Promise Me A Rainbow (26 page)

“It was Sasha,” she said after a moment.

“Sasha . . . one of your pregnant kids? The little one with the mouth?”

“Yes.”

Again he waited, but she didn’t go on.

“What happened to her?” he asked.

“She went into labor. The baby died.”

The words were spoken so quietly, belying the sadness he’d seen in her eyes. He tightened his arms around her because he needed to comfort her if he could, and she turned to him, moving so that she could lie with her head on his shoulder.

“In the class I . . . try to make them understand that it’s not so easy to have a baby—especially when you’re so young. I try to make them understand that they can do all the right things and still . . .”

Her voice trailed away. He reached up to touch the side of her face, to brush the tears away with his fingers.

“I was at the hospital all day,” she went on in that same quiet voice. “They tried to stop her labor, but they couldn’t. The baby was all right, but then it never . . . breathed on its own. Sasha didn’t understand at first. Even when they took the baby out of the room, she didn’t understand.

“Clarkson—the doctor who did the delivery—wanted me to tell her. He thought it would be better somehow, coming from me. I don’t know how I was supposed to do that—make it better. She really wanted her baby. She’d already decided it was going to be a little girl. She’d already named it. Treasure—because ‘That’s what this baby is to my grandmamma and me,’ she said. A
treasure
. Treasure Higgins . . .

“But I . . . told her, and she looked at me and said, ‘Does Treasure look like she’s sleeping, Ms. Holben?’ I wanted to say, ‘Yes. Yes, just like that. Like she’s sleeping. Dead babies don’t look like they’re asleep, Joe!”

“Easy,” he whispered holding her tightly.

“And then she put her arms around me, and she whispered in my ear so nobody would hear. She said ‘Don’t make it real yet, Ms. Holben. Don’t make it real.’ As if there were some bureaucratic ritual you have to go through when you find out you baby’s died—something you’re supposed to say and do to satisfy the hospital or the people in charge. But she wasn’t ready for it, and she wanted me to know she wasn’t—so I wouldn’t keep after her—oh . . .”

“It’s okay,” he whispered, because he didn’t know what else to say. She was trying so hard not to cry, and he wondered if it was because of him that she didn’t want to let go, or if it was something left over from her marriage to Jonathan. Maybe Jonathan didn’t put up with this kind of emotionalism. Maybe he had a rule, no crying, no matter how sad she felt.

He rubbed her back in long, gentle strokes.

“It’s okay,” he whispered again. “It’s just you and me. You can feel as bad as you want to.”

“Joe?”

“What?”

“I do feel bad. I feel so
bad
.”

“I know.”

“It’s got nothing to do with you.”

“I know that, too.”

“You don’t have to stay.”

“Catherine, shut up, will you?”

“Yes, I think I will,” she said, and she cried then, out loud, the way he thought she’d wanted to ever since he’d come into the apartment. He held her, soothed her, let her cry all over him if that’s what she needed. After what seemed a long time she grew quiet.

She had one of those clocks that projected the time on the ceiling, and he watched the minutes change. Once. Twice. Three times. Her body was warm against his, and her hand rested lightly on his chest.

“You okay?” he asked, covering her hand with his.

It took her a moment to answer.

“Yes,” she said.

He kissed her forehead and gave her the edge of the sheet to wipe her eyes.

“You . . . know I have to go.” It wasn’t quite a question, and he didn’t say that he had to get home because of his kids. It was the truth, but it sounded like a half-assed excuse somehow. And, anyway, she knew about his responsibilities.

“Yes,” she said.

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

“Joe, I don’t want anything from you. I understand.”

“Don’t tell me you understand until I say it, okay? Okay?” he repeated when she didn’t answer him.

She sniffed and wiped her eyes again. “Okay.”

“I . . . took advantage of you tonight. I knew I was doing it, and I did it anyway. I thought you needed somebody, and I wanted it to be me. I wanted to make love with you, Catherine, and I don’t want you to think, because it happened so fast, that it didn’t mean anything to me. I don’t want you to think I didn’t know you were upset or that I didn’t care.”

