Not Quite Married (17 page)

That night at dinner, when Dalton tried again to make it up with her, she said, “There are two things I won’t put up with from you, Dalton, if we’re ever going to make it work together.”

He stared across the table at her through his one good eye and said, “Let me guess. Cheating and lying.”

Her heart softened toward him—minimally, anyway. “That’s right.” It came out sounding almost tender.

And he replied gently, “I told you I would never cheat on you. And I won’t. And I have not and will not tell you any lies.”

So much for tenderness. Her fork clattered against her plate. She scoffed, “Oh, please. Did you or did you not tell me that you would get along with Ryan?”

“I did. And I
am
getting along with Ryan.”

“Have you
looked
in a mirror lately?”

He set down his own fork, but quietly, and enjoyed a slow sip of the pricey red wine he’d served himself with dinner. “What a woman sees as ‘getting along’ and what a man has to do to reach a mutual understanding with another man can be two different things.”

She was having that exploding-head feeling again. “Are you trying to tell me that when you said you would get along with Ryan, to you, ‘getting along’ meant it was perfectly okay for you to beat each other up?”

“No. When I said I would get along with him, I fully understood that to you, getting along does not include hitting, punching, kicking or physical aggression of any kind.”

“So, then, you lied to me.”

“No. I did what I had to do to get along with your good buddy. I went to see him to talk it out with him, and when talking didn’t get us anywhere, we...did what men do. It wasn’t any fight to the death, Clara. It was more on the order of a conversation. With fists.”

“A conversation.”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“Right this minute, Dalton, I feel like we’re not even from the same planet.”

He drank more wine. “I am no liar. And I admit I do regret promising you that I would get along with your friend. But that’s because ‘getting along’ in this case means something different to you than it does to me. And while we’re on this subject, for the record, I just want to say that when you asked me to ‘get along’ with Ryan in the way that
you
mean ‘getting along,’ you were asking too much.”

“Asking too much because I didn’t want you two beating the crap out of each other? That’s insane.”

“No, it’s not. Ask Ryan. He thinks you were asking too much, too.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“He told me. After he punched me the first time and before I hit him back.”

“Wait a minute. Ryan threw the first punch?”

“Yes, he did. But only after I egged him on.”

Clara decided she’d had more than enough of this bizarre conversation. “I can’t talk about this anymore.”

He picked up his fork again. “Maybe you ought to ask Ryan.”

“Ask Ryan what?”

“If he thinks that the two of us are learning to get along.”

* * *

After the meal, Clara went to her room and did just that.

Ryan answered on the first ring, his voice full of good cheer. “Hey, beautiful. What’s up?”

“How are you feeling?”

“A whole lot better than I look. How’s your boyfriend holding up?”

“About the same as you. I have a question...”

“Shoot.”

“Would you say that you and Dalton are learning to get along?”

“Yeah,” he answered breezily, without even giving it a second thought. “I would. I wasn’t sure about him at first. I knew that he’d hurt you and I didn’t like that. And initially, he kind of comes across like he’s got a poker up his butt. But I’m getting used to him, beginning to think he’s for real. After our conversation the other day, I’m starting to see he’s an okay guy.”

“Your
conversation
...?” Good grief. Dalton had called the fight a conversation, too.

“Yeah. You know the one. It started with talking and ended up on the floor.”

“I just... Rye, I don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

Where to even begin? “You. Dalton. Beating each other up in the interest of communication.”

Rye chuckled. “You’re thinking too much. Guys aren’t that complex.” And again, he was sounding way too much like Dalton. Then he spoke more softly. “I think you ought to give the guy a chance.”

Her throat clutched. “Oh, Rye...”

“You and me, Clara, we’re good friends. I’ve tried for years to tell myself that someday it will be more. But I’m getting a clue finally. It’s not going to happen, is it?”

Softly, she answered, “No, Rye. It’s not.”

“Yeah. Got it.” His voice was tight, pained. He was quiet. And then he said, “You and your boyfriend need to work a few things out. And you know what? I’m kind of an idiot sometimes, but I get it. I’m not helping by getting in the way.”

