The Woman Next Door (33 page)

The denouement was more leisurely this time, a slower return to awareness, a more spent embrace.

“Cold?” he asked in a raspy whisper.

She shook her head.

“But wet,” he said.

She couldn’t deny that, though the words were provocative. When he drew back and the slash of a wicked grin shot through his beard, she coiled her arms tighter around his neck.

“Dry me,” she whispered.

***

During a break in the action, he went to a quiet window and gave her a call. She picked up after a single ring. She had been waiting.

“I can’t get there tonight,” he said.

She paused for a beat, then replied with a disappointed, “Not at all?”

“No. I’m needed here. There’s no way I can get away.”

“You said that wouldn’t happen.”

“I also said it was a delicate situation, and that was then. Now it’s even more delicate.”

“Why?”

“Complications. A turn of events.”

“What events?”

He pushed a hand through his hair. He was frazzled enough not to want to go into detail. “We had a major trauma tonight. I’m picking up pieces. It’s important.”

“I thought
I
was.”

“You are,” he said, and then, because his body didn’t stir at the thought of her and he felt guilty for that, he softened his voice.

“We’ve been through this, cookie. You
are
important. But there’s an order to things.”

“I’m running out of time. If this keeps up much longer, the baby will be born.”

“No pressure. Not tonight. I’m too drained.”

“I feel pressure. Shouldn’t you, too?”

He wanted to say that he didn’t. He wanted to threaten to deny that the baby was his, if she didn’t back off. Hell, he wasn’t even entirely sure the baby
was
his. She was a hot little number. Quickies were her specialty.

But after the events of this evening, he wasn’t in a threatening mood. Fear was a potent mellower, and he did feel mellow.

“I’ll give you a call tomorrow,” he said.

“How do I know you will?” she asked in a way that would have been a total turnoff even if he had been interested in her just then, which he wasn’t. He wasn’t being roped into something that didn’t work for him. If the baby wasn’t his, he didn’t owe her a thing.

“Look, I’m not going to answer that. I can’t talk now. That’s it.” Ending the call, he turned his back on the window and refocused his thoughts on the home front.

***

Georgia had planned to be home in time for supper, but her flight was delayed. She had barely turned on her cell phone and left the plane, though, when Russ called. She stood stock-still, just inside the terminal, while he explained what had happened. Once the initial horror passed, she began walking again, with growing speed as her sense of direction narrowed. If she’d had even the least bit of doubt about what she wanted when the plane had touched down, it was gone.

She wanted to be home.

***

Karen would have stayed at the hospital if she hadn’t been worried about the other children. Allison was with them, and they were in bed when she got home, but they were awake and needing reassurance. She gave them that, tucked them in, and kissed them goodnight. Then she went down to the kitchen and called the phone by Jordie’s bed.

Lee answered. “Hello?”

“It’s me. How is he?”

“Pretty good. Here.”

There was a moment’s silence during the transfer of the receiver, then a subdued, “Hi.”

“How’s the leg feel?” she asked in as upbeat a way as she could.

“It’s okay.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Yeah.”

“Did they give you something for the pain?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s good. You must be tired.”

“A little.”

“Jordie?” She didn’t know where to start, there was so much to say.

“I’ll be home in the morning,” Jordie said in a way that summarily shut down discussion before it began. Karen didn’t know whether he wouldn’t talk because he was tired, in pain, or upset— or because he was just being Jordie—or because Lee was right there.

“I know, honey,” she answered. “I’ll be there to get you. I just want you to know that I love you.”

Jordie was silent.

“Jordie—” Her eyes filled with tears. He was their son, and although
he had behaved badly, it occurred to her that she and Lee hadn’t done much better. Keeping the family intact was one thing; doing it at the expense of the children’s peace of mind was something else.

“I know, Mom,” he whispered brokenly. “Me, too.”

***

“We have to talk,” Amanda murmured a bit later. She and Graham had made love in the shower and again in bed. She lay now with her cheek on his shoulder, her hand on his chest, her belly to his middle, and her leg wound through his.

