Almost Forever (37 page)

And then at home, while Andie planned how she'd make the small bedroom next to theirs over for the baby, Clay pored over all the baby books he'd bought.

“This is fascinating,” he told her. “You should read this. It tells about the baby's development inside the womb, week by week.”

Andie was trying to choose curtains. “Just read me the good parts,” she suggested vaguely.

He took her at her word. “Let's see. We're at eighteen weeks. Right about now, the baby has eyebrows, hair on its head and lanugo. That's fine hair all over the body. This lanugo may help in temperature regulation, or it may be an anchor for the vernix caseosa, which is a waxlike substance that protects the baby from immersion in the amniotic fluid.”

“How charming,” Andie remarked with a shudder.

“It's a miracle,” Clay said with such a great show of solemnity that she knew he was at least partially teasing her.

She pointed at a crib set in one of her catalogs. “What about these?”

“Too froufrou.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that I really hate ruffles. A kid could suffocate in all those ruffles.”

“Okay, how about these?”

“Better. Much better.”

A week later, he read her some more. “Okay, nineteen weeks. ‘First sucking motions likely. Can grip with hands. The ability to blink develops, though the eyelids are still fused…'”

And then the week after that: “‘Twenty weeks. The baby's about ten inches long. Eight to nine ounces in weight…'”

Andie got to where she'd groan a little when he brought out his favorite book and opened it to the page that described the baby's current development. But it was a happy groan. It was wonderful to see him so involved, to really start to believe in the amazing thing that had happened: the baby she'd been sure she was going to be raising alone had a father after all.

At the end of May, they hired another secretary at the
office. Her name was Linda Parks. She was a single mother, in her forties and in need of a dependable job with good benefits. She was also a crack typist and knew both the spreadsheet and word processing programs that Barrett & Co. used. Linda had worked in another accounting firm in Oakland, from which she came highly recommended. She'd moved to the foothills seeking a safer environment for her children.

Linda learned quickly. By the middle of June, since business was only moderate, Andie was able to leave Linda on her own at the office for several hours a day. Clay kept busy, even though it wasn't nearly the rat race at work that it had been at the beginning of the year.

He did the social scene more, took clients to lunch and played golf. When Andie kidded him about partying on company time, he reminded her that the only way to build the client base was to do a little wining and dining. She laughed and said she knew that very well. Couldn't he stand a little teasing? He gave up looking wounded and admitted that he supposed he could.

June became July. In her seventh month, Andie grew ripe and round as a peach.

Clay went on reading about the baby's growth.

“‘Week twenty-six. The baby's eyelids can open and close. Increased muscle tone. Sucking and swallowing skills continue to develop…'”

The baby's room was all ready. The curtains and all the bedding were yellow, with little bears and balloons on the wallpaper. The crib, bureau and changing table had been Andie's when she was a baby. They'd been stored in the attic at her mother's. Somehow, over the years, the wood had become worn and scratched. Clay refinished the furniture himself, insisting that Andie stay well away from the fumes of the stripping compound.

He continued with the progress reports.

“‘Huge changes taking place in the nervous system. The brain grows greatly during this month. Some experts believe this is the beginning of true consciousness…'”

In mid-July, Andie and Clay began their childbirth classes. Once a week, they went to a room at the public library and joined six other couples learning relaxation techniques, practicing breathing, seeing graphic films of real births.

At home, Clay read, “‘By twenty-eight weeks, all the baby's senses are in working order…'”

Clay talked to the baby all the time. Sometimes he called it “he,” sometimes “she.” Andie asked him which he'd prefer. He said he didn't care. She knew he told the truth.

He read on. “Conscious relaxation, deep breathing and meditative states in the mother stimulate the baby's entire body and developing mind. Music and gentle, repetitive sounds are good for the baby's hearing. When the mother sun-bathes, gets massaged, swims, walks, or even showers, the baby's touch perception and balance are improved.”

By August, Andie was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. To her it seemed she lumbered around like an elephant, though her weight was in the average range for a woman in her eighth month. She felt hot all the time, too. And everything she ate seemed to hover somewhere up around her breastbone. And she dreamed of the night she'd be able to lie on her back without feeling dizzy—or on her stomach without feeling giddily numb, as if she were trying to rest on a basketball.

