Honourable Intentions. Catherine Mann
here? You must be more tired than I am.”
Bracing her elbow, his hand warm and strong, he guided her through the throng. “Seeing you topped my list of priorities. Why else would I be here?”
Her son kicked her in the stomach, right over a churning well of nerves. “Well, it’s Mardi Gras.” She tucked her hand into the canvas diaper bag, fishing for her keys. “I thought maybe you came for the celebration, some R & R after your deployment.”
“No rest or relaxation. My being here? All about you.”
“About Kevin, you mean.” Saying his name, even ten months after his death, hurt.
She saw an answering pain in Hank’s eyes. What a strange bond they shared, connected by a dead man.
Turning away to hide the sheen of tears, she fit the key into the wrought-iron gate closing off the outside steps up to her attic apartment. The hinges creaked open. Hank blocked anyone else from entering and stepped into the narrow walkway with her. He closed the gate and turned fast, clasping her by the arms.
His steely blue eyes weren’t going to be denied.
He tugged her son’s booty-covered foot. “And since I’m here about Kevin, that begs the question, who’s this? Are you babysitting for a neighbor?”
So much for buying time to pull herself together. “This is Max. He’s mine.” And he was sick, so very sick. She shivered in fear, her head pounding in time with the beat of the jazz band. “Any other questions will have to wait until we’re upstairs away from the noise. I’ve had a long day, and I’m really tired.”
In a flash, Hank tugged her diaper bag from her overburdened shoulder. He shrugged out of his leather jacket and draped it around her before she could form the words no, thanks. She’d worn Kevin’s leather jacket dozens of times. One coat should feel much like the other. But it didn’t. Hank’s darn near swallowed her whole, wrapping her in warmth and the scent of him.
Kevin and Hank may have crewed together on a B-52, but their temperaments were total opposites. Kevin had been all about laughter and fun, enticing her to step away from her studies and experience life. Hank was more… intense.
His steady steps echoed behind her as she climbed the steps all the way to the third-floor apartment. After a long day at the hospital facing her fears and making mammoth decisions alone, the support felt good, too good. She fumbled with her keys again. Hank’s jacket slid off and cool night air breezed over her. He snagged the leather coat before it hit the ground.
She pushed open the front door, toed off her shoes and tossed her keys on the refinished tea cart against the wall. The wide-open space stretched in front of her, with high ceilings and wood floors, her shabby-chic decor purchased off craigslist. She slept six steps up in a loft. The nursery, tucked in a nook, sported the only new furniture, a rich mahogany crib covered by blue bedding with clouds and airplanes.
Her studio apartment had been so perfect when she’d launched her dream of coming to the States to pursue her MBA. Since Max had been born, the place had become increasingly impractical. She’d considered caving to her parents’ repeated requests to come home, but she’d held strong. She had money saved and a decent income from designing business websites.
Then the world had collapsed in on her. Her baby was born needing surgery for a digestive birth defect—to repair his pyloric valve.
“Gabrielle… ” Hank’s deep bass filled the cavernous room, mixing with the reverb from the parade vibrating the floor.
“Shh.” She lifted her sleeping son from the sling and settled him in his crib, patting his back until he relaxed again.
One more swipe, and she smoothed Max’s New Orleans Saints onesie. She cranked the airplane mobile to play a familiar sound over the noise from below. A familiar tune chimed from the mobile, “Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket.”
A fierce protectiveness stung her veins, more powerful than anything she’d ever experienced before Max. She skimmed her fingers over his dusting of light brown hair and pressed a kiss to his forehead, breathing in the sweet perfume of baby shampoo and powder. She would do anything for her son.
Anything.
Weariness fell away, replaced by determination. She pulled the gauzy privacy curtain over the nook and faced Hank. “Now, we can talk. Max should sleep for another twenty minutes before he needs to eat.”
Her son ate small amounts often because of the too-narrow opening from his stomach into his intestines. But hopefully the upcoming operation would fix that, enabling Max to thrive. If her frail baby survived the surgery.
Hank dropped the diaper bag on the scarred pine table near the efficiency kitchen and draped his jacket over a chair. “Is the kid Kevin’s?”
His question caught her off guard, and she whipped around to face him. She’d expected anything but that. The doubt on his rugged face hurt her more than she wanted to admit.
Memories of happier times tormented her with how much she’d lost. The way they’d been coconspirators in reining in the more impulsive Kevin. How he’d helped Kevin rig a pool game so she would win—only to have her beat the socks off him all on her own the next round.
“Hank, you know me.” Or she’d thought he did. “Do you really have to ask?”
“Between my sisters and my stepbrothers procreating like rabbits, I’ve burped a lot of babies. Your little guy looks like a newborn. It’s twelve months since we shipped out.” He shook his head, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the back of a chair. “The math doesn’t work.”
Her anger rose in spite of the fact he had a point about her son’s small size. “Really? You think you know everything, don’t you? Do you actually believe I would cheat on Kevin?”
Although hadn’t she? If only in her thoughts.
“You wouldn’t be the first woman to find somebody new once her guy shipped out.”
“Well, I didn’t.” She crossed her arms tightly over her stomach. Her heart had been too confused to consider looking at another man. “Max is small because he has pyloric stenosis, a digestive disorder that has to be corrected by surgery.”
Fear leached some of the starch from her spine. She sagged back against the corner hutch that held all her school supplies and books.
Anger faded from his face, his brow furrowing. Hank reached toward her, stopping just shy of cupping her face before his hand fell away. “Gabrielle, I’m so sorry. What can I do to help? Specialists? Money?”
She stopped him short, sympathy threatening to unravel her tenuous control. “I can handle Max’s medical needs. I have insurance through the school. And you won’t need your specialists to covertly check his age.” Yes, she couldn’t help but be suspicious of his offer. “His birth date is public record. He was born eight months after you and Kevin flew out. Max is four months old.”
“So you were in your first trimester when he was killed. Did you not know about the baby when Kevin died?”
She swallowed hard. That, she couldn’t deny. She’d lied through omission. “I knew.”
“Why didn’t you tell him before he died?”
How dare he stand there so handsome, self righteous and alive? She let her grief find an outlet in anger. “You two may have been friends, but my reasons are really none of your business.”
His jaw flexed and he scrubbed a hand over his close-shorn hair. “You’re right. They’re not.”
His nod of agreement deflated her anger. How could she explain when all of her reasons sounded silly to her own ears now? She’d been scared, and confused, delaying until it had been too late to tell Kevin. If he’d known, would he have been more careful? There was no way to answer that. She would have to live with that guilt for the rest of her life.