She Woke Up Married (22 page)

Paris figured this must be that nesting instinct she’d read about, because she felt hell-bent on getting that nursery set up today. She’d shown the decorator a picture of the perfect nursery from
Baby Style
magazine and told her to basically duplicate it. As of now, she was pretty sure some mural painter was sizing up the wall for a picket fence and flower motif. Hopefully they’d move full speed ahead. She’d added a sizable bonus to Jenifer’s already very nice commission on the house and given Millie the checkbook to a bottomless line of credit.

She’d like to see that beautiful room. She would. But she was stuck here in bed being a good girl. Plus, she’d already decided the best way to do this was to make a clean break and let Turner take them to their new house after they were released from the hospital. She’d go directly to the Sonoma Spa and spend three weeks being miserable and fat and that would be that. Back to work. If she got crazy, the spa people would have orders to check her in to some private hospital where no one would find her.

It would be better this way. Then the girls
would never see their mother hit her head against the wall, trying to make the voices stop, until her forehead bled. Or see the pain of a father trying to deal with all of that and a new baby, too.

And what if she didn’t go crazy? Would she come and see them? Would she come back and stay? Would Turner ever consider taking her back?

Paris started to cry. She ran—or sort of waddled—for the bed and crawled in. Millie was out at the new house, Turner had gone off with Sarah somewhere, and she was alone. Where the hell had everyone gone for so long? It was almost dinner, and Turner usually came and spent the evening with her if he didn’t have a wedding. Did he have a wedding? It was almost Thanksgiving, and he’d said something about a few this week, plus he and Danny Vernon were trading off weeknights.

But no, he was off with Sarah. She felt a rush of heat in her cheeks. That Sarah—at least she could wait till it was all over and she left town before she put the moves on Turner.

She pulled a pillow up close to her face and cried hard. She’d really screwed everything up this time. She wanted to find another way, but her head just couldn’t seem to see clearly. It was like she’d set herself on this twisted, dark path and a fog had descended on her and she
couldn’t make it lift, or find her way off the path, or find anyone to help her.

She couldn’t help herself anymore, and she cried until she hiccupped.

After a while she couldn’t cry anymore. She reached her handout toward where the tissue box should be. Instead, someone handed her one.

She pulled back the covers to see Turner sitting beside the bed.

Paris reached out her hand to him. He held it with both of his. Then he put hers to his lips and softly kissed it.

“Things have to change now, Paris.”

She let go of his hand. She mopped her face with the one Kleenex until it was shreds. “I don’t know how.”

“I know. I’m going to help you. You have to let me, though.”

“What can you possibly do?”

“I stopped by to talk to Dr. Shapiro today. He told me you’d done such a good job that he might let you get up and at least lounge around the house. He said your butt must miss a chair.”

“Very funny. It’s flattened out from all the
weight, I’m sure.” Paris sniffled and blew her nose.

“All of this is about your mother’s illness, Paris.”

“You know I hate to talk about it.”

“I know. How about I talk instead.” Turner pulled his chair up close to the side of the bed. He rummaged under the covers and found her hand again.

“I have been working on something. I started out just researching what happened to your mother. But I found more than I bargained for.”

Paris looked up at him with such pain in her face that he almost couldn’t continue. But he knew this was going to be hard, no matter when, or where, or how. At least they could face it together. “Remember Sister Claudia? She was at St. Mary’s.”

“She was a good person.”

“She cared about you. She didn’t want you to have any more pain.”

“Did she die too?”

“I don’t know. She isn’t at St. Mary’s anymore.”

“You went there? Why?” Paris asked.

Her breath was quieting down some. He wanted her to stay as calm as possible.

“To ask about what happened to your mother.”

“Well that was a dead end. She died alone in some horrible hospital.”

“Paris, she didn’t die. Sister Claudia just told you that because she thought it would be better that way.”

Paris pulled herself completely up and sat against the hard wooden headboard of the bed. Turner reached over to help her and put a pillow behind her. She shoved him away.

“What are you talking about? Who told you this?”

“Father Gibbs.”

“He’s senile.”

“There’s a letter.”

“Let me see it.”

Turner got up and pulled his leather briefcase onto the end of the bed. He opened it and found the expandable file folder he’d been using for his reasearch.

“Give me that,” Paris demanded.

“It’s not all relevant. I’ll find the letter for you.”

“Let me see that whole thing
right now.
” Paris went beet red.

Turner came over and held the file out to her. “I’ll go through each thing with you. We are going to do this together, Paris.”

Paris grabbed the file and dumped the entire contents on the bed. She shifted through the papers like leaves, some dropping to the ground, until her hand fell on the picture. It must have
come out of the envelope. He watched as she picked it up. He saw her fingers shake. She shook so badly that he reached toward her and touched her shoulder.

