A Mingled Yarn

T
his novella
(approximately 65-70 printed pages) is intended for my existing readers, who’ve followed Sasha and Leo’s relationship from the start! If you’re new to the series, I recommend you start with
Irreparable Harm
and come back to this when you know Sasha and Leo a little bit better.

S
incere appreciation
to my crack editing and proofreading team, as well as the fabulous group of readers known as Sasha’s Associates. Any mistakes or errors that remain are mine and mine alone. Finally, and always, my love to my family.

S
asha McCandless-Connelly
huffed and pushed open the front door to the building that housed Jake’s Coffee Shop on the first floor and her law offices on the second. Naya trotted behind her, racing to catch up.

“Jeez, Mac, slow down already,” the legal assistant grumbled.

Sasha waited until they were inside the building to answer. She paused at the base of the steps, gripping the banister, and looked back at Naya. “Sorry.”

“It’s not
my
fault Judge Creech is a creep,” Naya pointed out.

Sasha sighed. “You’re right. It’s not.”

“And even though he said you looked like you’re smuggling a watermelon, he
did
rule in our favor,” she continued.

Sasha stared at her and tried to think of a compelling way to explain to a lithe, non-pregnant person that she didn’t need any reminders—not even from a judge who’d been on the bench since the Mesozoic Era—that she was hugely, enormously, giantly pregnant. Every minute of every day was a reminder, what with the near-inability to buckle her shoes and the hundred and seventy-eight trips to the ladies’ room. At this point, her excitement at not being pregnant any longer was nearly equal to her excitement at becoming a mother. She decided to save her breath. She’d need it for the climb up the stairs to the office. And her efforts would be wasted anyway. Being thirty-nine weeks pregnant was one of those things a person needed to experience to understand, so she just nodded in agreement, and started hauling herself up the steps.

Naya zoomed around her, passing her halfway up the staircase, which seemed unnecessary. What she did next was even odder. When the older woman reached the hallway that led to McCandless & Volmer’s reception lobby, she turned around and planted herself in the middle of the corridor, effectively blocking Sasha’s path. The look on her face was determined, almost grim.

Uh-oh. Now what?

Having worked with Naya for a dozen years (had it really been that long?) and having seen that expression more than once, Sasha knew that whatever Naya was about to tell her was bad news. She continued up the stairs, not slowing her already-slow pace, but hoping that whatever it was Naya was about to tell her, it would be a short conversation. Because her swollen feet ached in her four-inch heels. Having to wear cutesy maternity suits adorned with big floppy bows and ruffles was bad enough—she wasn’t about to sacrifice her footwear, too. But she did desperately need to get off her feet.

She stepped up into the hallway and stopped. “What is it?”

Naya’s mouth was a tight line. “I want you to promise me that you’ll be nice.”

“Be nice? About what? To whom?” She had no idea what Naya was talking about.

Naya jabbed a finger at her. “I can’t tell you. Just remember, people care about you.”

Sasha exhaled loudly, letting out a great whoosh of breath. “Okay, sure. Whatever you say. If you’re not going to tell me what you’re talking about, can we please go inside? I want to sit down.”

Naya eyed her cautiously. Then she walked to the end of the hallway and yanked open the door. “Remember,” she stage whispered as she held the door open for Sasha, “be nice.”

As soon as Sasha stepped foot into the lobby, Caroline leapt up. “Sasha, Naya! Will needs to see you in the big conference room. Urgently,” she said, hurrying out from behind the reception desk. She strode ahead to the conference room, presumably to let Will know they were on their way.

“Wonder what that’s all about?” she said half to Naya, half to herself. “And why was Caroline covering the desk?” She turned to face Naya. “Oh, no. Please tell me the new receptionist didn’t quit.” She had too many loose ends to tie up before the baby came and she went out on maternity leave to spend her last week of work interviewing receptionist candidates.

Naya shrugged as if it to say it was a mystery to her, too. “Maybe that’s what Will wants to talk about.”

“Maybe.”

Just then, Caroline yanked open the conference room door and ushered Sasha inside.

“Surprise!” a chorus of voices shouted.

Sasha looked around the crowded room, taking in the pastel green and yellow balloons, the banner, the cupcakes, and the people. So many people beaming at her. Her parents, her sisters-in-law, Will, Hank, Daniel and Chris, Naya’s boyfriend Carl, the crew from Jake’s … the list went on. From the corner near a credenza piled high with brightly wrapped packages and colorful gift bags, Connelly materialized.

He walked over and handed her a glass of water then kissed her chastely. “Here, have some water. You look flushed. Are you in shock?” he asked.

She gulped the water down while Naya answered for her. “Nah, just homicidal. Your wife wants to kill a sitting judge.”

Connelly threw her a curious look.

“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later,” she said out of the side of her mouth. Then she took another sip of water and asked loudly, hoping she’d be heard over the din, “What’s all this?”

