Two Against the Odds (13 page)

Rafe glanced across the parking lot. He jammed his hands in his back pockets. “I'll do it,” he said gruffly.

Her gaze narrowed. “Is this guilt? I don't want any part of that.”

He liked her.
That hadn't changed when she'd gotten pregnant. Or when she threw him out.

Or called him immature.

With a shrug, he said, “I've got nothing better to do.”

 

L
EXIE PARKED
in her driveway, leaving room to get at the back wall of the carport where her painting crates were stored. She closed her eyes and slumped against the headrest, just for a minute until Rafe arrived. Sleep was overtaking her when she heard the sound of his car. Glancing in the rearview mirror, she felt a trickle of relief as he pulled in behind her. She'd half expected him not to show up.

She'd been surprised to see him at the sonogram center. And shocked when he'd actually come in with her. The expression on his face when he first saw the baby's heartbeat… She'd thought for a moment he might have felt something, been struck by the miracle of the baby growing inside her. Then he'd taken to his heels, clearly scared witless by the enormity of it all.

The responsibility.

She shook off the disappointment. How many times could she put herself through this with him?

Fatigue dragged at her but she put her game face on. The placenta was in place, the baby was developing. Once she got the painting framed, crated and shipped, then she could rest.

Rafe parked at the curb in front of her house. He got out of his car and came down to the carport. “Do we have to build a crate? Should I go get wood?”

“I've got one,” she said, nodding at the shallow wooden box, six foot by five foot, against the back wall of the carport. “If you could carry it to the studio for me, that would be great.”

Rafe half carried, half dragged the crate across the lawn. He averted his gaze as he passed the trampoline. Was that where she'd conceived, Lexie wondered.

“It would be easier if I took one end,” she said when he paused for a breather. “It's not only heavy, it's awkward to carry.”

“Forget it.” He picked it up again, broad shoulders stretched, biceps taut beneath his short-sleeved shirt.

A warm tingling sensation stole through her. Even though she was pregnant. Even though they'd broken up. Even though she was dead on her feet. She was still attracted to him. As much, if not more, than before. But where once she would have run her hands over his shoulders, felt the firmness of his muscles, coaxed him into bed…now all she could do was issue directions.

“Lean it against the wall for now,” she said as he turned sideways to take it through the studio door. “I have to frame the painting before we can crate it.”

Crossing to the opposite side of the studio, she
started to pull a large gilt frame from a stack of frames resting against the wall.

“Go sit down,” he said, edging her away. He'd worked up a sheen of perspiration and smelled of warm male.

“I'll get the matting,” she said, moving reluctantly. From the long, slotted cabinet at the back of the studio she brought sheets of mat board in burgundy and olive-green and laid them on the table. Then she gathered her tools—a long metal straight edge, mat cutter, fine sandpaper, soft pencil and linen tape. She fixed him with a defiant stare. “I have to do the matting. It takes skill and practice.”

Rafe brought over a wooden stool. “Sit as much as possible. And tell me if you feel any cramping.” He glanced at the painting. “Is it dry?”

“It's tacky in spots but I can't wait any longer. It's due at the Sydney gallery tomorrow.”

She measured and cut the mat board to size, methodically yet swiftly, her movements efficient through long practice. While she worked she issued instructions to Rafe, at the other end of the table, to get the glass and place it into the frame. She'd had that specially cut months ago when she'd first started working on the portrait.

They'd been working in silence for some minutes when Rafe said, “When you were cramping earlier, you didn't tell me that you'd had spotting before.”

“I talked to Sienna. She told me it was common. Not to worry about it.”

“And you never mentioned you'd been pregnant before.”

She'd wondered if he'd picked up on that. “We haven't exactly been having heart-to-heart conversations lately. I didn't think you'd be interested. And frankly…” She glanced at him. “It's none of your business.”

“Maybe not,” he said. “But I want to know. How old were you?”