“Paris.”

A horrible cry came from her. To him it sounded like it came from the depths of Paris’s soul. She rocked back and forth, and tears streamed down her face.

He pushed off his shoes and climbed in the bed next to her, his arm encircling her. She leaned her head against his shoulder and rocked and cried.

Surely, she would see how she couldn’t do this to her own children. For a moment, resentment for Paris’s mother boiled up in him. Not for being ill, but for believing for all these years that Paris would be better off without her. Everyone always assumed Paris was so strong and capable. She was all those things, but she was also someone who needed love more than anyone else he’d ever known.

If only her mother had understood that. But that was the past. The Lucille Jamison he’d gone to see today was not the same one that had left Paris. She’d been more than willing to help. He was absolutely sure that talking to her would help Paris be able to move on.

At the moment he wondered if Paris could
take it. It wasn’t going to be easy. He felt the pain wash over her and wished he could take it on himself.

But they were out of time. His children would be coming into this world very soon, and they needed their mother.

“Paris, I went to see her.”

“You went to see her? When were you planning on telling me about this?” Paris’s words were clear despite the fact that she was fighting back deep, rasping sobs.

“When I found out whether it would be worse or better for you to meet her.”

“I don’t think that’s your call.”

“I have to agree with you. I made a mistake. I’ve been protective of you and the pregnancy.”

“How did you find her?”

Turner was so hoping she wouldn’t ask this question. He could lie, but he didn’t lie. He could omit, but that would be the same.

“Sarah found a woman who had known your mother long ago.”

“Sarah? You told Sarah about this?” She shifted her body out of his arms as best she could. “You’re telling me that you and Sarah have been conducting this search together? That the two of you have known about my mother being alive for what, months? And yet you never told me?”

And would he tell the truth about Sarah to
get himself off the hook? Should he say how Sarah had broken into his desk and found out for herself?

Paris took a pile of tissues and dumped water from her bedside glass on them. She blotted her face and looked like she was trying to calm herself—she breathed deeply to slow down her hysterical hiccupping.

“She only came into this at the end. She wasn’t aware of things until lately. It wasn’t intentional. But she did help. She gave me the last piece of the puzzle that led to me finding your mother.”

“Where does she live?”

“By Lake Meade. On the Arizona side.”

“So close. Is this the address?” She held up the envelope that the Christmas card from her mother had come in.

“Yes.”

Paris got very quiet. She got so quiet that it made Turner move and look at her. What was she thinking?

“Are you all right, Paris?”

“No, but life goes on. What are your plans tonight?” Paris made her voice level and quiet.

“It’s my day off. I was going to stay here with you and cook some supper. Maybe set up the bassinets just in case.” Turner put his hand on her hand. She moved hers away.

“I bought you and the girls a house. Millie is
out there. My realtor Jenifer took her out. You should go see it. Then you can bring Millie back later.” She wanted him out of here
now.

“I should stay here with you, Paris. This can’t be an easy thing to learn. I want to be here with you. The house can wait.”

“Nonsense. I’ll get over it,” Paris said coldly. She would, too. But she had something to do first. How the hell was she going to get Turner out of here? He’d never let her do what she wanted to do.

“We should talk. We’ll arrange a meeting with your mother. She can come here.”

“I don’t want to talk, Turner. I want to be alone. Go to the new house. You’ll like it. Besides, I had the movers take all the baby stuff out there. You could set things up. We want to be ready, don’t we?” she said, trying to appeal to his sense of responsibility.

Turner slid out of her bed and stood up. He leaned against the mattress and looked closely into her face. “I’m not going to leave you, Paris.”

“Get out, Turner. I need to cry and carry on for a few hours. I don’t want anyone around to see that.” She tried for his therapist side. She sniffed and held up a tissue to her eyes, even though they’d gone bone dry with anger.

“Nope. I’ll go make you some dinner. I’ll shut the door and you can cry.”

Damn him! He was so damn stubborn. She thought quickly. She always thought quickly when she felt overwhelmed with emotion and chaos.

“Turner, you know what would make me feel better? To know that you were over at the new house setting up the nursery. I had a painter do a mural on the walls, and it’s probably done. Then I could know it was finished and that would make me happy. Maybe I could take a drive out there tomorrow. I’m really tired. I can’t take any more today. I’d like to just take a long nap. We’ll have a late supper later,” she lied. She wasn’t the least bit tired, for once.

Turner wavered. She saw it on his face. Score. Turner had this need to fix things, she’d figured that out. And if you told him what would make you happy, he’d have a hard time not doing it. If it weren’t for the fact that she’d ruined his life, she would have loved to have had him for a real husband. But she had ruined it. Somewhere down the line he was going to resent the hell out of all of this. She knew that. Then things would get ugly and sad, and that would be terrible. He probably already did.