She insisted, “You’re not in the way.”

He grunted. “Yeah. I kind of was. But not anymore.”

Tears burned at the back of her throat. She gulped them down. “What does that mean? Are you saying you won’t be my friend anymore?”

“No way am I saying that. I’m your friend, Clara. And I’m here for you. Always.”

She still didn’t get it. Not really. But it did seem that he and Dalton had come to some sort of understanding, after all. So maybe she needed to just leave it alone for now.

And maybe Rye thought so to, because he changed the subject. “How about you? How’re
you
feeling?”

She sat up a little and rubbed at that achy spot at the base of her spine. She’d been having some cramping. And then there was the heartburn and the swollen ankles. “Like I swallowed a whale. I cannot wait for this little girl to be born.”

“Follow the doctor’s orders. Stay off your feet.”

“I am, I am.”

“You need anything, call.”

“I will.” She thanked him and said good-night.

Faintly, from the great room, she could hear the TV, which meant that Dalton hadn’t gone upstairs yet. She considered getting up, going to him, making up with him, and telling him all about her surprising conversation with Rye.

But her back was achy and the cramping was getting to her. She didn’t have the energy to crawl out of bed. She just wanted to rest a little. Maybe after a nap, if he was still up, they could talk.

Turning onto her side, she put a pillow between her knees and one under her belly. As she closed her eyes, the bedside clock showed nine thirty. Her whole body ached and she feared it would take her forever to drift off to sleep...

* * *

Clara woke with a startled cry.

She stared in disbelief at the clock. Somehow, hours had passed. It was one in the morning—and she was right in the middle of a full-on contraction.

She rode it out, holding her belly, watching the clock, trying to relax, to breathe slow and even, and switching to panting when the pain got too bad.

After about a minute that went on for a decade, the contraction faded off.

Then she realized that the bed was wet. With a whimper, she pushed back the covers and stared at the soggy sheet.

Her water had broken.

Chapter Nine

C
lara crawled from the bed and staggered to the door that led to the hall. Flinging it open, she shouted up the darkened stairs.

“Dalton!” And then she sagged against the doorframe and waited for him to come.

He did, and quickly. Not twenty seconds after she called his name, he came racing down the stairs to her, wearing only a pair of boxers, his thick dark hair, slept on, standing on end, his battered face grim. “The baby...?”

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. So she kind of did both as a chuckling sob escaped her. “I woke up.” She looked down at the little puddle at her feet. “My water broke.”

He took her by the shoulders, his big hands so careful, so gentle. “Do you need an ambulance?”

She bit her lip and looked up into those beautiful eyes of his—well, one beautiful eye, anyway. The other was still swollen shut.
Oh, dear Lord. Let our baby have his eyes
. “I just need you to get dressed and dig out my suitcase.” It was all packed and waiting in the space under the stairs. “And take me to the hospital.”

“You got it.” And then he pulled her close for a quick hug, tipping up her chin afterward, bending close and brushing his nose against hers in the sweetest, most reassuring little caress. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

She forced her lips to turn up into a smile for him, and gave him a nod.

And then he let her go. The instant he did, she wanted to grab him back. She swallowed the cry that rose in her throat. Slumping against the doorframe again, she watched him race up the stairs.

“Dressed,” she reminded herself out loud. “I need to get...”

And then another contraction took her. She groaned and slid down the doorframe, ending up on the floor on her hands and knees, riding it out, hearing the strangest animal grunting sounds and then gradually realizing they were coming from her.

He was back at her side wearing jeans and a T-shirt just as the pain eased again. He dropped down to the floor with her and put his wonderful, warm hand on her back. “You sure you don’t want me to call an ambulance?”

“No. No, I think I’m doing fine.” Fine being a relative term when you’re pushing a baby out. “But maybe we ought to time a few contractions and call Dr. Kapur to make sure I’m far enough along that I need to go the hospital.”