Clay's response to her complaints was to read to her from his library of baby books, explaining that she couldn't lie on her back because it pressed on the vena cava, a major vein. And her stomach now literally
was
shoved up between her lungs, so it made sense that food felt as if it got stuck there. And the
reason she felt hot all the time was because her heart had expanded in size and her capillary action was greatly increased.

Andie groaned and threw a pillow at him. She had lots of pillows. She had to arrange them strategically under various parts of herself at night so she could sleep. It was getting to the point that she wasn't even interested in making love anymore, which would have seemed impossible just a few weeks before.

Clay, through it all, was patient and wonderful. She
despised
him for being so terrific. Almost as much as she loved him.

And she did love him, was
in love
with him. Sometime in the past few months, she'd accepted the reality of her love and welcomed it. It didn't even seem to matter anymore that Clay still clung to his frustrating belief that the kind of love Andie knew she felt for him didn't exist.

Probably part of the reason it didn't matter was that she knew he loved her, too. In exactly the same way that she loved him, even if he wouldn't admit to it.

Finally, she told him of her love.

It was a night in the fourth week of August. Andie hadn't been able to sleep. So Clay was rubbing her neck and shoulders, reminding her to breathe slowly and evenly, to picture fields of flowers, to see the color blue.

She thought the words of love and they rose to her lips. She released them.

“I love you, Clay.”

He went on working his soothing magic with his hands.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“I heard. Breathe slowly. In and out.”

“I'm
in love
with you.”

“Relax.”

“I mean it.”

“Whatever. Keep breathing.”

She turned around so she could look at him. The room was
dark. It was hard to see his expression. She switched on the bedside lamp.

“I love you.”

Something happened in his face. Something tormented yet hopeful, a passionate expression, swiftly quelled. The look was there and gone so fast that the minute it disappeared, Andie wondered if she had really seen it.

Was it possible that he
wanted
to believe her and didn't dare? Or was her heart making her see things that weren't there? Whatever the truth was, the mysterious expression was long gone. Now he merely looked puzzled and a little concerned.

He lifted a bronze eyebrow. “Do you want me to say I love you, too? Is that it?”

The lifted eyebrow did it. Suddenly, she thought of Mr. Spock of “Star Trek” fame. As Spock would say, “But, Captain, love is illogical…”

Andie burst out laughing.

Clay continued to look perplexed and perhaps a bit pained. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine.” She fell over sideways on the bed, holding her huge middle, still giggling.

“Andie…”

“Never mind.” Somehow she collected herself. And then she sat up again and showed her back to him, turning her head so she could smile at him, smoothing her mass of hair out of his way over her shoulder. “Would you rub my neck a little more? It really does feel wonderful.”

He looked at her with equal parts wariness and suspicion. And then he shook his head. She thought he muttered something about women under his breath. But then he turned off the light and put his incredible hands to work once more.

Andie sighed; it felt so good. She breathed evenly as he had instructed her to do.

And she smiled to herself, marveling at how downright pigheaded her husband could be. She pondered the idea that she was probably going to live a whole lifetime at his side, during which he would never once utter those three incredible little words.

But she was also thinking that it was okay. She could live without those words. Because she knew, even though Clay refused to give his love a name, that he did love her—was
in love
with her. Clay showed his love every day in ten thousand little ways. It was enough.

Clay's hands strayed. They glided, warm and soothing, over her shoulders and down her arms. “Feel sleepy now?”

“Um…”

He scooted up close behind her and put his arms around her. Then he gently explored her belly. After a few moments, his hands went still. “There. A foot, I think.”

She investigated where he was touching. “No.” She leaned fully against him, resting her head in the crook of his shoulder, feeling sheltered and protected as she'd never dreamed she would be. “That was an elbow, no doubt about it.”

He chuckled. And then he nuzzled her hair aside and kissed her earlobe. “You're so beautiful, Andie.”

“There's so much of me. It had better be beautiful.”

“I'm not kidding.”

“Neither am I. Do you realize that my belly button is an
outie
now? Sometimes it actually shows through my clothes. It's gross.”

“You're beautiful.”

“You're overworked and losing your mind.”

“What we have—it's very good.”