“If you really think that would make you happy. I’ll ask Dr. Shapiro if I can take you over there tomorrow.”

“Go. Take your toolbox. I’m so tired. I need to rest.” She gave him a weak smile, then pushed
herself down into the bed and pulled the covers up. “Can you shut off that light?”

“I’ll be back, Paris. And you have your pagers? One for me, one for the hospital?”

“Yes, yes.” She made her voice sound tired.

Turner dimmed the light and shut the door to the bedroom. He found himself standing in the living room, which was uncharacteristically bare. Never mind the fact that the woman had purchased a house for him. He couldn’t go into that right now.

He felt dazed. Maybe sleeping was her way of dealing with emotional overload. Turner ran his hand over his chin. It was rough with an afternoon shadow. Sarah would be back after her class, so someone would be here soon. Maybe getting the nursury set up was Paris’s way of taking a step toward acceptance.

His head was spinning. He’d had a hell of a day. His visit to Lucille Jamison had been shocking. She’d looked so much like Paris, but with a depth of sorrow that lined her face and gave a darkness to her eyes.

He went to the kitchen. There was old coffee in the pot from this morning. He poured it in a small brown cup from his mother’s old china set. It always looked like cream was dripping down the sides of the brown glazed finish. She’d given him the set when he’d found an apartment and settled in, but Millie had packed up most of
it and bought something with butterflies and flowers on it.

Tonight he needed something with some family warmth built in. He poured in the coffee, added a splash of water, and warmed it in the microwave—the Amana, as Millie would say. It beeped, he pulled it out, and sipped. Really, really horrible. He took it anyway and sat down at the table to gather his wits.

He had never missed his family as much as he did now. He’d written them several times about everything that was going on. He’d talked to them on the phone. They’d made plans to come in December, for the holidays, after the babies were born. He had to laugh, because if he had one childhood trauma, it was that his parents had always focused on their flock for the holidays. He’d even resented it a few times, but their generous hearts and spirits made their home an open door for everyone, and even more so during the holidays.

So Paris had bought a house and set up her idea of a life for her children, and for him, and even Millie. Everyone but herself.

He didn’t feel good about it, but if she could see the place, maybe she could step into her own picture. Tomorrow he’d talk to her about seeing her mother. He wanted to be there for her—take her there. He’d be damned if he’d let her face this alone. It would defeat the whole forward
growth idea if he let her push him aside. That just wasn’t going to happen anymore. He wouldn’t let it.

Turner drank his bitter coffee. He’d grab a sub sandwich on the way to the house. He had to develop some normalcy around his life, and fast. He was about to be a father. He wanted order for those babies. Warm dinners, story reading time, rolling a ball and playing in the grass time. Those were more important to him than a fancy house. But it looked like he was stuck with it for now.

The sounds of people in the hallway distracted him. The walls were pretty thin in this place. The door opened and Millie and the real estate gal—Jenifer—walked in. Millie had on her jeans and a sweatshirt with a Siamese cat on it, under a quilted jacket. He thought that was weird. She was usually lounging around in velour, or pajamas, or a jogging outfit. Both women stood there in their coats and hats. They were both wet from the rain.

“Turner, we came to get you. You and some tools, and the bassinettes in my room. I’ve been hoarding them in there. I didn’t want those babies to have to sleep in a dresser drawer if they popped out early. But we need a man. Come on, man. You’ll love the place.” Millie yammered nonstop. “Come on, come on! We’ve got Jenifer’s minivan and we’re rarin’ to go. Plus we
have to stop for some takeout. We’re starved. Come on, the crew went home at four. We need you to help us play.”

Her name was Jenifer Shipley, Turner remembered. She was about fifty, with shoulder-length gray hair. She smiled, then came over and shook his hand. “Turner, we’ve crossed paths a few times, but I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.”

“I’ve seen your name on a few papers. Jenifer Shipley, right?”

“I’ve seen your name on a few papers, too. The deed to the new house, for one.”

He stopped shaking her hand, surprised. “I hope she put her own name on there as well.”

“We’ll gab about that later. Come on, get these things out of my closet and give us a hand.” Millie actually came over and aimed Turner at her bedroom, then gave him a directional push.

“Millie, you are one pushy broad, did you know?” Turner let her plow him forward.

“I know.”

He went in her room and saw two beautiful wicker baskets with pink satin-and-lace ribbons woven through them. There was a pile of comforters and other linens in pink gingham still in their wrappers beside the baskets. He stacked the top portion of the baskets together, loaded up a few linens, and left the bases for the next trip up the stairs. His life was going to be one
long, pink, gingham story from now on, so he better get used to it.

“Good, good, we’ll take the comforters. You get the bases on your next trip, then the tools.” Millie directed traffic.