response to Jason’s summons. Staring at her, the young man turned white as an old-fashioned sheet. “In a…matter of minutes…I think.”
She pressed her hand to her abdomen, as if that could somehow magically keep her baby where it was.
Jason never took his eyes off her. “I need the check,” he told the waiter. “Now.”
Aldo waved his hand, making the matter go away. “Never mind that, my friend. Consider it on the house. The only thing you need to do is get your lovely bride to the hospital.”
“My…thoughts…exactly,” Laurel ground out.
Perspiration had formed a ring along her hairline. Her bangs had begun to stick to her forehead. All around them, diners were watching them. She just wanted to be able to get out, to make her way to somewhere private, before Lily’s birth became a public affair.
Aldo nodded, digging into his pocket. “I’ll have my driver take you,” he offered, already on his cell, making the call.
But Jason shook his head. There was no time to wait for someone to come. From the look on Laurel’s face and the way she was breathing, every second counted. “I’ve got my car in the lot.”
Aldo was not the kind of man who took no for an answer or was easily dissuaded.
“You need to be focused on your wife, Mr. Mitchell. Ryan will get you to the hospital.” Before Jason could ask who Ryan was, the man had materialized before his employer. The driver was a tall hulk of a man whose every movement seemed to make his uniform strain at the seams. His face appeared to be chiseled out of stone. “Ryan, this lovely lady is about to bring another life into the world. Get them to—” Aldo paused, looking at Jason to fill in the destination.
But it was Laurel who answered, all but crying out the name. “Blair…Memorial.”
Ryan nodded. The chiseled face softened as he witnessed Laurel’s pain. “That’s just five miles away. You’ll be there in no time flat.”
“Maybe…not so…fast,” Laurel amended. Trying to get to her feet, she felt her knees buckle. Her hand splayed out onto the table to keep from falling over. Jason was quick to catch her from behind, keeping her upright.
“Lean on me, honey,” he urged.
To both their surprise, Aldo’s personal chauffeur intervened.
The Second Time Around Page 21