A warmth spread through her. This was as close as he would come, she knew, to speaking of his love. “Yes, Clay. It is. It's the absolute best.”

Carefully he turned her so that she lay back in his arms.
He supported her with his arm and his thigh so that that major vein he'd told her about wasn't put under pressure. And then he kissed her, a very slow kiss.

When he lifted his head, Andie decided that maybe she still liked sex, after all. His hand strayed, caressing, stroking. Andie sighed. For a magical half hour, she forgot everything but the touch of those hands.

When at last he helped her arrange her pillows, she was truly ready for sleep.

“Clay?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks, Clay.”

“For what?”

“For all of it. For our lives together. For being you.”

“You're welcome. Go to sleep.”

Smiling, Andie closed her eyes.

The next morning, Madeline Kirkland called.

T
hey were sitting at the breakfast table. They'd already eaten and Clay was having one last cup of coffee while Andie nursed her peppermint tea. It was a beautiful day, especially now, in the morning, with the air just a tad breezy and the windows open. Later, Andie would close up the house and turn on the air conditioner to fight the fierce heat of the afternoon. But just now, it was lovely.

Andie was planning to stay home all day. At the office now, Linda was managing fine. So Andie had decided to start taking it easier, with the baby due in a month. She had slashed her own hours to twenty a week. It was working out quite well.

“More coffee?” Andie asked.

Clay rustled his paper and grunted. Andie lumbered to her feet and shuffled over to the sink, thinking wryly of beached whales, of grounded hippos, cursing the power of gravity and swearing she wouldn't let it get her down.

The phone rang just as she stuck her mug of water in the microwave to heat. The phone was on the wall, not far from where Clay sat. But he was absorbed in his paper.

Andie waddled on over there and picked it up. “Hello?”

A silence, then a strange woman's voice. “Oh. Hello.” The voice hesitated. “Is this Clay Barrett's house?”

Andie smiled. An old girlfriend of Clay's, she thought, someone he hadn't seen in a while who didn't know he'd been married. “Yes, it is.”

The woman took in a breath. “Well, I…” The voice trailed off. “I wonder if…” Andie began to think the woman sounded troubled, or under some sort of strain. “Please. This is Madeline Kirkland. I need to… May I speak with Clay?”

As soon as Andie heard the name, she felt dizzy. She gripped the section of kitchen counter right beside her to steady herself. Madeline Kirkland, Jeff's wife. What could she want? What possible reason could she have for calling Clay?

The worst came immediately to mind: that Madeline had somehow found out about the baby.

“Hello, are you there?”

Andie forced herself to speak. “Yes. Of course. Just a minute.” She put her hand over the receiver.

Clay had already lowered his paper. He was looking at her, alarmed by what he saw. “Andie, what—?”

“Madeline,” she said. “Madeline Kirkland.” She held the phone close to her heavy belly, not extending it, almost hoping he'd refuse to take the call.

Clay looked at the receiver, his thought the same as Andie's.

He didn't want to take it. He wanted to shake his head and walk out of the room. If it had been Jeff, he would have.

But it wasn't Jeff. It was Madeline. Innocent Madeline. Clay thought the world of Madeline.

He stood. Andie put the phone in his hand.

“Sit down,” he said quietly to his pale wife, before he spoke into the receiver. “Hello, Madeline.”

“Clay? Oh, Clay…”

“What is it?”

“Clay, you've been a stranger.” Her voice sounded so odd, fiercely controlled yet edged with frenzy. He was positive that somehow she had found out the truth about Jeff and Andie and the baby. “We've missed you, Clay. Very much.”

“Well, I…” What the hell could he say? “I've been busy. Really busy. I, um, got married.”

“Oh, Clay. You did? Was that her? Did she answer the phone?”

“Yes. I'm sure I've mentioned her. My cousin by adoption. Andie.”

“Oh. Yes, I remember. Andie was the one you used to always fight with when you were kids, right?”

“Yes, that's the one.”

“Well. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

There was an absolutely deadly pause. Andie was staring at him, agony in her eyes. And he still had no clue what was going on with Madeline.

Madeline said, “Oh, Clay. I don't know how…” And then her voice closed off. She made a painful, choking sound, then managed to control herself. “My mother was going to do this. But I…I thought it would help me. To hear your voice. Jeff loved you so.”

