The Wrong Man. Laura Abbot
couldn’t have said how long she sat there. It might have been mere minutes—or hours. The repetitive to-and-fro of the rocker failed to soothe her. She was way beyond soothing.
She should have been rocking a baby. His baby.
Impelled by a force beyond herself, she rose and moved toward her bedroom, knowing on the one hand the act was masochistic, but on the other, inevitable. She knelt on the braided wool rug, her heartbeat a mournful thud, then, with trembling hands, raised the lid of the cedar chest. The aromatic fragrance nearly gagged her.
She could stop now. She didn’t have to do this. But instinct was deaf to reason. Burrowing beneath sheets, tablecloths and out-of-season clothing, she found the hardcover volume, long buried.
Blind, futile rage enveloped her as she wrested the book from the depths of the cedar chest, oblivious to the disorder left behind.
By the soft light of the bedside lamp, she forced herself to read the title that her fingers involuntarily traced. “My Baby Book.”
Clasping this journal of dashed hopes to her chest, she carried it to the bed, where she perched on the edge like a sleepwalker recently aroused. She flipped to one of the first pages, filled with her own handwriting. “How Mommy Told Daddy About Me.” Then, “Mommy’s First Visit to the Doctor.” And finally to the stark white, blank pages—screaming loss—after “Mommy’s Third Month.”
Her throat worked in spasms but she refused to cry. She had shed enough tears to last a lifetime, and they had changed nothing.
How dare Trent reenter her life? How dare he bring that precious, beautiful daughter of his to break her heart? And how could her body have betrayed her? Good Lord, for a brief moment this evening, she’d been aware of him in an intimate, sensual way.
She stared at the book in her lap, knowing that from this moment on, it would serve as a potent reminder. Trent was no part of her life. He had long ago given up any claim on her.
He had never understood how she felt. He’d even been cavalier. To him it was “just a miscarriage.” To her, a loss beyond bearing.
Now he had his child. She had no one.
For him, it had been a simple matter. She would never forget his words that awful day when she couldn’t stop sobbing, when nothing could stanch her pain and grief. “It’s not the end of the world, Lib. We can always have another baby.”
No, he hadn’t been there for her. That same day, love died.
CHAPTER FOUR
TRAPPED IN AN UNDERTOW of guilt, Trent concentrated on his driving, focusing on every intersection, each curve in the road.
“Daddy, did you see how Mona curled up in my lap? She has the softest fur and I love petting her. ’Course, I love Scout. Dogs are my favorites, but cats are…”
Kylie had jabbered nonstop ever since they left Libby’s. His role, limited to nodding occasionally or muttering a well-timed “Uh-huh,” left him too much time to think. To remember.
Libby’s euphoria when the home pregnancy test had turned up positive. The way she had welcomed morning sickness as a harbinger of the new life within her. Her ecstatic plans for turning their tiny second bedroom into a colorful nursery. How nearly every conversation had revolved around possible baby names.
That wasn’t all he remembered.
With a shame that tightened his stomach, he also recalled his own panic.
A baby? No way was he prepared—not financially and certainly not emotionally. He was a young man, for cripe’s sake, enjoying his free lifestyle. On a whim he could jump in his truck and take off with his buddies to follow the snow or fish a hot section of the river. Then when he got home? Libby would listen to his adventures, laugh at the appropriate moments and applaud his feats. And at night? Sex that made his blood boil just thinking about it.
He had felt that he was being cheated. A baby would spoil everything. He wasn’t ready. This couldn’t be happening. Libby wanted him to share her excitement, but somehow he could never wrap his mind around the concept of late-night feedings and dirty diapers. It was more fun to escape to the nearest tavern or gather his friends for a poker game.
Yeah, he wasn’t proud of his reaction to Libby’s pregnancy. After the divorce and his move to Billings, he’d had plenty of time to reflect—and to grow up. Then he’d met Ashley and once again been faced with the prospect of fatherhood. This time he had promised himself things would be different. He would be a loving and responsible parent.
“Daddy, I’m scared.” Kylie’s last words penetrated his thoughts. “About tomorrow.”
“The reading?”
“I, uh, I’m not very good.”
“You used to be.”
“That was before…”
She didn’t have to complete the thought. Before Ashley died. “Yes, but you can be again. Especially with Miss Cameron’s help.”
Kylie’s fear and doubt came out in her voice. “Maybe.”
“You like her, don’t you?”
“Yes.” She was silent a moment, then, with hushed awe, she added her final thought, which totally undid him. “She’s wonderful, Daddy.”
Oh, God, what if he’d never had Kylie? Never known the awesome feeling of cradling his daughter in his arms? Libby had every right to hold him in contempt. How could he ever have considered a baby an inconvenience? A burden? His daughter had been the only thing keeping him from going over the edge after Ashley died.
His heart felt heavy. How friggin’ lame was the apology he’d offered Libby tonight? She should’ve thrown him out of the house. Yet despite her far-from-cordial feelings toward him, she’d embraced his daughter, offering her the affection and approval she so desperately needed. Libby was obviously a more sensitive human being than he had been.
But could she forgive?
In light of the past, it seemed a huge thing to hope for. But he was going to continue asking. Begging if necessary.
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