Baby Blessed Page 17

  Some force he couldn’t name directed him to Jeffrey’s room. He opened the door and walked inside. The floor was bare. As were the walls. The one thing that remained was Molly’s rocking chair.

  He’d forgotten about that. She used to nurse Jeffrey by the fireplace in their bedroom. After his death, she’d moved the chair into his room and sat in there alone for hours on end.

  Often he’d come home from work and find her sitting in that chair, staring into space, tears streaking her face. He guessed she’d spent the entire day there.

  Stepping into the bedroom, Jordan sat down in the chair. He placed his hands on the wide arms and rocked back and forth. He closed his eyes and recalled Molly holding Jeffrey, talking softly while she rocked. Sometimes she sang to him in a soft voice that vibrated with her love.

  It was like a childhood remembrance—something that had happened years and years earlier. A dream from his youth.

  Jordan thought again about Doug and Mary Anderson’s sons, and how he’d pictured Jeffrey as a young man, had he lived.

  “You’re going to have a sister,” he whispered.

  The sound of his own voice shocked him, and he pressed his lips together. It was the loneliness, he decided, that had made him talk to a baby who was long dead.

  “I have a younger sister, too,” Jordan whispered, then surprised himself by laughing out loud. “She was a pest from the moment she was born. The very bane of my existence until I was a high school senior.” He stopped rocking, remembering how fortunate he’d been to have a younger sister who was an “in” for him with the sophomore girls.

  Caught up in the memories of his childhood years, Jordan glanced out the window to the manicured grounds of their yard. Perhaps he was simply tired from the trip, he didn’t know, but he wanted something to blame for what happened next.

  He could see his seven-year-old son running around, flying a kite. Bethany, barely old enough to stand, was reaching toward the sky, laughing with glee. The vision left him as quickly as it had come.

  Was he losing his mind?

  He didn’t know what was going on, but all at once his chest felt as if he were being shoved against a concrete wall. His heart thudded; he felt every beat as it pounded and pulsed.

  Hot, blistering tears filled his eyes.

  A man doesn’t cry… A man doesn’t cry…

  Apparently whoever was supposed to listen didn’t. Huge sobs racked his shoulders. He hung his head, then covered his face, embarrassed, although no one could see him.

  The tears stopped abruptly, replaced by a savage rage. It threatened to consume him, and Jordan realized he’d carried it with him, inside him, for years.

  Right or wrong, justified or not, he was furious. Jeffrey was gone and there was no one to blame, no one he could slam up against a wall, no one he could send to jail. So he’d allowed it to weigh down his own life.

  He vented his anger now because he hadn’t let himself to do it back then. Hadn’t let himself grieve the way Molly had. He hadn’t supported her desire to see a therapist, to talk about it with a professional.

  He was a man. A man didn’t reveal his pain. A man didn’t cry. A man buried his son and then went on with his life. A man comforted his wife. A man held his family together. That was what Jordan believed a man should do.

  Only he was weeping now.

  Weeping alone.

  SIDS had taken far more than his perfect, innocent son. SIDS had robbed him of his wife and his marriage. In many ways, SIDS had taken a part of his sanity.

  Jordan was standing now, fists clenched at his sides, the chair rocking behind him. He didn’t remember coming to his feet. Falling back into the rocker, he closed his eyes and waited for his pulse to return to normal. The room was silent, except for the heavy thud of his heart.

  Jordan waited for a release, anything that would end his agony, his pain. But he knew that this catharsis had to run its course. He was walking through the valley, and he had to keep walking. It was the only hope he had of reaching the other side.

  * * *

  “I’m pregnant,” Amanda squealed when Molly answered the phone a few days after Christmas.

  “Congratulations!”

  “Oh, Molly, I’m so excited I can hardly stand it.”

  Molly wasn’t emotional these days, not like when she was first pregnant, but she wiped a tear of shared happiness from her eyes. “Does Tommy know?”

