Baby On The Way (10 page)

L
ibby felt hopeful the next day, in control of things again. Her confidence was strong enough that when Del went out to rake the fallen leaves, she did something she’d been delaying for the past seven months.

She went into the silent study. In the corner, Del’s computer hummed quietly. Turning her back on the faceless machine, she picked up the phone and dialed the 213 area code and Liz’s unlisted number.

Nervously twisting the cord around her finger, she waited the prerequisite fifteen minutes from the time the housekeeper answered until Liz came on the line. Liz never came to the phone right away. Ever conscious of her image, she wanted to make sure the caller was aware that she was a very important, very busy woman.

“Oh, hello, Elizabeth,” she drawled in response to Libby’s greetings, a faint hint of disappointment in her voice. The media calls Liz had once been bombarded with were coming fewer and farther between. “I didn’t realize it was you. How are you surviving in the wilds of Oregon?” In Liz’s opinion the only states worth bothering about were the ones with film studios.

“I’m fine, Liz. In fact.” Libby took a deep breath. “I’m pregnant.”

There was silence on the line. Libby’s stomach knotted and she twisted the cord tighter around her finger as she waited in nervous uncertainty for her mother’s reaction. When Liz laughed, the famous, husky laugh so familiar to her fans, Libby’s throat tightened in disappointment.

“Now that’s something I didn’t expect,” Liz drawled. “If you were sixteen, yes, but twentysomething? I can see our little talk about the facts of life is long overdue.” She paused. “Are you going to.take care of it?”

“If you mean am I planning on an abortion, the answer is no,” Libby said bluntly. She rested a comforting hand on her belly. “But I am planning on taking care of my child myself.”

“How admirable of you, darling. But all alone? Where’s the dear daddy?”

“He’s around. But we’re not involved.” Libby pushed the picture of exactly how involved they’d been last night from her mind.

“Isn’t that just like a man-you can never depend on them. What’s that old saying? Why buy the milk when you can get the cow for free?” Liz chuckled.

Libby discovered she’d wrapped the cord so tightly that her finger was turning white. She loosened the coils, adding, “Yes, well…I just wanted to let you know you’re going to be a grandmother.”

“Oh, my God!” For just a second, Liz’s voice turned shrill with honest horror. “I can’t be a grandmother. I’m only.”

“Forty-nine.”

“Forty-one,” Liz snapped. “Do you think that producer would have called me for the part of a young mother if I’d been that old?”

Libby didn’t bother to argue. Nothing would ever make Liz admit to her real age-or the fact that producers no longer cast her in such a role. She’d convince herself that one had, and then manufacture some “crisis” to excuse herself from taking the mythical part. How complicated it was living in the fantasy world her mother constantly created.

Libby listened to her mother’s monologue about the new film without comment, however, until Liz concluded, “So, you’d better come home.”

“No,” Libby said. “I’m staying here.”

“Darling, be reasonable. I need you.” Liz’s voice altered again, assuming the exasperated yet loving tones of a good parent. She was very convincing in the role, Libby thought idly. After all, she’d been perfecting it before the media for years. “Besides, how are you ever going to be able to take care of an infant on your own?”

Libby refused to let doubt weaken her. “I’m not coming back, Mother,” she repeated.

Liz sighed. “Then my best advice is to make him marry you, darling. You have the perfect weaponguilt. Believe me it can work like a charm. And even if the marriage doesn’t last, at least you’ll seem a little smarter-and you’ll get some alimony.”

“I don’t want a temporary marriage. 1 want the real thing.”

“It’s a little late for that. If he’d wanted to marry you, he would have asked you before you got pregnant, don’t you think?”

Yes, I do, Libby thought, ending the conversation and hanging up the phone. She stared at the screen saver on Del’s computer—colorful little stars exploding on a dark background—while she thought about what Liz had implied. Guilt had made Del offer to marry her, guilt was keeping him in Lone Oak. Before Liz’s reminder, she’d almost been in danger of forgetting that-especially in his arms.

Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to have a physical relationship with him.and yet, could she resist? She sighed. She hadn’t managed to so far. She’d simply have to keep reminding herself that this was a purely physical affair.