“Later,” Graham whispered, barely moving his mouth. His eyes were closed, dark lashes resting on the tanned skin beneath.

“Talking’s the key. We stopped doing it.”

“For other reasons than this,” he murmured with the ghost of a wry smile.

She touched his mouth. His lips were firm and puckered right up to kiss her fingertips, but that was the extent of his exertion. His chest rose and fell with healthy regularity, but his limbs lay long and inert.

“Why’d we stop?” she asked.

He was quiet for so long, still for so long, that she wondered if he was falling asleep. He had a way of doing that after they made love. Not her. Lovemaking stimulated her. Even now, when she should have been exhausted from her adventure with Jordie, she was wide awake.

“Life,” he murmured.

“Life what?”

“Got in the way. We got caught up. Things came between.” He drew in a deep breath, turned his head on the pillow, and opened
his eyes to hers. “The answer to your question? I want you. If we don’t have a baby biologically we’ll have one another way.”

She studied his eyes. His gaze was direct. In its nakedness, she saw an unmistakable honesty.

At the urging of his arm, she lay her head down with an ear to his heart, and timed her breathing to match its beat. “What if things come between us again?”

“We won’t let them.”

“We weren’t aware it was happening this time. How will we know another time?”

“We’re experienced now. This was our first big blow-up, our first real test.”

“I’m sorry I accused you of being with Gretchen. It’s just that there she was, suddenly pregnant and I wasn’t, and you did such a gorgeous landscape plan for her right around the time she would have conceived.” When he didn’t respond, she raised her head. His eyes were closed again. “Who do you think fathered her baby?”

“Don’t know,” he murmured.

“Think it was Lee?”

“Hmm.”

That was a “could be,” Amanda knew. She thought about the ramifications, in light of the talk she’d had with Jordie up at the top of the tower. “At least, if it was Lee, he might have an element of control over her. He could prevent her from going after Jordie for destroying the painting. Think he would?”

***

Gretchen waited until Thursday morning to make the call. She knew the number by heart. Though she had phoned Oliver Deeds only a handful of times, she had studied his number many more
times than that in the awful months following Ben’s death. He had been a backup for her then. She kept his number beside that of the local police. He had been a resource when she didn’t know how to handle something, a source of stability, just as Ben had wanted. Of course, Ben couldn’t have anticipated the strength of his own sons’ reactions to what he had left her in his will, and the way that pulled Oliver in different directions at once.

“Fillham and Marcus,” came the receptionist’s singsong voice.

“Oliver Deeds, please.”

“May I tell him who’s calling?”

“Gretchen Tannenwald.” She took a deep breath, turned away from the phone, waited.

He came on promptly, as was his way. His specialty was estates. A paper-and-pencil man, he lived and acted contracts and forms.

“Gretchen?”

“Yes,” she said, rushing out the speech she had rehearsed, trying her best to sound independent and strong. “I won’t take much of your time. I just wanted to tell you that I found out who damaged my paintings. It’s someone I know, so I won’t press charges. I’d appreciate it if you would tell that to the insurance company and to David and Alan.”

There was a pause, then, “Are you saying you’re withdrawing the insurance claim?”

“I never filed a claim. I never called them. You did that.”

“You have a right to the money.”

“What good’s the money if I can’t replace the painting?”

“Money’s money. You have a baby coming. Do you need any for that?”

“No.”

“You know I’ll help.”

“No.”

He stayed quiet. She wanted to think that she had surprised him, which was pretty pathetic. Oliver knew her better than Ben’s sons did. He should have known she wasn’t in it for the money.

“So who did slash the art?” he asked.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Is it someone you’re seeing?”

“I’m pregnant. I’m not seeing anyone.”

“Oh. I was just wondering. Gretchen—”

“That’s all. I just wanted you to know that. Bye, Oliver.”

***

Graham was still in bed, and it was nearly noon. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d stayed in bed this long. Of course, he couldn’t remember the last time they’d made love so much, and it wasn’t over. Turning his head on the pillow, he saw the riot of Amanda’s blond hair inches away. Her bare back and bottom nestled against his equally bare side. His arm was numb where her cheek rested, but that was the extent of his numbness. Holding her, lying so close, he felt the hum of arousal.