She tried to interrupt. “Joe—”

“Catherine, I want to say this. I’m afraid after I leave—in the cold light of day or whatever—you’re going to think this was some kind of hit-and-run deal here, that I just wanted to get laid and I knew you were upset enough to give in to it. I didn’t want you because you were convenient or willing or anything like that. I wanted you because I couldn’t help it. I don’t know what we’ve got here—maybe nothing. But whatever it is, I don’t want it ruined because you don’t know what’s going on with me. That’s all I’ve got to say, except—”

He abruptly sat up on the side of the bed and began looking for his clothes.

“Except what?”

“I . . . think I’ve said enough.”

She watched him for a moment, suddenly feeling ill at ease. She had nothing with this man but a moment of ill-timed passion, and there was nothing to sustain their relationship now that the passion was spent. She wanted to get dressed, but there was no graceful way to do it, not when one’s clothes had been so hastily discarded.

Her robe was lying over the foot of the bed. She put it on and left him alone, her mind on what he’d just said. He’d wanted her—and not just because she was willing and convenient. She supposed that he meant it; he wouldn’t have had to say it otherwise, but, as always, she was more concerned with what he
didn’t
say, and she had no idea how she should respond to it. She had expected nothing, and yet, if she chose to believe him—intense, sad, hot-tempered Joe D’Amaro—on some level he seemed to care about her and, for whatever reason, he wanted her to know it.

What reason? she kept asking herself as she paced around the kitchen. Because he wanted a woman who had her own life and who wouldn’t make demands on him? Because two thirds of his children liked her and he didn’t have to worry about getting her pregnant?

She was standing at the kitchen sink filling the kettle with water when he came out. She didn’t really want coffee. The sudden mental image of Jonathan’s last visit came to mind. Apparently neither she nor Jonathan could face an awkward situation without some kind of prop in their hands.

“What else were you going to say?” she asked immediately. They might as well have it all out in the open.

He looked into her eyes so long that she blushed. It was a lover’s look, intimate, knowing.

She was wrapped up in her robe as if she thought that covering herself would somehow take his mind off the fact that they had just made love. He thought she looked adorable, and he knew that the longer he stayed, the more difficult it would be to leave her.

He sat down in the closest chair. “I was going to say that I wouldn’t mind if you said . . . something, too.” He gave a small, offhanded shrug.

She set the kettle on the burner, then turned to look at him. “Something . . .” she repeated because she didn’t understand.

“Personal.”

“Personal?”

“Catherine, don’t keep saying what I say. Say something original.”

She smiled. That was something else about him. He made her smile. “How about . . . ‘Thank you’?”

“For what?”

“For making me feel better.”

He gave a slight smile of his own. “I made you feel better?”

“I thought we were going to be original.”

“I’m fishing.”

“I know, and yes, you made me feel better.”

“I’m . . . glad.”

“There’s one other thing.”
“What?”

“It’s personal.”

“I can take it.”

She looked into his eyes so he’d know she meant it. “I like you,” she said simply.

“Why?” he asked immediately because he was Joseph D’Amaro, and Joseph D’Amaro would always want reasons.

“God only knows,” she answered truthfully, and he laughed out loud, as if she had summarized their situation perfectly and he couldn’t agree more.

“I like you, too, Catherine,” he said, still smiling. “You’re . . . okay.”

Okay? She wanted to ask in what context she was “okay.” As a conversationalist in the middle of her kitchen or in the Mayfair’s basement? As a dinner companion at a family barbecue or a pub? As a lover in bed?

He stood up and reached for her without hesitation. She went into his arms willingly, the awkwardness she’d felt earlier somehow completely gone. She didn’t want him to leave, and it was all she could do not to say so.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said. “Maybe we can go someplace—if you don’t mind having Fritz along. She’s not going to let me get away with seeing you by myself again.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Catherine?”

“What?”

The
what
was a kiss, one filled with intent and purpose, from a man who made her recognize that she wasn’t going to be logical or sensible or detached about anything that had to do with him.

It was she who broke away. She hugged him tightly, her face pressed against his shirt. She didn’t want him to leave!

“Go home, Joe,” she whispered. “While you still can.”