her cheeks. She gasped.
Knowing he’d said something wrong, he backed up another step. “What?”
“You are so heartless, so cruel. You haven’t changed a bit, Earl Zebulon Martel. Not one tiny bit!”
Call “Ripley’s Believe It or Not,” he’d found a woman who didn’t like compliments about losing weight. He showed his palms in appeasement. “I mean you look nice. Your hair and everything. It’s pretty. You’re pretty.”
“That gives you the right to make cracks about the baby?”
Now he was so lost he may as well be out of state. “You have a baby?”
She charged out of the doorway like a grizzly bursting from the brush. Easy scooted backward until he hit the deck railing and could go no farther. She came close enough for him to smell an intriguing mixture of paint and vanilla. Each time she waggled a finger at his face, scent wafted to his nose. Memories teased and distracted him—her scent had always intoxicated him.
“That stupid, dumb jock act worked in high school, but don’t you dare pull it now. You know damn well I had a baby!”
His cheek’muscles twitched. Every inner sense screamed danger, but as yet he couldn’t quite identify the source. Cautiously he tried, “Congratulations?”
“Get off my property or I’m calling the police.”
He half turned in automatic response, but stopped. He replayed in his head the confrontation thus far. She recognized him, she despised him, the comment about baby fat enraged her, and she accused him of knowing she’d had a baby. Logic said, since they hadn’t seen each other in twelve years, then the only way he could have possibly known about a baby…
“You had a baby?” Sensing how she would reply, his words came softly, slowly. “My baby?”
She flipped her left hand. “Knock up your girlfriend.” She flipped open her right. “She has a baby. It’s biology, you idiot.”
Jeffrey Livman and John Tupper faded into insignificance. Memories built, the details growing clear. It had been the night of the winter festival right before Christmas break. At the dance he’d been horsing around with his friends; they began ragging him about Catherine. His buddies hadn’t understood why Easy loved her. She wasn’t popular, she didn’t know how to dress, she made straight As and she wasn’t cheerleader pretty. At eighteen, he’d been immature enough to join his friends in making fun of her. She’d blown up at him, telling him she never wanted to see him again. During Christmas break, she refused to see him or return his phone calls. When school resumed, she’d cut him dead, pretending he didn’t exist when they passed in the halls.
“You never told me you were pregnant.” As the implication sank in, his temper rose. He’d loved her—maybe he still did. They’d planned a future together and she hid a baby? “You never said one word.”
She clamped her arms over her chest. Her eyes blazed in heated challenge. “That’s why you dropped out of school and ran away to join the army.”
“I didn’t drop out. I had enough credits to graduate midterm. You’re the one who ran away. When I came back from basic training, you were gone. You dumped me,”
“You were a creep. And irresponsible.”
“You said you never wanted to see me again. You wouldn’t talk to me.”
“And give you a chance to not just call me a fat cow, but a fat, pregnant cow? You were cruel, Easy.”
She had him there. He hung his head. “I wrote you about a hundred letters from basic training. I thought joining the army would make you miss me and—” he shrugged “—maybe scared I’d be killed. I was trying to be a hero. But you didn’t answer my letters. You wouldn’t take my calls. When I went to your house, your parents wouldn’t let me see you. Nobody knew what happened to you.”
Some of the fire drained from her face and her rigid shoulders relaxed. Her brow furrowed in an expression of uncertainty. “My parents sent me to Arizona to live with my grandmother. They couldn’t stand to have me around, causing talk. I never got any letters.”
Easy remembered Catherine’s parents. Stiff, unsmiling people who never spoke to him and rarely said a word to their daughter. Mr. St. Clair was a hotshot lawyer—Mr. Perfect with plenty of big bucks and a high society lifestyle. Easy wondered how many of his rich clients and golfing buddies knew St. Clair had a vicious temper and a habit of smacking his daughter around. A lump lodged in his throat.
“I didn’t know, Catherine. I swear.”
She turned her face away, gazing distantly. A light breeze ruffled the ends of her hair. He remembered its softness and how she used to swing it in his face, tickling him.
“I tried to tell you at the dance. Do you remember? But your friends wouldn’t leave us alone and then you said all those mean things and you were laughing at me. I was so scared, so ashamed, and when you laughed at me I couldn’t face you anymore.”
He passed a hand over his eyes. “I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”
She gave herself a shake. Lifting her chin, her expression now cool and unreadable, she met his gaze. Those deep blue depths held a coldness Easy had never suspected she could reach. She inhaled deeply and the corners of her mouth tipped in a strained smile. “It was a long time ago. I’m over it now.”
And he was the Pillsbury Doughboy’s evil twin. “So where’s the—”
“Excuse me,” she interrupted. “As fun as old home week could be, I’m sure you understand why I don’t feel like strolling down memory lane. I’d like you to leave. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t contact me anymore.”
“Where’s the kid, Catherine?” He looked about, seeking bicycles, roller skates or toys. He couldn’t do a thing about what happened twelve years ago, nor could he make up for the time they’d lost. Despite her accusations, though, he’d never shirked a responsibility in his life.
“There is no kid.”
Horrified, he pushed away from the railing. “The baby died?”
“I put her up for adoption.” Her rounded chin lifted another notch, defiant. “It was a girl. Six pounds, twelve ounces, perfectly healthy. She had hair. Black hair, just like yours. I signed the papers when she was twenty-four hours old. I held her once.” Her chin trembled and her voice cracked. Unfallen tears glazed her eyes. “I named her Elizabeth, after your mom, because she was always so nice to me. On the birth certificate I listed the father as unknown.”
He closed his eyes, trying to picture Catherine in labor, little more than a baby herself—alone, banished from home, deserted. He saw instead her face when they’d made love, her softly curved cheeks aglow without a trace of shyness or self-consciousness. Loving her had made him a better person. He hadn’t known it then, but he knew it now. She’d never disguised her intelligence or played games or treated him with anything other than respect. He’d lived for her admiration, sought her approval, strove to measure up to her standards.
He had a child. A funny piece of information. He held it in his thoughts as if it were a strange bug he’d never seen before.
“I