They had called in sick. Both of them. It wasn’t a first, but it had been years since they’d done it last.

Turning onto his side, he drew her back against him with a satisfied sigh. Earlier passion had taken the edge off his need. What he felt now was the slower pleasure of a simmering heat, as blood worked its way to his groin.

She took in a deep breath, held it, looked over her shoulder, turned. “Hi,” she said with a sleepy sigh that ended in a smile.

“Hi,” he said, kissing her nose.

“Mmm. You haven’t kissed my nose in months.”

“You haven’t looked so cute in months.” She looked about twenty years old. Not that he had a thing for younger women. Well, maybe he did. He certainly liked Amanda’s freshness.

Looking dreamy she closed her eyes. Seconds later, they popped back open. “Did you call the Cotters?”

“Yeah. I called earlier. Jordie’s fine. He stayed in the hospital overnight. I think they want him to see someone this morning.”

“See someone. Like a psychiatrist?”

“I got that impression.”

“From Karen or Lee?”

“Karen. Lee wasn’t around. Maybe he was making the arrangements.”

“Or out playing somewhere.”

“He was pretty upset. He didn’t fake that while the two of you were up there on the top of that tower.”

When she held her breath, he knew she was remembering. He couldn’t imagine it had been any more frightening for her than it had been for him. His first instinct, seeing her up there, had been anger. But it didn’t last. She was the one who had stayed with Jordie, while he ran back for help. She had known what Jordie needed.

“You did good,” he said softly.

She released the breath. “It was . . . redemption.” She scrubbed his beard with her fingertips, then, spreading her palm over it, brushed her thumb over his mouth. “Karen and Lee have decisions to make.”

“So do we,” he said, because he didn’t want to discuss Karen and Lee. He didn’t want to discuss much at all—-just wanted more of what was passionate and irresponsible and light. It was fun. They hadn’t done it in too long a time. He had missed it. “I’m hungry. Do we have anything good in the house?”

“Actually,” she said thoughtfully, “you have a choice of entrées. There’s chicken, steak, or me. I’d have to defrost the chicken or the steak. Me is ready.”

Rolling over onto her, Graham found that she was. He was already inside her when the telephone rang. They let it ring.

***

Georgia hung up the phone with a look of concern. “Are they all right?”

“They’re all right,” Russ said. “Trust me. They’re all right. And don’t go ringing their bell. They need time to themselves. You’d know that if you’d been here last night. Man, that was a scary scene.”

It wasn’t until ten that she had finally pulled into the driveway, and by then the drama was done. At least, the one in the woods was. The one involving the future of Beet Beer was about to come to a head.

The phone rang. Seeing the return number of her attorney, she picked up. “Yes, Sam.”

“They won’t budge,” he said. “You’re part of the deal. They want you to stay on for another two years. They’re willing to give you that.”

“Two, rather than three.”

“It’s something. It’s certainly flattering.”

“Flattery doesn’t do much for me when I’m three hours away by plane and my kids need me,” Georgia said, massaging her lower-back muscles. She was tired—tired of packing and unpacking, tired of pulling bags through airports and dashing from one gate to another to make connecting flights, and squeezing her body between two other passengers when the only free seat was in the middle— and all that was on
top
of emotional exhaustion, the tension of worrying
about what was happening at home, the long-distance sessions with Allison, who was growing up too fast, and Tommy, who would be reaching that point soon—and even
that
was on top of Russ and his needs and her needs and the fear of what would happen if the separations went on and on and on. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined that she would be standing here making a major business decision while her lovable dork of a husband pawed through a basket of laundry fresh from the dryer looking for the mate to one of Tommy’s soccer socks—red stripes on white, except for the foot, which would be permanently gray from the playing-field dirt unless she bleached it. The question was whether there was bleach in the house. There were cartons of Beet Beer in the pantry. But Clorox?