  “Yes. I just called him at work and you know what he did? Oh, Molly, he’s so sweet. He started to cry right there on the phone, with everyone watching. Then I started to cry, too. I can’t remember when I’ve been so happy. Yes, I can…but this time, well, this time it’s different.”

  “When are you due?” Molly asked. She was sitting on the sofa, her swollen feet propped up on the coffee table. She’d quit work the week before and had intended to put away her Christmas decorations, but she hadn’t started yet. She’d been too busy with appointments and parties and get-togethers.

  “The doctor seemed to think early August. I can’t believe I’m going to have to spend the hottest part of the summer pregnant. You’d think we’d know how to plan better, wouldn’t you?”

  Molly wondered if there was ever an easy time to be pregnant. She had three weeks to go before her due date, and she felt enormous. Ian had been acting like a mother hen, calling her at all times of the day and night. Her father called, but not Jordan. She’d made it plain she didn’t want to hear from him, and apparently he’d accepted her decision.

  Fool that she was, Molly kept hoping he’d call. He’d sent her a Christmas gift via her father, and it had depressed her so much she’d wept for days afterward. Ian had wanted to call the doctor. He couldn’t understand why a pair of black baby-doll pajamas would upset her like that.

  She knew Jordan had company for Christmas. His friend, Zane Halquist, the mercenary he’d hired to get her safely out of east Africa, had flown into Chicago, and the two men had spent the holidays together. Molly would’ve thanked Zane herself, had she known he was in town.

  She’d received a long letter from Jordan’s mother shortly before Christmas and was surprised to learn he’d spent Thanksgiving in Arizona. Martha Larabee told that Jordan had asked her to put Jeffrey’s picture away. Her mother-in-law told her how sorry she was that she and Jordan hadn’t been able to work things out. She asked Molly to let her know when the baby was born and had mailed a beautiful hand-knit blanket as a gift.

  “I’ll save my baby things for you,” Molly promised Amanda.

  “Thanks. We have plenty of things from Christi, too.”

  Molly noted how much easier it was for Amanda to talk about the daughter she’d lost to SIDS. It was easier for her to discuss Jeffrey, too. Together they’d found a support group for parents whose children had died, and it had helped them both tremendously. Each time she attended a meeting, she thought of Jordan. The process of openly acknowledging her son’s death was painful, but she came away stronger and more confident.

  “I haven’t told my dad yet, so I’d better get off the phone,” Amanda said. “I need to call him.”

  “Of course. Give him my best.”

  “I will. And thank you, Molly.”

  “Me? I didn’t do anything.”

  “You’ve been the best friend I ever had.”

  “You’ve been a good friend to me, too.”

  “Call me when you go into labor,” Amanda said.

  “It won’t be for several weeks.”

  “But you’ll phone me right away?”

  “You’re second on my list. My sweetheart of a dad insists on being first.”

  “Are you going to contact Jordan?”

  Molly’s gaze fell on the baby blanket his mother had sent. Jordan couldn’t even look at a framed photograph of Jeffrey. He wouldn’t be able to deal with the birth of this child.

  “No,” she said sadly. “He doesn’t want to know.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Posi
tive. Now call your father, and give him my love.”

  Pleased at her friend’s news, Molly hung up the phone and walked into the kitchen. She felt good. Although she seemed to require a nap every afternoon, she was full of energy now. After putting away the Christmas decorations, she phoned her father and invited him over for dinner.

  Ian arrived promptly at six with a bouquet of flowers and a carton of milk. Molly kissed him on the cheek and led him into the kitchen.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked, studying her closely.

  “I’ve never felt better,” she said with a smile, taking the casserole out of the oven and carrying it to the table.

  “I talked to Jordan today,” her father said nonchalantly, smoothing the napkin across his lap.

  “Dad, I told you I don’t want to discuss Jordan.” Molly had given up counting the ways Ian had of introducing her husband into their conversations.

  “He’s worried about you.”