Her hands started to tremble. She had to put down the cutter for fear of nicking the mat board. “There's not much to tell. I was seventeen.”

He was silent a moment. “Did you have an abortion?”

“I…” She drew in a deep breath. “Yes.”

“Is that why this baby is so important to you?”

The child was her second chance. A shot at redemption. She hadn't fully acknowledged that until this very moment.

Feeling tears burning the backs of her eyes, she blinked and glanced away. “All babies are important.”

“Did that father run out on you, too?”

She tried to make light of it. “You think you're too young to be a father. That guy still had pimples.” She touched the heels of her hands to her eyes, hating that her hormones made her weepy. That Rafe still had
the power to make her feel. “I don't want to dwell on the past. Let's get this done, okay?”

Finished with the glass, he held the mat board steady for her while she cut the long beveled edge. Next she sandpapered it lightly then got Rafe to bring the portrait to the table. She positioned the double layers and taped them with linen tape. Then she lowered the matted canvas into the frame and secured a thin sheet of fiberboard backing with metal flanges.

“Done!” she said, straightening. “Can you put it back on the easel? I'd like to savor the finished painting for a moment before we pack it away.”

Rafe lifted and placed it on the easel then stepped back beside Lexie. She studied the portrait critically, seeing tiny things she wished she'd done differently. It was always that way. But overall she was pleased.

“It's amazing,” Rafe said.

“Yeah, thanks,” she replied. Her back was aching and now that she'd stopped working she noticed a heavy feeling in her groin. All she wanted to do was lie down. But she had to push on. “Now to pack it.”

Rafe hoisted the crate onto the table and went back for the sheet of plywood that formed the lid. He leaned it against the wall and studied the scars of old postal stickers and address labels. “It's like a well-traveled suitcase.”

“I'm going to sit down for a minute,” she said, suddenly feeling breathless. “In the cupboard there are
sheets of high-density foam. Get them and line the crate.” She found a straight back chair and lowered herself gingerly. A cramp ripped through her abdomen. With a gasp, she bent over, her elbows on her knees.

Rafe spun around. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” she said tightly, waving him away. “Just get the foam.”

Giving her a worried glance, he did as she asked. A few minutes later he said, “I've lined the crate. Now what?”

Lexie lifted her head with an effort. “Put the painting on top of the foam and pack more foam around the sides and over top. Then…” She broke off to gasp. “Then put the lid on and screw it down.”

He was at her side in an instant, taking her arm to help her up. “Go inside and lie down. I can finish this.”

She tugged her arm away. “I want to see it through.” She met his gaze and nodded at the painting. “That's my baby, too.”

Rafe hesitated, then he nodded. “All right.”

He went back to the crate and fitted a screw into the preformed holes. When he'd tightened the last screw and the label was affixed to the lid, Lexie rose and walked slowly back to the house. The heaviness in her belly had increased. Something didn't feel right.

She eased herself onto her bed with an involuntary
moan and shut her eyes, feeling more tired than she'd ever felt in her life. In the living room she could hear Rafe call the freight company that specialized in artworks and arrange for the crate to be picked up and shipped overnight to Sydney.

Then he was standing in her doorway. “May I come in?”

She nodded weakly and closed her eyes. “Thank you for everything. I'll be fine now.”

Rafe walked to the bed and sat on the edge. It sank beneath his weight. She felt him brush her hair off her forehead. “Lexie?”

She opened her eyes. “Yes, Rafe?”

“I think we should get married.”

A blossom of hope unfurled in her heart.
Not just sex, but love.

And then the moment passed.

What was she thinking? That's not why he was asking.

R
AFE COULDN'T
believe he'd asked her to marry him. The words had just come out. One minute he'd been thinking about asking if she wanted a cup of tea. Then without warning, he'd blurted out an offer of the next fifty years of his life.

“What did you say?” Her eyes were half-closed; a frown wrinkled her forehead. “I don't think I heard you properly.”