“Clara. You’re on your hands and knees and your water’s broken. We’re going to the hospital. You can call the doctor on the way.”

With a groan, she eased back and sat on the floor. Her nightshirt, which had Not Everything Stays in Vegas printed down the front, was gooey-wet around the hem. “I need to get my clothes on.”

“How about a pair of flip-flops and a robe?”

“And a clean shirt and panties—and a pad for all this dripping. Please?”

He wrapped his big hand around her neck and pulled her close enough to press a kiss to her forehead. His lips felt warm and soft and so reassuring against her skin. “Don’t move,” he whispered.

“Not a problem,” she groaned.

And then he was up and heading for her bedroom closet.

He got her the dry clothing, which she changed into between contractions. He grabbed her purse for her, dug out her suitcase from under the stairs and herded her toward the back door. “Car keys?” he asked as they went out.

“I have them in my purse.”

He helped her climb into the passenger seat and hooked the seat belt loosely, by holding it extra-extended as she worked the clasp. Then he took her purse from her, dug out the keys and went around to get behind the wheel.

Another contraction hit as he backed down the driveway. She groaned and panted as they sped off down the dark street. As soon as that one faded, she autodialed Dr. Kapur’s office and got the night answering service. They promised to have her doctor call her back “very soon.”

It was a short ride to the hospital complex, which stood in a wide curve of Arrowhead Drive southeast of town. Dalton pulled up under the porte cochere at Emergency and helped her inside. She leaned on the admission desk, groaning through another contraction and he went back out to park the car.

When he returned, she was sagging against a wall. She’d preregistered a month before, so all she’d had to do was sign in.

Things were pretty quiet tonight, so she didn’t have to wait long to be loaded into a wheelchair and rolled down a series of hallways to Labor and Delivery. There, they put her in a suite.

A nurse came. There were questions. And an exam.

It all got a little hazy after that. The pains came and went, growing longer and closer together. There were ice chips on her tongue and people speaking gently, encouragingly to her.

Dr. Kapur appeared and told her she was doing fine, spoke of dilation and effacement and all those words Clara had learned in order to try to understand what would happen when the baby came, all those words that seemed like nonsense syllables to her now that it was really happening. Now that her baby was actually being born.

And there was Dalton. Right with her through it all, letting her take his hand and bear down hard on his poor fingers every time the pain struck.

In the end, with her sleep shirt up to here and her knees spread wide and her hair dripping sweat into her eyes, they told her it was time to push and she pushed and pushed and screamed. And screamed some more.

Once, right after Dr. Kapur said the head was crowning, she turned to Dalton, who was still there beside her. She yelled at him that it was all his damn fault and she couldn’t do this.

And he said, “You can, sweetheart. You know you can.”

She blinked the sweat out of her eyes and wondered if he’d really called her sweetheart—or if she’d only imagined it in the endless, unreal agony of the moment.

It didn’t seem the kind of thing that Dalton might say. Not the rich banker Dalton, the Dalton of the Denver Ameses.

But maybe the island Dalton. Yes. The island Dalton
had
called her sweetheart. More than once, now that she thought about it.

“Did you just call me sweetheart?”

Before he could answer, Dr. Kapur said, “Push, Clara. Push.”

And after that the pain was worse than ever as she bore down, moaning and crying, mangling Dalton’s hand in her clutching, clawing grip.

“Here she is,” said the doctor. “Just a little more...”

And Clara gave one more mighty, never-ending push—and her daughter slid out of her and into the world.

At first, there was no sound. The baby was quiet.

Clara clutched Dalton’s hand even tighter than before. “Is she okay, is she—?”

“She’s fine, fine,” promised Dr. Kapur, clearing the airways with two swipes of her fingers, then lifting the gooey, white-streaked little body, still attached to the cord, and setting her on Clara’s belly.

Clara touched the small head covered with slimy dark hair. “Are you...all right?” she asked the baby in a broken whisper.

And then the tiny mouth opened to let out a whine, followed by a squeal and then a full-out lusty cry.