No love allowed.

Libby was eluding him.

The suspicion crossed Del’s mind with increasing frequency during the next few days.

At first he scoffed at the notion. How could she be? They’d finally made love again—and he planned to continue doing so every chance he could. She slept with him every night. How could she be withdrawing from him, when in bed he held her as close to his heart as any two people could be?

No, he had to be imagining her aloofness.

He maintained the belief without effort on Monday. He felt so content; he didn’t want to let Libby out of his sight. They spent the misty day puttering around the house, going out in the afternoon to the nearby woods to free the little mouse he’d managed to capture.

In the evening he talked her into going out for dinner. They’d driven all the way into Grant’s Pass for a
cozy meal at the Yankee Pot Roast. He thought she would enjoy the quaint brick restaurant, created from a Victorian house—and she had. Afterward, she refused to let him buy her flowers at a nearby florist, but when they got home, he managed to coax her into bed for some “extra rest.” They didn’t come out of his room until late the next morning.

Tuesday afternoon he was full of energy; Libby seemed the tiniest bit irritable. Despite his orders not to bother, she insisted on straightening the house. When she came into his room, he caught her up in his arms and laid her down on the bed. She immediately tried to rise again, and he gently shoved her back down. He sat beside her, capturing both her hands in his to keep her in place.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Let me up, you…you…big oaf.”

He lifted his brows in pretended astonishment. “Is that the best you can do? Good Lord, not only are you cranky, you also have a limited vocabulary.”

“I am
not
cranky!”

He shook his head sadly, trying not to laugh at her outraged expression. “Yes, I’m afraid you are. I hope our daughter isn’t listening. Let’s find out.” Releasing her hands, he gently laid his ear against her stomach. “Support Crew to Mission Control. Can you hear me in there?”

“For goodness’ sake…” Libby gave his shoulder a halfhearted shove.

He ignored her, saying, “Wait! I’ve gotten through. I think she wants to tell us something.”

“He—I
mean, oh, get away from me.”

Del lifted his head and regarded her sternly. “Stay
still. All this wriggling around is causing static.” He put his head against her again, apparently listening. “What? What’s that you say? Mom’s grumpy because she hasn’t had sex in twelve hours? Tsk, tsk.”

This time Libby pushed him so hard he slipped off the bed. “Sexual deprivation is
not
my problem,” she said, her lips primly pursed.

He climbed lithely to his feet. “Nor mine, eitherafter last night. No, I think
your
problem is you need a nap. Why don’t you take one while I start dinner?”

“I’m not even tired,” Libby said, with just the hint of whine in her voice. She must have heard it, too, because she winced and conceded, “Okay, I’ll lie here for a few minutes.”

When he checked on her two hours later, she was still sound asleep, her hand tucked under her cheek. He covered her up—intending to leave her alone the rest of the night. But when he started to straighten, she’d reached up, tentatively touching his bare shoulder, and he laid down beside her, forgetting his good intentions.

On Wednesday Susan called to ask him to fix her malfunctioning garage door opener. He hadn’t wanted to go, but finally agreed when Libby kept urging him to. Faintly piqued at her lack of jealousy, he’d spent an hour on the ten-minute job, hoping she would miss him—then spent two hours pacing the house when he got home, until she returned from a walk to the library. She seemed surprised at his concern, and politely declined his suggestion to let him know where she’d be the next time she went out. His annoyance with her lasted until evening. He finally forgave her when it was time to go to bed.

On Thursday morning they had decided to go shopping when the phone rang. Libby didn’t complain when he disappeared into the study to handle the call from his supervisor, and ended up working on the computer for a solid three hours. Afterward, though, she seemed a little quiet as they scoured the stores to find what she called “exactly the right color for the bassinet cover.” After waiting twenty minutes while she vacillated between yellow and green, Del pressed her to make a choice.

To his shock, she suddenly burst into tears. He took her into his arms. She was trembling a little, and he pressed his lips against her forehead, trying to comfort her. She sighed and rested against him a moment, before pushing gently away to stand on her own two feet. Despite her protests, he bought her both covers and rushed her home and back to bed. For once he didn’t join her. Instead, he brought up her favorite peanut butter and banana sandwiches on a tray, heroically refraining from grimacing while she ate the loathsome combination.