He took her hand. It felt hot. He pressed the back of his other hand to her forehead. That was hot, too.

He cleared his throat. “I said, will you marry me?”

Her eyes opened wide. “Rafe, don't be silly.”

“Why is it silly? I want to do the right thing.”

“That's…exactly what's wrong…with your proposal.” She spoke slowly, as if every word was an effort. “You don't love me. You're only asking me out of a sense of duty, of responsibility.”

“No…”

“Would you be asking me this if it wasn't for the baby?”

“How can I answer that? There
is
a baby.” He rubbed her cold fingers, flaking off a bit of dried paint. “We could be good together.”

“Being sexually compatible isn't the same as being committed partners over a lifetime.”

“Granted but…but how do you know I don't love you?”

“You haven't said so, for one thing. And even if you said it now,” she added, forestalling his next words, “how could I ever believe you?”

Rafe got up and paced the narrow space at the foot of the bed. “You need to be looked after. I
do
feel a sense of responsibility. To you and our child. I don't have much to offer right now but…” His mouth ticked up at one corner. “We'll never want for fresh fish.”

He'd been trying to make her laugh. She just gazed at him wearily.

Picking up a bottle of perfume from her dresser, he held the crystal stopper to his nose. The light floral scent brought the night of the barbecue flooding back. “I want to marry a woman who makes love on a trampoline.”

“And I don't care if I get married or not.”

“Then we'll live together. I'm not hung up on pieces of paper. At least think about it.”

She shook her head. “I have thought. Every time I get tempted I remind myself that when you're forty, I'll be fifty-two. Men have their midlife crises at that age. They have affairs, get divorced, run off with the
nanny. All those things would be so much more likely if your wife was twelve years older.”

“I'll buy a sports car instead, I promise.”

That got a smile from her. But at the same time a tear slipped from the corner of her eye. “No.”

Rafe paced some more, pushing fist into palm as if he could force the two of them together. “Marriage requires a leap of faith, regardless of age or circumstance.” He came around the foot of the bed and sat down again. “There are no guarantees, even for people of similar age, temperament and interests.”

“Exactly. That's why a couple has to give them selves a fighting chance for the marriage to survive.”

Rafe reached for her hand again and twined his fingers with hers. He gazed down at their interlocked hands. “I threw away my career for you. That ought to tell you something.”

“You're an idiot?” When he frowned she squeezed his hand. “Oh, Rafe, I'm only joking. You're young and handsome and smart and funny. Someday you'll meet a woman your own age. When the time is right you'll have children.” She glanced away and added quietly, “Children you want.”

That hurt him, a well-deserved shaft of pain. His motives for asking her to marry him were muddy, he knew that. But it felt like the right thing to do.

As if she'd read his mind, she glanced back to him.
“People don't get married these days just because there's a baby on the way.”

“Some do.”

She shook her head. “Asking someone to marry you should be what you
want
to do, not what you
should
do.”

A spasm made her face twist. With another deep breath her skin smoothed again but now her features were stretched tight. “I'm all jumbled up from so many things happening to me at once. We're different, not just in age but in everything. I'm not sure
I
could love
you.
”

Rafe blinked. Maybe it was egotistical on his part but he'd thought—he'd assumed—that given half a chance she would love him. “I—I don't understand. Are you saying—”

“Thank you for your help today,” she whispered. “Maybe you should go.” She rolled onto her side and curled into a fetal position. Her eyes shut tightly and two creases formed between her eyebrows.

“Lexie,” he said, alarmed. “Are you all right? I'm going to call the doctor.”

“I'm…fine.” Another spasm gripped her, contorting her face and twisting her body beneath the blankets.

“Lexie!”

The doorbell rang.

“The shipping company,” she gasped. “Go. Answer it.”

Rafe hesitated. The doorbell rang again. He hurried down the hallway and opened the door. A reddish-haired man with a deep dimple in his chin stood there, an identification tag around his neck and a clipboard in his hand. “Pickup for Ms. Lexie Thatcher?”