Her mother looked up from a conversation with Will’s wife and answered. “I know you said you didn’t need a baby shower. But my only daughter’s about to bear my grandchild. It’s my prerogative to throw one for you and Leo,” a beaming Valentina said. She crossed the room to hug Sasha—or at least, try. She had to struggle to get her arms around her daughter.

Standing a hair under five feet tall, Sasha felt that she was now almost as wide as she was high.

“Wow, thanks, Mom,” Sasha managed. A surprise baby shower wasn’t really her mother’s style, but she seemed to be in her element, laughing and joking. Over her mom’s shoulder, Sasha met her father’s eyes. He looked mildly bemused by the whole scene. She knew the feeling.

“So, Daniel tells me you didn’t find out the baby’s sex.” Roberta Steinfeld asked, pressing a cupcake into Sasha’s hands. “I had to choose a neutral theme.”

Sasha looked down at the confection. A fondant diaper pin rose from the frosted cupcake. “You made these, Bertie? This is adorable.”

Her Krav Maga instructor’s mother waved the compliment away with her hand, “Pshaw, it was nothing. Literally, a piece of cake.”

Sasha smiled at her then pulled back the wrapper and took a big bite just as a flash went off and someone snapped a picture.

She surveyed the friends and relatives who jammed around the conference room table, laughing and eating, and rubbed her protruding belly. This baby was going to be born into the arms of a loving community. Then she cut her eyes toward Connelly and wondered what he was thinking. The only child of a single mother, he had no living relatives—at least none that he knew of. He’d never met his father. Was this display poignant for him? Or painful?

He seemed to read her thoughts and reached for her free hand. “Our baby’s one lucky kiddo,” he said, pulling her close.

She was just about to agree when her sister-in-law, Riley, rushed over. “Time for games!” Riley trilled loudly, clapping her hands to get everyone’s attention.

Games? Baby shower games? And why was Riley holding a roll of toilet paper?

Riley waved the Charmin in the air. “Okay, we’re going to guess how many squares it’ll take to get all the way around Sasha’s belly. Closest without going over wins!”

Sasha flashed Naya a look that said ‘this can’t be about to happen.’ Naya flashed one back that very clearly said ‘I told you to be nice.’

C
onnelly deposited
the last armload of gifts on the kitchen island and dusted his hands on his pants. “That’s the last of them,” he announced.

Sasha looked up from the floor where she was sitting lotus-style with Mocha’s slobbery dog head resting on her thigh and Java at her side, purring and butting her hand with his head.

“Thanks for bringing all that stuff in. I’m beat,” she said.

He lowered himself to the ground and crouched on his heels, carefully examining her face. “Are you okay?” he asked, his gray eyes clouded with worry. His voice hitched with concern, which made Mocha startle and raise his head, ears back and alert.

She patted the dog’s head to settle him and reassured her husband. “I’m fine. I’m just tired.” Tired was a bit of an understatement. She was exhausted. She was too uncomfortable to sleep. Coffee gave her heartburn and nausea. And she had a to-do list a mile long to accomplish before the baby came.

Connelly leaned closer, unconvinced. “You’re sure? Maybe we should call the midwife?”

She reached out and cupped his cheeks in her hands. “We don’t need to call the midwife. I’m supposed to be tired. I’m making a person over here. Got it?” She stared into his eyes until he nodded, then she smiled. “Good, now help me up, please. What we do need to do is go over the packing list one more time before the movers come in the morning.”

He groaned but stood up then took her hand and pulled her up to her feet, too. They stood in the middle of the room and looked around the condo. He spoke first. “I think we’re in good shape, babe. Between the color-coded labels and the detailed map you drew, I’m sure they’ll pack everything up and get it into the right room of the new house. They are professionals, after all.”

“Are you mocking my organizational system?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

He put both hands on her shoulders. “No, I’m telling you to have faith in your freakishly detailed packing plan.”

Sheepish laughter bubbled up from her throat. It was possible she’d gone slightly overboard. But the plan had
never
been to move the week before the baby was due. She and Connelly were supposed to be comfortably ensconced in their new nest by now—the nursery freshly painted and set up, all the miniature outfits lovingly washed in fragrance-free baby detergent and carefully folded and put away. Instead, all the baby gear—along with most of their other belongings—had been stowed in the rows of towering Bankers Boxes that had been lining the living room wall for over a month.

They’d scheduled closing for late July to give themselves plenty of time to get settled before the baby arrived. The bitterly divorcing sellers of their new nest, however, had apparently had a phenomenal fight the night before closing. And when everyone gathered in the realtor’s office the next morning to sign the papers, the ex-husband-to-be didn’t show up. As it turned out, he was several blocks away, in the U.S. Bankruptcy Court for the Western District of Pennsylvania, filing for bankruptcy.
That
little development had meant Sasha and Connelly’s new home was swept into the bankruptcy estate. And getting the court, the trustee, and the creditors to agree to the sale had taken all of Sasha’s advocacy skills and the better part of a month. But the deal was done. And tomorrow, they’d say goodbye to Sasha’s stylish single girl condo and hello to a solid, single-family, detached home with a little backyard and that most elusive of Shadyside amenities—off-street parking.

