seen the course of action opening up before him. “You can’t have it,” he told her, his voice firm.
She blinked, stunned.
Jason was the type who refused to kill crickets in the house. He captured them and set them free on the patio. He couldn’t be saying what she thought he was saying. “Excuse me?”
“You can’t have it,” he repeated, his voice carrying just a shade less conviction than it had a moment ago.
“What do you mean, I ‘can’t have it’?” she demanded. “This isn’t some rich piece of cake that’s going to send my diet into a tailspin—this is a baby. I already have it. I’m pregnant. With child,” she added, using the terminology Dr. Kilpatrick had used when breaking the news to her. She fought back the wave of horror that was mounting within her. “Jason, you’re talking about a human being here.”
There were a score of theories as to when a fetus became a living being. He couldn’t summon one to back him up. “There’s a debate over that at this stage.”
She stood up indignantly. “Not to me. You can’t just sweep it away like that.”
Didn’t she understand what was at stake? He rose, trying to put his hands on her shoulders. Trying to form a unit. “Yes, I can.”
There was anger in her eyes, anger mixed with disappointment and deep, deep hurt. “Look, I’m sorry this messes up the plans you’ve been dreaming about these last few years. They were my plans, too, but—”
“Is that what you think? That I’m upset because we can’t take a—a stupid road trip?”
“Well, aren’t you?”
“Hell, no.” And then because his denial wasn’t strictly true, Jason backtracked a little, correcting himself. “I’m disappointed, sure, but the whole road trip idea is becoming sort of an unattainable goal, like Shangri-la.”
“Is it the summer home?” she asked. “Because we could still build one, just not as big and maybe not quite in the location you wanted—”
He cut her short. “It’s not the summer home.”
She’d run out of things to guess. “All right then, what are you upset about?”
“You.”
“Me?” He had completely lost her. “What about me?”
His gift of gab, the very thing that helped him pitch the ads he so cleverly constructed, left him when it came to speaking from his heart. He wasn’t a man who bared his emotions. He turned away for a moment, shoving his hands deep into his pocket, searching for a way to anchor himself. Searching for words.
When he spoke, he addressed the words to the wall. “Look, I don’t want to have to do without you.”
Was that it? He was afraid of losing his maid? Over the years, she’d spoiled him and she knew it. She’d taken a relatively self-sufficient man and gotten him used to having everything done for him.
Her own fault, she thought.
“I’ll still do everything I’ve always done,” she assured him, trying hard not to let her annoyance show. “Your shirts will still be ironed, your meals will still be made, most likely on time, your—”
“The hell with my shirts. The hell with the meals,” he retorted.
For a second, because he had her really confused, Laurel stopped talking. Confusion had her resorting to quips.
“Okay, you’ll be wrinkled and hungry. I wish you’d told me that years ago. You would have saved me so much time every week—”
“I don’t want to have to do without you,” Jason repeated, saying the words with more feeling. And then, because his wife eyed him as if he had suddenly started speaking in several foreign languages, all at once, he was forced to elaborate. He hated being made to say every word. She was supposed to be able to read between the lines. “If something happened to you, I wouldn’t be able to go on.”
For one of the very few times in her life, Laurel found herself truly speechless.
CHAPTER 5
The silence in the living room continued, stretching out like a long, silken thread until Jason couldn’t take it anymore.
“Say something,” he urged.
Laurel felt tears stinging her eyes, threatening to spill out. She knew they were there partially because of the king-size hormonal blender into which her emotions had been tossed. But the tears had also sprung up because words of affection from Jason, any sort of affection, were as rare as a blizzard in July in Southern California. It had been years since he’d said anything romantic. He rarely expressed his feelings for her, he just expected her to know.
The breath she let out was ragged. “I think that’s one of the nicest things you’ve ever said to me.”
Jason looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “I’m talking about you dying.”
“No,” she contradicted, “you’re talking about love.” She wasn’t going to let him bluster his way out of this. He’d said something nice and she was holding him to it. Laurel touched his face, every single available space within her welling up with affection. “I’m not going to die in childbirth, Jase.”
He took her hand, but rather than pushing it aside, he pressed it to his cheek. Just for a moment. And then he moved it aside. “How do you know?”
“All right.” She inclined her head as if to give him his due. “I can’t give you a written guarantee. But I also can’t give you one that says I won’t die in a traffic accident because I got hit by a car while driving down to Newport Beach. Or that I won’t die choking on your mother’s extra dry turkey next Thanksgiving. But,” she went on, a smile curving her mouth, “I’m reasonably sure I won’t die in childbirth. More sure of that than I am about not getting hit by a car or choking on your mother’s turkey,” she added for good measure.
Jason sighed, taking her hands in his. He forced himself to look her straight in the eye as he tried to make her understand the full extent of his concern. “Laurel, don’t take this the wrong way.” She looked at him warily, waiting. “But you’re old.”
She pulled her hands away and turned from him all in one motion. It turned out to be a little too fast, because the sudden movement made her feel dizzy. Shutting her eyes made it worse, and she swayed. The next thing she knew, Jason had his arms around her, holding her steady. Getting her bearing, she pushed him away from her.
“I’m all right,” she ground out between clenched teeth. “And I am not old.”
Jason held his hands up before him, as if to push away what he’d said, or at least the way he’d said it. “Okay, bad choice of words.”
“Horrific choice of words,” Laurel corrected vehemently. “Forty-five is the new thirty-five,” she told him, echoing Dr. Kilpatrick again. “And thirty-five is not old.”
“What I’m trying to say is that you’re too