“Around the back,” Rafe said. “Have you got a dolly? It's heavy.” He glanced about for his shoes and remembered he'd left them at the back door. He led the way through the carport in his sock feet. “This will be delivered to Sydney tomorrow, won't it?”

“Guaranteed by noon tomorrow.” The man wheeled the dolly across the grass.

Rafe opened the studio door and then helped the man load the crate onto the dolly. “Careful. It's a framed painting. There's glass.”

They went back across the lawn, through the carport and up the ramp into the back of the freight truck. Rafe signed the docket and took the receipt. Before the truck had pulled out of the driveway he was hurrying back inside.

“Lexie, the painting's on its way. You made the deadline.” He paused in the doorway of her bedroom. Beneath the covers she was still curled into a tight ball. “Lexie?”

Her face was white as she turned to him. “Call my doctor.”

Rafe crossed the room in swift strides. He felt her forehead. It was clammy now. Gently he prised
back the covers. His stomach tipped into a queasy free fall.

The sheets were soaked with blood.

 

L
EXIE WOKE UP
in a hospital bed. A saline drip was inserted into the back of her left hand, the needle taped to her skin. She glanced about, dazed. Renita was asleep in a chair next to the bed, her hair tousled and her blue blouse slipping off her shoulder.

Across the ward, an elderly lady was snoring. The clock on the wall read 3:45. Was that a.m. or p.m.? The lights were dim and it was quiet. She thought it must be early.

She instinctively clutched at her stomach. Had she miscarried? She could feel a bulky sanitary pad between her legs. Presumably that meant she was still bleeding.

This was all her fault. She hadn't listened to her doctor. Instead of going to bed and resting like a sensible person she'd been on her feet for an hour or more to frame her painting.

Where was Rafe?

Would his offer still stand if she lost her baby?

Panic overtook her.
What if she lost her baby?

“Renita.” Lexie stretched out a hand and touched her sister's knee with her fingertips.

Renita came awake with a start. She reached for her glasses on the bedside table, then scooted her
chair forward. “How are you feeling?” her sister asked, taking her hand.

She clung to Renita. “What's happening to my baby? Am I still pregnant?”

“Oh, sweetie. The doctors don't know. They have to wait till morning to do a sonogram to try to find the fetal heartbeat.”

Lexie fell back on her pillow. “It's my fault.”

“Don't blame yourself,” Renita whispered. “Natalie, Sienna, they both said it's not from anything you did.”

She hadn't rested when they told her to. How could she not blame herself? “Is Rafe…?”

“Rafe was wonderful. He called Sienna, then Hetty. He stuck around for hours. Then he had to go home to his dog. Said he was only renting and if the carpet was ruined he'd wouldn't get his bond back.”

“Poor Murphy. I wonder how long he'd been cooped up.” She pressed fingers to her lips. “Yin and Yang!”

“They're taken care of. Don't worry. Just rest. Natalie said she'd be back first thing in the morning. Sienna's going to be here for your sonogram.” Renita started to rise. “Do you want water? Cup of tea?”

“No, thank you. Please sit. I need to talk to you.” Lexie smoothed the rumpled top sheet. “Rafe asked me to marry him.”

Renita's tired face lit for a moment before her expression turned cautious. “What did you say?”

“No, of course.”

“Why, Lexie? He's young but, gee, I think he's a keeper.”

“He only asked me out of a…a sense of duty or something. I don't want to marry him just because I'm pregnant. He'd be bound to end up resenting me. And the baby.”

“You can't be sure about that,” Renita said, troubled. “If he cares about you he'd come to love the baby, too. And now that he's had a chance to think—”

“You didn't hear the things he was saying when I first told him I was pregnant. I trust a gut reaction far more than a reasoned response.” She shook her head sadly. “I'm still romantic enough to want to marry for love.”