Loved. Past tense.
“Madeline?”

“Oh, I'm making a mess of this.”

“Of what?”

“Of telling you.”

“Telling me what?”

“About Jeff. Oh, Clay. He… Jeff died, Clay. Yesterday.”

Clay sank to his chair, not even realizing he was sitting down until he was already there.

In his ear, tight and frantic, Madeline kept on. “He bought this new sports car. It was beautiful. But you know Jeff. A new toy. He played…he played too hard with it. He went too fast.”

“Too fast?”

“Yes. Down Mulholland. Like some crazy kid. You know Mulholland, don't you, Clay? All those turns. He…” A sound came from Madeline, a keening sound. It started out low and slid impossibly high. Clay waited, while she gathered her forces once more. “He went over the cliff. It was a vertical drop, about two hundred feet. He died instantly, they told me. He didn't suffer any pain.”

Beside him, Andie spoke. She asked if he was okay. He waved her away. He couldn't deal with her now. There was a huge something, like a rock, inside his chest. He breathed around it. He did not let himself remember Jeff, on the beach that last time, his hands in his pockets, the gulls wheeling overhead.

“All right, bud. I'm dead….”

“Clay?” Madeline said.

Clay closed his eyes and rubbed at the sockets, rubbed the memory away. He reminded himself that Madeline had just lost the man she'd loved all her life and that Madeline was the one to think about now.

“What can I do?” he asked.

“Oh, Clay…”

“What? Anything. Tell me.”

“I knew you'd say that. Thank you.”

“What?”

“Okay. Yes, I'll tell you. The funeral's the day after tomorrow. Saturday. At eleven in the morning. It would mean a lot to me if you'd be there.”

He answered automatically. “Of course I will.”

“And would you be a pallbearer?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“Oh, that's good. It will be good. To see your face. To remember the good times.”

“Yes. The good times.”

“Do you want to stay at the house?”

His numbed mind tried to follow what she was asking him. “The house?”

“The new house. You were there, remember, that last time you dropped in, several months ago? When you and Jeff got mugged at the beach?”

“Oh. Yeah.” So that was what Jeff had told her.

“I'm not staying there myself. I just can't, not now. I'm at my parents' house for a while. But if you'd like to—”

“No. Listen. I'll get a hotel room. It's no problem. Where is the funeral and what time do I need to be there?”

Beside him, Andie gasped. Clay realized he'd been doing his best to block her out of his mind. Now she'd heard the word
funeral
and was starting to put things together.

“Jeff? Is it Jeff?” Andie asked. Her eyes were two black smudges in her white, white face.

Clay nodded. Then he stood to take the pencil from the notepad that was hanging on the wall by the base of the phone. Madeline gave him the information he needed and he scribbled it down. Then he promised to be there tomorrow.

“I'll call you,” he said, “as soon as I get there.”

“You'll call me at my parents' house?” Madeline asked.

“Right. What's the number there?”

Madeline rattled off the number, then went on, “Yes, please call. I'd appreciate that. Things are crazy. I hope we can spend a little time together, but I don't know how things will go.”

“I understand.”

“It might not seem that I appreciate your being there. But
I do. I really do. He loved you so. You're everything he ever wanted to be—did you know that?”

“No, I didn't.”

“It's true. He used to tell me that. That he wished he could be like you. You always worked so hard, knew what you wanted and kept your goals in mind whatever you did. And with you, responsibility was like a sacred trust.” Madeline gave a strangled little laugh. “That's how he said it, ‘With Clay, responsibility is like a sacred trust.'”

“Look, Madeline, I—”

“I know, I know. I'm babbling. But I can't seem to help it. And I just want you to know these things. I want to say them now, when they're in my head and I have the chance. Because I'm grateful to you Clay, I really am.”

“For what?”

“Oh, Clay. I know that whatever you said to him over the holidays last year, whatever happened then, it made all the difference. When he came back, he was changed. He really wanted to marry me then. Always before, there'd been something in him that held back. We had a marriage, we were
together,
for at least a little while. And a lot of that was because of you.”

“I understand,” Clay said again. What the hell else could he say to something like that?

“Well, I…thanks for listening.” Madeline said.

“It's okay.”

“I should go.”

“Of course.”

