Sugar Daddy (46 page)

Returning from a Sunday how-do with Mimi, I sat in her old rocker on the back porch, under a clear black sky, the echoes of tugboats bleating their tinny horns on the bay.

I hadn’t taken Delilah’s plants from Snee Farm. I didn’t want ’em to die in transit, like she had. I’d already started a patch at the new house for her, the statue of mother and child in a bed of hardier plants–horse sugar and sassafras, wild rose and blazing star and black eyed Susan. It was more colorful than the afternoon’s rainbows arched over the Cooper River.

I sighed when Reardon walked across the moonlit yard. A jacket slung over his shoulder, his fingers loosening his tie.

“I added somethin’ for Will,” I called, retuning his smile.

Squatting before the new flowers in yellow and gold, he leaned over to touch the sailboat plaque reminiscent of the carved chest that sat on his dresser. After he lowered his head and traced his pendant, he came to me. “It’s beautiful, Shay.”

Lifting me in his arms, he shifted me onto his lap. “How’d the visit with your Mimi go?”

“Old gal was feisty today.”

“Seems to be a family trait.” His deep rumble tickled my earlobe while he referred to my indelicate rants about not being able to do all the fixer-uppers on the coastal cottage myself.

I wasn’t allowed to paint or sand or varnish the floors because of the fumes. Per my new super-qualified OB, I’d given notice at Abide Awhile before I even filled out a timecard.

“She said it was about time the old homestead heard the squall of a babe.”

The babe was about as big as a grape seed, but I hadn’t had any more bleeding episodes. I’d vomited a few times, a cold sweat swaddling my brow, Reardon kneading my lower back and calming me through it. He brought me saltines, ginger ale, ginger snaps, Sea-Bands. None of those antidotes quelled my tummy, but the nausea meant I was still pregnant so I didn’t complain.

“Mmm.” He settled back on the chair, leaf green from enamel paint and tarnish, the floral embroidered pad faded from decades of use. “Good to come home to you, darlin’.”

“You staying tonight?”

“If you’ll have me.”

“I’ll always have you.”

Facing him, I moved as slowly as the ships drifting upriver. His deft hands bunched my skirt to my waist and my lips dropped to his. Fingers worked through buttons and zippers, baring the minimal amount of skin while our mouths teased and parted.

His curious grin was short lived when I lowered onto him.

All that mattered was Reardon running his hands down my back to my waist, speeding his thrusts like the incoming tide.

* * * *

Being numb for most of November would’ve been a blessing, and Momma’s meet and greet with Reardon was the least of it. Ever since my bleed-through the first weekend, each trip to the toilet was a gauntlet to run.

Tripping to the bathroom, I yanked down my panties. Blood cascaded into the toilet bowl, violent red against pristine white.

Snagging the phone, I dialed Reardon and managed to say, “I need to go to the hospital.”

“I’m coming.”

I couldn’t look between my legs. I ripped off my panties and shoved on a new pair with a pad and some sweats, curling up on the couch.

The door banged. Arms gathered me. Placed in the car, buckled in, wrapped in a blanket. My hand was clasped in his.

The garish lights of the ER made him pale. Signing me in, his hand shook, but he kept a firm grip on my fingers, rubbing a thumb over my wrist.

His throat worked as he demanded immediate attention. His voice a muted reverb inside my throbbing head, he pulled the
You don’t wanna mess with me
card until the nurses scattered, quickly finding a private room, paging my doctor.

Only when I was on the gurney with my blood type taken and a monitor strapped to my belly did he lower his head to his hands. “Haven’t stepped foot in a hospital since Will, not even when Ransome came home. That’s a lot of blood, Shay.” His control cracked, his voice broke.

Forcing tears away, I swallowed. “I know.”

The stormiest, saddest eyes met mine. But his hands were warm and sure between us. “You’re not going to run away from me. No matter what.”

Somehow, he was strong. Pigheaded, even. He barked orders about flying in specialists, and the specialists showed.

With me, he was precious as could be.

When we heard the heartbeat for the first time that night, our eyes closed. Our fingers joined. His face found the nook of my neck.

We listened to the rapid thump-thump-thump all night. In the uncomfortable bed with the raspy blankets, we huddled down.

The bleeding tapered off, Reardon by my side.

Our baby held on, struggling to survive the crater of my womb.

* * * *

Released after three days of observation, I distracted myself from the close call by making Thanksgiving arrangements. The Garden Club liked ’em well enough to order a few dozen. Colorful cornucopias to mock the cock-o-copious I wasn’t getting for four weeks, per Reardon’s mulish misinterpretation of Doc Cockblocker’s orders. Harvest hued Horns of Plenty instead of Reardon and his Horny of Plenty because he decided four weeks with my feet up and nothing distressing meant no undressing, no messing, no sexing.

I hosted Thanksgiving, insofar as I picked up the deep fried turkey from Christ Church and ordered the fixings from the Publix deli. The turkey was displayed on my pretty table, but Reardon was the one getting roasted. No amount of
Yes, ma’am, No ma’am
pleased Momma.

He took her coat, gave her a glass of wine, held out her chair, and still she addressed him as “Mr. Boone, the knocker-upper.”

With the cranberry sauce turning soupy and me off the liquor, I was pissed off. The carving knife looked damned tempting.

It clattered into the sink when Reardon sunk his hips to my bottom. “I’ll take care of her, darlin’.”

Pouring a branch and bourbon, he escorted her to the back porch.