She rested her head on his chest and, almost reflexively, he wrapped his arms around her belly, as if he were hugging both her and the baby. “Thanks for agreeing to oversee the move tomorrow.”

“No problem. I know you’d rather be there yourself to micromanage; but don’t worry, I’ll follow your list to the letter.”

She let the gentle teasing slide by without answering. She
would
rather be there herself. But she had a summary judgment brief to finalize. And a lunch meeting. And … and … she pushed all thoughts of her upcoming appointments out of her mind as her heart rate ticked up. The words of her midwife, Katrina, rang in her ears. “Your stress level is the baby’s stress level. You don’t want to brew this kid in a toxic broth of anxiety, do you?”

She covered Connelly’s hands with hers and exhaled, letting out her breath in a long, slow
whoosh.
Once she felt sufficiently peaceful, she tilted her face up to his. “Let’s go to bed,” she suggested.

He nodded and patted his thigh—his signal to let Mocha know it was bedtime. The dog trotted after Connelly, and the cat trailed the dog. Sasha stopped in the kitchen to refill her water glass and take one last look around her apartment before ascending the stairs.

Her exhaustion vanished, replaced by alarm, as soon as she set foot in the bedroom. Connelly was sitting on the edge of the bed, his Glock in his hands, the metal box in which he stored the gun, unlocked and open on the bedside table.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

Her voice was sharper than she’d intended. He twisted around to look at her, wide-eyed.

“Sorry. I’m just surprised to see … that.” She rested a palm against the doorframe and waited out a contraction. Braxton-Hicks contractions, according to her midwife—practice contractions, which made them sound like something that would be innocuous and mild, say, a twinge. In reality, they were sufficiently powerful to make her rethink this whole labor and childbirth business. But as her mother had drolly noted, there was only one way out of her current predicament.

She inhaled sharply and pressed her hand against her belly. He placed his gun in the case and hurried over to her.

He crouched in the doorway. “Sasha?”

“I’m fine.” She forced the words out from between clenched teeth.

“You’re clearly not.”

“Braxton-Hicks,’ she breathed.

His eyebrows knitted together in a worried vee. “How can you be sure? Maybe it’s the real thing. We should call the midwife.”

She shook her head from side to side, biting down on her lower lip to stop herself from moaning. “It’ll pass.” She caught her breath and fixed him with a long look. “But we need to talk about the gun.”

He rose to standing and gave her a mournful look. “Let’s not do this now, honey. It’s late, and tomorrow’s a big day.”

Despite the undeniable truth of his statement, she had no intention of being put off. “Connelly—” she began in a warning tone.

“Please?”

She planted her feet at hip-distance and placed her hands where her hips used to be. “Don’t. We had an agreement—no guns in the new house. You were supposed to find a place for that thing.”

His gray eyes flashed but he kept his voice even. “Actually, we never had any agreement. You issued an ultimatum.”

“I did not.”

“Oh, yes, you did. You said, and I quote, ‘I won’t allow a gun in the house after the baby comes. Get rid of it.’”

She hesitated. Had she really been so aggressive about it?

He went on, softer. “I get it, you know. If I had a brother who died the way—”

She raised her hand. The last thing she wanted to do was relive Patrick’s death. “Don’t, please. If you understand how I feel, then why is this even a discussion? I’m not comfortable bringing up my child in a house where there’s a gun. Can’t you respect that?”

He reached for her hand but set his mouth in a line. “And I’m not comfortable bringing up
my
child in a house where I have no way to protect my family. Especially given all the enemies we’ve managed to make. I mean, we aren’t exactly your average American family. Between us, we’ve probably put more dirtbags behind bars than most small-town police departments.”

He had a point.

“Okay, probably,” she conceded. “But you said it yourself, they’re
behind bars.
We don’t need a weapon to protect ourselves from the bad guys.”

“Come on, are you going to pretend they don’t have friends on the outside? You really want to be sitting ducks?”

“I’d hardly call a trained federal agent and a seasoned Krav Maga practitioner
sitting ducks
,” she countered.

He eyed her from head to toe and then pinned his eyes on hers. “You’ve got to be kidding. Actually, in your current condition, you’re more like a fish in a barrel than a sitting duck.”

She bristled and drew herself up to her full, if meager, height. “Whatever. I’m going to bed. Please don’t bring that gun into the new house tomorrow, Connelly. Please.”

She swept past him with as much dignity as she could muster, blinking back tears that she wasn’t going to shed in front of him.