his own way out, though, he glanced around the bedroom his wife had shared with another man, at the mottled tan walls and thick taupe Berber carpet and lifeless chrome-and-glass nightstands. He caught himself wondering if the baby Cass carried had been conceived in that bed, then sharply reminded himself he was being juvenile.
Just as he reminded himself that she didn’t owe him a damn thing. And certainly not a shot at something he’d forfeited so long ago.
His gaze once again swept the room. For all its lack of charm or warmth, nothing in here had come cheap. A study in minimalist extravagance. And again, very un-Cass, who adored chintz and frills and lace. And cats. The woman was crazy for cats, he remembered suddenly. When they’d been married, they’d had four, not counting the outside strays Cass would “secretly” feed.
He looked back at her, then crossed over to the beige tweed chaise in the corner of the room, pulling a gray mohair throw off of it. That’s what was wrong, he decided, gently covering the obviously unhappy woman who still held his heart in her hands. There were no cats in this house. No goofball kittens, no swaggering toms, no prissy longhairs to climb up in your lap and leave a veritable fur rug in their wake. He skimmed one knuckle over the soft pile, shaking his head.
No wonder she was so miserable.
Finally.
Once she was positive Blake was gone, Cass opened her eyes, tucking one hand underneath her cheek, only to choke with the effort not to cry when she smelled his scent on her hand.
This wasn’t going to work, his being here. She wished he’d go away, leave her alone to sort out what was left of her life in peace. Okay, sure, when push came to shove, he’d made a rotten husband and father. And yet, she mused as she hitched the throw higher on her shoulders, she’d never known a kinder human being. When he was around, anyway. And she didn’t need, or want, kindness. Kindness was dangerous, made you believe in things that shouldn’t be believed in.
And pity was even worse. And that’s what it would become, wouldn’t it? When he found out? She didn’t think she could stand that. So what was this nearly overwhelming, idiotic urge to beg him to stay and make it all better?
Well. Apparently, she hadn’t changed any more than Blake. At least, not as much as she’d wanted to believe. Not on the inside, at least. But then, perhaps growing up wasn’t as much about conquering your weaknesses as it was about seeing them for what they were. And then never, ever letting them get the upper hand.
She was exhausted was all, she told herself. And the contractions had given her more pause than she’d let on. Still, her sadness had gone beyond weeping, to a sort of not-quite numbness a millimeter short of despair. She’d like to think it was nothing more than hormone-induced moodiness, exacerbated by recent events, but she’d given up lying to herself for Lent. And for however many days on earth she had left after that.
In all this, the baby was the only thing that seemed to make any sense. Not that Cass loved this child more than Shaun—as if that would have been possible—but by virtue of Shaun’s being first, she spent so much time worrying about him and fussing at him that sometimes love got lost in the shuffle. She’d made lots of mistakes with Shaun, more than she liked to admit. So maybe she was being a Pollyanna, but somehow she hoped this child would give her an opportunity to make things, if not right, at least better. Even if, once again, she was doing this all on her own.
Such was obviously her lot in life, one with which she should have long since made peace. Because being on her own was good for her, made her stronger. Lord, she thought on a tight smile. The life-as-spinach philosophy. Hey—she could write a book, go on Oprah.
She lay there, feeling the little one squirming inside her, watching the pine tree outside her window shudder noiselessly in the wind—the triple-glazed windows allowed no sound. After a year, she still hadn’t adjusted to the airless silence. But Alan couldn’t stand outside noises. Or dust.
Weenie, she thought irritably, clutching the pillow. How would he have dealt with the noise and mess and dirt of a child?
Well. Moot point now, wasn’t it? Fifty years old, no spare tire, no predilection for junk food, no history of heart disease, and the man drops dead while jogging. Major coronary, gone within minutes, the paramedics assured her. He didn’t suffer, they said.
No. He wouldn’t.
Her eyes squeezed shut again as she realized she couldn’t move. Didn’t want to. Her brain felt cluttered—so many decisions to make so quickly, none of them easy. But there was one thing, if nothing else, Cass knew—fish would play strip poker before she’d ever marry again. Not for her sake, not for the child’s sake, not for anyone’s sake. Two unmitigated disasters were quite enough for one lifetime, thank you. Especially as she’d be paying, literally, for the second mistake for the rest of her life. So from now on, she was relying on nobody but herself. God knows, she wasn’t perfect, but at least she wouldn’t give herself a broken heart She didn’t think, anyway.
A tear dribbled down her cheek, tickling her nose; she irritably swiped at it, despising herself for feeling like a whiny toddler who couldn’t have a cookie before dinner. But after all, she reminded herself, cookies weren’t good for you.
Spinach, however, was.
She should write that down.
Chapter Three
Since Shaun missed his bus the next morning, Blake drove him to school. To his combined relief and annoyance, the boy wasn’t in a talkative mood, yet Blake still felt as though someone had played basketball with his brain by the time he returned to the house to find Lucille on the second-story deck, madly planting pansies in assorted pots and tubs. Still, the sight—the idea—of someone planting flowers was reassuring somehow. And at this point, he’d take whatever tidbits of reassurance he could get.
“Got enough flowers, here?” he asked the industrious little figure whizzing about like a dazed parakeet.
“I bought them before—” She cut herself off, shaking her head, then shoved her sunglasses back up onto the bridge of her nose. “If I don’t get them into the dirt, they’ll all die.”
His eyes narrowed, Blake scanned the horizon, waiting for the awkward moment to dissipate on its own, like an unpleasant aroma. “Cass still asleep?” he asked after a moment.
“Far as I know.” Speaking of unpleasant aromas, enough perfume for an entire chorus line wafted over to him on the stiff breeze. Blake casually moved upwind of her, squinting from the glare bouncing off the rhinestone trim of her electric-blue sweatshirt. She lifted her head, peering at him from the south side of a floppy-brimmed straw hat with chiffon ties securely anchored beneath a wattled chin. “You get Shaun to school okay?”
“We just made it,” he said to mirror-coated sunglasses. “If I’d known he was supposed to catch a bus, I would have hustled him out a lot sooner.”
Crimson lips spread out into an amazingly wide smile. “Wouldn’t have done you a bit of good, cutie. Kid misses the bus every single day. And every single day Cass chews him out for it.” The hat quivered as she nodded toward a white wrought-iron patio chair with a plastic floral cushion lashed to it. “So sit. Enjoy your coffee while I putz.”
So he sat, occasionally offering a comment in response to one from Lucille as he nursed a cup of Towanda’s miraculous coffee, staring toward the west at white-capped Mt. Taylor glittering against an endless sky. As warm as it had