I shoved the curtain aside and cracked the window, absolutely fine with eavesdropping.

A cigar rolling between his fingers, he said, “Heard I was too well bred for your daughter.”

My heart galloped.

“Not exactly those words,” Momma fumed.

“Ah yes. What was it you said again?”

I giggled when he hook, line, and sunk her.

I had never seen Momma fidget before. Right then she looked ready for lift-off. “Over-privileged pretty boy.”

He chuckled, and she huffed, “Well, you do cut a fine figure.”

Amen, Momma.

“I know you want the best for her, Mrs. Motte.”

She crumpled. “She’s all I’ve got left. I had a son in Palmer, I’d wished for a granddaughter in Delilah. I don’t know what to make of you, boy.”

“Been a long time since someone called me boy.” Striking his chair closer to hers, he aimed at the waterscape beyond. “Now, my ma calls me boy from time to time. I grew up down the road in McClellanville. Reckon you might know their business, they run Boone & Sons Fresh Seafood.”

“Damn fine oysters y’all get out there.”

“I’m not going to do wrong by her.”

“Seems to me you haven’t yet.”

“Nothing you might have read about me or heard about me is true, Mrs. Motte. Nothing is true,
except for my family and my son, and Shay.”

“You gonna hurt her?”

“No, ma’am.”

Momma was insistent. “She’s been through this before. You understand?”

“So have I, and I will not
let her go it alone.”

I closed the window, turned on the taps, arranged side dishes around the platter in the middle of the table. The last of their conversation wafted over me when they walked inside.

“Best medical treatment at Roper St. Francis, Mrs. Motte.”

She turned to Reardon as he tucked in her chair. “Y’all can call me ma’am.”

Capturing his hand beneath the tablecloth, I pressed my lips to his cheek before bowing my head. I was thankful for Momma and Reardon.

I was thankful to go four more weeks.

We did that awesome dating thing. Sometimes over-the-top extravagant adventures as in the surprise weekend jaunt to that little–little my ass–property he’d bought in Bermuda, sometimes a walk in the park followed by a romantic dinner, minus Whistler, Badger, or any other interruptions.

I still stared at pregnant women, only now the sharp knife of jealousy failed to stab me. I compared their big bellies to my own bump indiscernible to anyone but Reardon and me.

December was more of the in-between stage, my small swell resembling the beginnings of a muffin top more than anything else. For me it was the hold my breath and cross my fingers, my toes, and everything else stage. And pray.

It was also a time for negotiations, with Palmer, regarding the Snee Farm house, and with Reardon regarding just about everything else. Sometimes our arbitrations were serious. Money–his–where to live–mine–when to move in together and who to tell about the baby when. He got on my case about my determined bouts of nest-building. Since I couldn’t do much about the house and had to leave it to workmen, I got it all out in the garden, toiling in the soil, which sort of set him off.

I still maintained he was hotter than hell when he was the tiniest bit annoyed. So I got on his case about sticking to the anti-love-making regime. I came onto him; he fended me off. During December, I was a first class cocksucker, he was a magna-make-me-cum-louder cunnilinguist. Our mounting sexual tension could have powered the whole planet.

Given the go-ahead to get laid–finally–brought another round of mediation, the kinky kind. Here, there, everywhere: fucking on every surface and in every room of the cottage, not to mention revisiting our passionate playgrounds in The Tides, we made love in every position possible, and some that were probably illegal, at least in South Carolina.

Him behind me spooning in bed on a wintry morning with the whitewashed walls swallowing my wails of
Oh God, Reardon
. Me riding him on the couch while his eyes fastened on my bigger-than-ever boobs bouncing with every undulation, his hands around my waist, his lips sucking my nipples, the tendons of his neck taut as tightrope when we came.

Reardon didn’t push too hard about our living arrangement, but he wasn’t above dirty deal making, withholding his delicious dick from me while he performed a slow strip-tease one afternoon.

His shirt was already off, his chest delineated by sinews I wanted to suck. Six pack and the tight slabs of his pecs with his dark nipples pleading
bite me.

“I think it’s time.”
Fuckin’ right it was
. Undoing the top button of his jeans–my faves, the faded ones conforming to the shape of his shaft and ass and thighs–he enticed me.

“Time for what?” I sat on the edge of the bed, hedging my hem above my knees, pretending coyness.

“Time you let me move in.”

More like high time he took those damn pants off.
The base of his dick, stiffening, his cock pointed down, the brush of black hair appeared.

“You don’t play fair.” My accusation was breathless, airy.

The deeply carved cliff of muscle between pelvis and hip with his pants hanging open, caught on his shaft. His arms bulging with muscle, his eyes sultry, he lowered everything to the floor. Including my mouth.

Straightening up, he was man and muscle and motherfucking hell, I was ready to roll over and get fed when he said, “You know I don’t.” His hand wrapped around the thick hard-on, his palm rolling over the flared tip.

Spellbound by his gorgeous erection, I asked, “What about the penthouse?” Really I was trying to distract him, so I could at least hump his leg.

“We’ll keep it for entertaining. Temperance will take care of it.” He slowly turned me about, getting a panoramic view of my voluptuous form. “Besides, an apartment is no place to raise our family.”

Well, that got me. I’d been about to trade a tit fuck for The Tides. Instead I teared up, falling against him. “Our family.”

“Yes, our family, and I don’t want to spend another night apart.” He kissed a meandering path down my breasts to my belly and below. Kneeling in front of me, he took my panties down my legs. “I don’t like you being alone.”