“But I'll see you tomorrow, or at the funeral.”

“Yes. Whatever. You take care.”

“I will. Goodbye.”

The line went dead. Clay hung the receiver back on the wall.

“Clay?” Andie was looking up at him, her face a blank, her eyes haunted. “Oh, Clay. It's Jeff?”

“Yes.”

“Dead?” She said the word on a whisper, as if she hardly dared utter it.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Yesterday. A car accident. He bought a new car and drove it too fast.”

“Oh.” Andie grimaced, touched her belly.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. The shock.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” She put her hand against her mouth, shook her head. “Oh, I'm so sorry. It's so awful. That poor woman.”

“Yes. She asked me to go to the funeral. I'm going, for her sake.”

“Of course.”

“I'll fly down tomorrow.”

“Oh, Clay. Are you all right?” She reached for his hand.

He moved just enough that she didn't connect. “I'm fine. Really.” He looked at his watch. “I should get going.”

She stared at him. “Where?”

“To work. I'll be late.”

“Work? Now? Clay, I don't think—”

“I've really got to go.”

“But—”

“Can you call and get me a flight? Tomorrow afternoon would be best. I could check in at the office in the morning, see that everything's under control and then fly out of Sacramento later in the day. Will you do that?”

“Of course, but don't you think that—?”

“If you can't get an afternoon flight, then do what you can. Morning, if you have to. Or night, if all else fails. And I'd like to return as early as possible Sunday.”

“I understand. But, Clay—”

“And also, can you get me a reservation at a decent hotel in Brentwood or nearby? The funeral will be in Brentwood and I'd like to keep surface travel to a minimum. And I'll need a rental car.”

“All right. I'll take care of it. But I—”

“I have to go, Andie. I have to get out of here.”

“Clay, I really don't think you should drive right now.”

“I'll be fine.”

“Please, Clay. Stay home for a while. Just let yourself get adjusted to what's happened, before you get into a car.” Her voice was reasonable, very controlled. But her eyes were pleading with him.

He understood that she was worried for him and that she probably didn't want to be alone. But he knew he could handle himself all right in a car. And as far as her needs, he just couldn't think about them at the moment. He didn't have anything to give her right now. He was empty inside, except for that huge, rocklike something that filled up his chest.

“I have to go.” He moved swiftly, around the table and across the room to the hall. He went to the coat closet, grabbed his briefcase and jacket. Then he fled to the garage.

He flung open the door of the car, tossed his briefcase across the seat and jumped in. He'd backed out of the garage and sent the door rumbling down again with the aid of the automatic opener before he allowed himself to relax a fraction. By then, he was sure that Andie wasn't going to try to follow him.

 

In the house, Andie sat in the kitchen chair for several minutes before she did anything else. She practiced breathing slowly and evenly. She tried to absorb the enormity of what had just occurred.

Jeff Kirkland was dead. Clay's best friend, the biological father of her child, was gone for good and all.

It didn't seem possible. He was out of their lives, yes. They probably would never have seen him again, anyway. Yet Andie had always assumed he would go on living his own life down there in Los Angeles, married to a woman named Madeline.

But now, fate had played the cruelest of tricks. Now Jeff Kirkland wouldn't go on. And that seemed hideous to Andie. Hideous and wrong.

She couldn't stop thinking about Madeline. Madeline would have to go on. Andie had never even met Madeline. Yet she knew the kind of pain Madeline must be suffering. Madeline was near her own age, a young woman, newly married, just like herself. And now Madeline was a widow.

What would that be like, to be a widow? To live the rest of her life without Clay? Andie thought of sleeping in their bed alone, sitting here at the breakfast table every morning alone. Such thoughts brought with them an empty, vast kind of pain.

“Oh, Clay,” she whispered to herself, picturing him barreling along Wildriver Road, attempting the impossible, trying to outrun the anguish of losing his best friend twice. “Be careful, my darling,” she whispered fervently. “Keep yourself safe.” She closed her eyes and sent a little prayer winging toward heaven, a prayer for his safety, and then another for Madeline, whom she didn't even know.

Andie felt her own guilt in this, the guilt that had always been there since her one foolish night with Jeff Kirkland. What Clay would have to suffer now would be doubly hard because of what she herself had done.