  “Mild winter we’re having, isn’t it?” she said, setting the serving spoon on the steaming ceramic dish. She waddled over to the refrigerator and brought out the salad she’d prepared earlier.

  “He calls at least once a day to ask about you.”

  She noticed that Jordan didn’t inquire about the baby. Molly ignored her father and served herself some salad, then passed him the bowl. She set the dressing down with a thud. “I was thinking of planting roses this spring. The same variety Mom loved.”

  “I was talking about Jordan,” Ian returned stubbornly.

  “I was talking about roses,” Molly said with equal stubbornness.

  “He loves you.”

  “I love that rich deep red you get with some roses.”

  Ian slammed his fork down. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with the pair of you. Jordan’s just as bad as you are. Worse. I’ve told him a dozen times that I refuse to answer his questions. If he wants to find out how you’re doing, he can ask you himself.”

  Molly shrugged, unwilling to comment.

  “You know what he does, don’t you?” Ian went on. “He phones Doug Anderson right from my home. When he hangs up, he repeats everything to me—as if I need a physician to tell me about my own daughter.”

  “Dad,” Molly said gently, placing her hand on his. “It’s over between Jordan and me.”

  “Fools,” he muttered. “The pair of you.”

  Molly didn’t argue. Personally she agreed with him.

  * * *

  It had started out as a perfectly normal January day. Jordan was on the job site talking over a supply problem with Paul Phelps when his pager went off. Absently he reached for it, removing it from his belt, and glanced at the phone number on the miniature screen. His heart froze solid when he recognized the caller’s number.

  “Jordan.” Paul’s voice broke into his confusion. “What is it?”

  “That’s Ian. There’s only one reason he’d contact me this time of day.”

  “Molly’s having the baby?”

  “That would be my guess.” Jordan took off for the construction trailer at a dead run. A hundred times, possibly a thousand, he’d warned his crews to put safety first. At the moment, Jordan didn’t care what he tripped over as long as he found out what he needed to know.

  He punched in Ian’s home number—then he waited. The phone rang five times before his father-in-law deigned to answer.

  “Jordan, my boy,” he said jovially, “it didn’t take you long to get back to me.”

  “Where’s Molly?” he demanded breathlessly.

  “Molly? What makes you think this has anything to do with my daughter?” He gave a rather forced laugh.

  “Ian, if this is some sort of prank, I don’t find it the least bit funny.”

  Ian’s laughter died. “As it happens, you’re right. Molly’s on her way to the hospital as we speak. She was adamant that you not know, but I decided otherwise. The problem with my daughter is that I’ve spoiled her. She seems to think I should do everything she asks.”

  “Ian, is she okay?”

  “I assume so. She sounded fine when she called me. A little excited. A little afraid. I’m leaving now, and I’ve even got cigars to celebrate. You are coming, aren’t you?”

  Now it was Jordan’s turn to laugh. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

  Thirteen

  Everything seemed to move in slow motion once Molly arrived at the hospital. The labor room nurse, Barbara, middle-aged and motherly, was gentle and encouraging as she prepared Molly for the baby’s birth.

  By the time Molly was situated in bed, connected to the fetal heart monitor, she heard some type of commotion at the nurses’ station. Her father was there and wanted to see her.

  “That’s quite the father you have,” Barbara reported when she came to check on Molly. “He’s demanding to know what’s taking so long. He expected his grandchild to be here by now. He’s convinced something’s gone wrong.”

  Ian had been away on a business trip when Jeffrey was born and seemed to forget that these things took their own time.

  “You’d better talk to him,” the nurse suggested.

  “By all means,” she said, “send him in before he makes a real pest of himself.” Molly couldn’t help smiling. She was sure the last time her father had been anywhere close to a maternity floor was when she herself was born.

  At the approach of a contraction, Molly laid her head against the pillow and breathed in deeply. The labor pains were gaining in intensity now, coming every three or four minutes.