“I guess I wouldn't want to marry someone in these circumstances, either,” Renita conceded. “How do
you
feel about
him?
”

Lexie fell silent, studying the ceiling. Rafe was energy and heat, a shining life force. He was the light that filled the crystal. “I could love him.”

“Then don't make up your mind to refuse him now.” Renita yawned. “You've been through too much. You need to rest.”

“You should go home, too,” Lexie said. “I feel terrible having caused all this trouble.”

“Don't be silly.” Renita rose and stretched her back out. “But I do have to work tomorrow.” She blinked sleepily at the clock. “I mean, today.” She kissed Lexie on the cheek. “I'll come back later this afternoon—if you're still here. Try to get more sleep.”

Sleep was impossible. Lexie lay awake, tormented by guilt and doubt. What kind of a mother would she make if she always put painting before her child? Maybe she'd been right when she'd told Rafe she wasn't destined to have a child. Twenty-one years ago she'd aborted one baby to pursue her art. Now the universe was punishing her.

But she loved children so much. The vision of her own baby was pure and clear. A little girl, a boy; it didn't matter. She wanted to teach him or her to finger paint, to collect pebbles and shells, to see beauty in the veins of a leaf and clouds in the sky. She wanted to cuddle her baby, warm and soft and so alive….

Lexie closed her eyes. She turned her face into the pillow. She was so very tired….

 

R
AFE WALKED
through the hospital corridors, past orderlies wheeling trolleys and a pair of doctors in scrubs. It was six in the morning and the nurses were starting to make their rounds. He slowed outside Lexie's ward and peeked in. The light was on over her elderly roommate's empty bed, the covers thrown back. He entered quietly and stood at the foot of Lexie's bed. Even in sleep, she looked exhausted.

He wasn't much better. He'd been up most of the night, catching only a couple hours of shut-eye at home before racing back to the hospital. He felt the strain in his cold, tense muscles, in the headache from lack of sleep. His stomach was a tight ball of pain.

Where was the nurse? Who could he ask about Lexie's condition? And the baby—had she miscarried or not? He picked up her chart hanging off the end of the bed and scanned the pages. There was nothing here that told him what he wanted to know, not that he could decipher anyway.

Rafe walked back to the door to look out into the corridor. No one was at the nurses' station. He heard a sound and glanced over his shoulder.

Lexie opened her eyes. “Rafe?”

He was at her side quickly, lowering himself into the chair, leaning toward the bed. “How are you feeling?”

She turned her head to face him. “Tired. Achey.”

“The baby…?”

“The bleeding hasn't stopped.” Her eyes, huge and shadowed, searched his face. “They won't know if the baby is alive until they do another sonogram.”

Taking Lexie's hand he lifted it to his mouth and held her gaze over her small paint-stained knuckles. Lowering her hand, he kept it tucked in his. “When will that be?”

“This morning.” She made an attempt to smile. “How's Murphy? Did he ruin the carpet?”

“I'll have to call Guinness Books. He may have set the world's record on bladder control.” When her smile faded, he added, “I'm sure everything will be fine. They'll find the heartbeat, then you'll be out of danger.”

The fine lines at the corners of her eyes tightened. She gripped his fingers. “Even if I don't miscarry I…I don't think I'm cut out to be a mother. I'm disorganized, selfish with my time—”

“Lexie, stop. You're too hard on yourself.”

“No, listen,” she insisted. “This is real. When I'm working I forget everything else. Nothing else matters but finishing the painting. The poor kid would be neglected. As much as I love children, I—I don't trust myself to be a good parent.”

“Don't talk about it now,” he said. “You're not thinking clearly. You've got hormones and…and worry over taxes and the Archibald. All of it together is messing up your brain.”

The elderly woman from the other bed shuffled in with a damp towel over her arm and her toiletries bag in hand. Her thin gray hair was newly washed and plastered to her scalp. Slowly, she draped her towel over the back of a chair and put her toiletry bag away in a cupboard. She sat on the bed to catch her breath.