Later that evening, she insisted on going to their childbirth class. During the break, the women headed for the chairs, even Barbie no longer disdaining the relative comfort. Soon everyone was discussing baby names. The Benedicts admitted they were open to suggestions. Linda and Howard had narrowed their list down to Troy, Bubba or Dion.

Barbie ran a complacent hand down her beige silk maternity smock.
“Our
precious darling will be Kenneth Iven Patterson, Jr.—after his father,” she announced. “Kenneth means ‘handsome one’ and Iven means ‘little yew-bow.’“

The group made suitably admiring noises except for Del. “Kip,” he said, standing next to Libby’s chair.

Barbie glanced in his direction, her smile fading. “I beg your pardon?”

“The other kids will probably call him Kip-because of his initials,” Del elaborated. “Or maybe Junior or Butch.”

Barbie’s expression said clearly “over-my-deadbody” before she smiled sweetly. “That’s an interesting thought. So, what are you planning on naming your little boy—girl?”

Del glanced at Libby. She hesitated. “I was thinking of Nicholas-after my father.”

Barbie clasped her hands together. “How.cute. Although he might get called St. Nick. Are you sure you don’t want to call him—what is it?—Delbert? After his father?”

Libby merely shook her head.

Del drawled, “My name isn’t Delbert.”

Libby didn’t say much after that, nor mention the conversation on the way home, but later, as they lay in bed together, she brought up the subject. The covers were tucked up to cover her bare breasts, her hair fanned out over her pillow. Hazy moonlight filtered in through the open curtain, faintly illuminating her solemn expression as she asked, “You’re a junior, too, aren’t you, Del? I think Christine mentioned once that you’re named after your dad.”

Del was lying on his side facing her, propped on his elbow as he lazily sifted her hair though his fingers. At her question, he let his fingers drift down along the smooth warmth of her cheek to her mouth. Idly tracing the plump curve of her lower lip, he admitted, “Actually
I’m the fifth Delaney to be saddled with the family name. My great-great-grandfather started the tradition of sticking the firstborn son with a tag that the kid spends the rest of his life either trying to hide or fighting over.”

She smiled faintly and ran a finger along the bump on his nose. “Christine says that’s how you broke your nose—fighting with a kid who teased you over your name. She says since then she hasn’t dared tell anyone else what your real name is.”

He tapped her nose back in teasing warning. “Because she knows she’ll be in big trouble if she does.” His thumb gently brushed Libby’s lower lip, back and forth, before his hand slid lower to tilt up her chin.

His gaze met hers. He murmured, “Only the people who really love me are allowed to know my real name.”

Libby stared silently up at him, her big eyes searching his in the semidarkness. Del waited, his muscles tensing in hope and anticipation.
Ask me,
he urged her silently.
Come on, Libby. Ask me my real name.

She didn’t speak. Anticipation ebbed away and an ache grew in his chest. When she started to move away from his touch, his grip tightened and his mouth closed fiercely over hers.

He kissed her without stopping, exploring the soft skin of her cheek, the sharp edge of her teeth, the exciting, faint roughness of her shy tongue. He kissed her until her breath came in short pants and her arms curled tightly around his neck.

Moving lower, his lips roamed the sensitive column of her neck, the hollows in her shoulders. He delicately tasted her so-sensitive nipples and the ripe curve of
her stomach. Down, down he moved, gently nipping her thighs until she shivered with excitement, then he kissed his way to the curls at the apex of her thighs, ignoring her dwindling protests and concentrating instead on the feel of her hands in his hair, clutching him to her—the sound of her satisfied moans as she climaxed.

Overwhelmed by a sudden fierce need to be inside her, he moved back up and behind her, pulling her into his arms. He entered her carefully, tenderly, moving slowly until the tension built and her muscles tightened, until she writhed and moaned in his arms. He couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t hold her tight enough to him as they moved together in an everincreasing rhythm. His muscles clenched, sweat built on his body. It felt too good. He fought to hold back the feeling bursting within him, and finally her muscles squeezed him in tiny spasms.