  Her concentration must have been even more focused on the contraction than she’d realized, because when she opened her eyes she found Jordan standing at her bedside, his face pale with concern.

  Molly stared speechlessly up at him. It’d been nearly three months since she’d seen him, and she needed a moment to recover. “How—how’d you get here?”

  “I drove,” he answered with a smile. “How are you?”

  “I’m having a baby.”

  “So I see.”

  Self-conscious, she tugged the sheet up to her chin. “How’d you know I was here?”

  “Your father called me.”

  Furious, Molly pinched her lips together, suppressing a tirade. Later she’d talk to Ian and tell him, in no uncertain terms, how displeased she was with his treachery. Her father knew she didn’t want to see Jordan again. She couldn’t have made her feelings any clearer.

  “Where’s my father?” she asked, looking away from him.

  Jordan chuckled. “Believe it or not, he lit up a cigar and was escorted from the hospital by two orderlies.”

  “Dad knows better than that.”

  “He’s nervous.”

  “That’s no excuse,” she returned primly.

  “I agree, and it’s not like there aren’t No Smoking signs posted all over the place.”

  Doug Anderson stopped in regularly to see her, telling her she was doing fine and chatting with Jordan in a friendly, relaxed manner.

  Another pain came, and Molly closed her eyes at the sudden sharpness.

  “What can I do?” Jordan asked, instantly sensing her distress. She shook her head, not wanting to be distracted. Silently she sent loving thoughts to her baby, encouraging him or her through the contraction.

  When the pain passed, Molly opened her eyes and discovered that Jordan was holding her hand between both of his. His eyes were warm and loving.

  She was tempted to ask him to stay with her, to help her through this birth the way he’d helped her when Jeffrey was born.

  “I don’t know if you should be here,” she said finally, wishing with all her heart that he’d leave now before she broke down and begged him to stay.

  “Why not? I was there at the beginning, wasn’t I? It only seems fair that I should get to see the result. Besides, there’s no place else I’d rather be,” he told her. “I love you, Molly, and I love our baby.”

  Uncertain if she should believe him or not, Molly glanced away.
She was about to ask him to leave when another contraction struck. Tensing with the pain, she gritted her teeth.

  Jordan spoke softly, encouraging her through the worst of it. When she opened her eyes, she saw that he’d taken a chair and planted himself at her side. The look on his face challenged her to send him away, making very clear that he wouldn’t go without a fight.

  “I’m staying,” he said, as if he needed to emphasize his determination. “It’s my right.”

  “Why are you demanding parental privileges now? They certainly didn’t interest you before.”

  “I’ve learned some hard lessons these past few weeks. First and foremost, you’re right, Molly, I’m going to love our daughter…or son. I won’t be able to help myself.”

  “You’re saying that because you know it’s what I want to hear.” Molly was afraid to believe him, afraid to put her trust in what he’d said for fear he’d break her heart one more time.

  “No, Molly, I’ve given a lot of thought to this. I already love Bethany…or Richard.”

  Molly bit her lower lip. She wasn’t capable of making sound decisions at the moment. Jordan must have sensed her confusion because he brushed the hair from her damp forehead, bent forward and kissed her lips.

  “Let me stay with you. Please?”

  Molly hadn’t the strength to refuse him. “All right.”

  As the hours and her labor progressed, Molly felt grateful that Jordan was at her side. He was a tremendous support. He encouraged her and rubbed her back to soothe away the pain she experienced there. He cooled her face with a wet cloth and gripped her hand when the contractions were at their fiercest.

  The pains were growing in intensity now. Jordan charted the seconds for her in a calm, reassuring voice as they gripped her body.

  “You’re smiling,” he murmured as he wiped the perspiration from her face. “Care to let me in on the joke?”

  “You want a little girl, don’t you?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Oh, come on, Jordan, you couldn’t be more obvious. You’ve referred to the baby as Bethany several times. You’ve only called him Richard once.”