Baby On The Way (12 page)

But if Libby thought that would end the matter, she was very much mistaken. Until she left the next morning, Chris continued to badger her about Del every chance she had.

“He cares about you, Libby,” she claimed as they did dishes that night. “I’m sure of it. He worries about you all the time.”

“He bosses me around all the time,” Libby corrected, wiping a plate delicately detailed with soft pink roses. “Your brother is a take-charge kind of guy. It’s second nature for him to tell people what to do.”

Chris plopped more dishes into the soapy water. The old-fashioned sink was a deep one and water sloshed up past her elbows as she groped around the bottom. “We need a dishwasher,” Chris grumbled as she did every time she washed. She returned to the subject at hand. “It’s more than him just being bossy,” she insisted stubbornly. “He told me he wants to marry you—”

“Chris! I don’t think you should discuss this with him.”

“I didn’t discuss it with him,” Chris declared, washing a handful of silverware. “I just told him what
I thought—and not in as much detail as I wanted to since he was busy on the phone again…”

He’s always on the phone, Libby thought. He’d have to be leaving soon.

“…but he said
^you’re
the only one against marriage…”

The traitor! Libby fumed.

“And if that’s because you think he doesn’t love you, Libby, you have to be wrong. He must love you if he’s willing to take on another man’s baby,” Chris added, unconsciously echoing Dorrie Jean.

A band of pain seemed to squeeze Libby’s heart. “He doesn’t love me.” She wiped a plate, put it down and picked up another. “He’s never said he loves me.
^And,”
she added a little louder as Christine tried to interrupt, “even if he did, I still wouldn’t marry him. I want a real father for my baby—one who’s there for him all the time. I know from personal experience how hard it is to only see your dad once or twice a year.”

Chris hadn’t said any more, but Libby knew she wasn’t happy with the situation. Until she left for her plane, Chris kept sending her reproachful looks. Despite their bickering and teasing the Delaneys were close. Christine obviously couldn’t understand why anyone would pass up her brother.

It should have been easier when Christine left again. It wasn’t. Libby thought at first he might try to renew their sexual relationship. She wouldn’t let him, she decided. But when an entire week passed and he made no effort to do so, she felt oddly upset.

Brushing her teeth early one morning, she considered possible reasons for his change in attitude. Maybe he’d had second thoughts about their liaison since
Christine and Dorrie Jean had caught them. Maybe he was simply sexually sated; he didn’t need her anymore. She paused in her vigorous brushing. Or maybe he was turned off by her altered appearance.

Mouth full of foam, she studied her reflection. Like the rest of her, her face had grown rounder. For a while—before Del’s return—her cheeks had seemed to sink in a bit, giving her rather an interesting look. Now, with all the rest she’d been getting and Del’s constant monitoring of her diet, her cheeks had plumped out. Like a chipmunk, she thought. She puffed them out to heighten the effect. Yes, definitely chipmunk material.

She spit and rinsed, and studied herself again. Her hair had changed, too; it seemed much limper than before. Maybe it would look better if she put it up. That might make her cheeks look less round. She lifted her hands, gathering her hair on top of her head—and immediately dropped her arms again. The pose had accentuated her breasts and belly to an alarming degree. Slowly, she turned to the side to study her silhouette. No getting around it; she was huge. Behemoth. Ready to join the circus as a walking bowling ball. It was a miracle her legs could even support her. Her figure had to be the reason Del had lost interest.

She plucked at her jumper in dissatisfaction. These maternity clothes didn’t help, either. She was heartily sick of wearing a tent every day, but she could no longer tolerate even stretch pants. The elastic chafed her stomach. She’d tried pushing the band beneath her stomach, but then had to worry about them sliding off completely. Maybe Del, accustomed to his styleconscious
conscious sister, was simply tired of looking at such a fashion failure like herself.

She went down the stairs, unconsciously looking for him, only to discover he was holed up in the library again. She frowned. Maybe the problem was simply he was too busy, too anxious to get back to his work, to think about her. She pressed her ear against the paneled door.
Solar listening post, communication upload burst, infrared tracking
and other technical phrases filtered through the wood. Libby hurried away into the den, feeling absurdly guilty. It wasn’t as if she were a spy or anything, but how would she explain her actions if he suddenly came out?

Was
he ever coming out?

She sat down in her favorite wingback chair with a sigh. It wasn’t as if she missed him or anything; she had plenty to do. After all, the baby would be arriving in less than a month now. Desultorily, she picked up her knitting from the basket. She’d simply gotten used to spending a lot of time with him. Knit, purl. Not only that, but he
had
promised to help her get that bassinet down from the loft in the garage. Knit, purl. Knit, purl. No doubt he’d forgotten.
He
had more important things to worry about.

She sniffed. Not like
her.
Knit, purl, sniff. All
she
was good for was having babies and knitting booties—and she wasn’t very expert at either of those things. Her ankles were swollen; she couldn’t get comfortable. Her back had been killing her since late last night. But did he care? Oh, no. Knit, knit, sniff, sniff. You’d think the least he could do would be to get off the phone. Would it kill him to pay her a little attention? He’d certainly been eager enough to when she’d
first met him, when he’d wanted sex. Now that she’d grown swollen and ugly, he couldn’t be bothered. The yarn blurred. A wave of self-pity caused tears to burn in her eyes. She wallowed in the emotion, knitting blindly along until the bootie was a hopeless tangle of knots. That made her cry even harder.

By the time Del found her half an hour later, she was sitting in her chair, her eyes and nose red from crying over the mess of yarn in her lap.

He paused in the doorway a moment, silently assessing the situation. He’d noticed over the past week that her moods were becoming increasingly erratic—just like the pregnancy books had warned. He would have to proceed cautiously. “Is something wrong, Libby? Commercials getting to you again?” He cast a knowledgeable glance at the television. “Nope, TV’s off. Which means you must have forgotten to eat breakfast. You know that always makes you irritable.”

Libby stiffened in righteous indignation at the callous remark. Okay, maybe she had cried over a commercial once or twice—the one with puppies was a real tearjerker—and no, she hadn’t eaten. But how dare he accuse her of being irritable when she’d sat here with almost saintly patience, waiting for him to get down that bassinet?

She told him all this in no uncertain terms as he pulled her to the kitchen.

“I know, you’re right—I have the sensitivity of a rock,” he agreed absently, peering into the refrigerator. “We’ll get the bassinet after you eat something. Ah, ha! Here’s the milk.”

“I don’t want any,” she declared, turning up her nose.

“Have some while I make your sandwich,” Del ordered.

He waited a moment to see if she wanted to argue further, but she must have recognized he meant business. She followed him to the table, watching with a disgruntled look while he poured a tall, cold glass.

He put it into her hand. She took a sip, then another, pausing to give him a speculative look. “All of it,” he said firmly.

She wrinkled her nose and tilted the glass, downing the rest in three long gulps. Gasping slightly, she slammed the glass down and glowered at him. “Are you satisfied now?”

Del met her angry gaze. She had a faint milk mustache above her pink lips and her brown eyes were snapping. No, he wasn’t satisfied. He hadn’t been completely satisfied since that night eight months ago.

He’d been disappointed by her refusal to admit the truth to Christine and Dorrie Jean, but her stubbornness only made him more determined than ever. He’d left her alone this past week, hoping that she would miss him, would give some sign that she needed him, too. But every day she seemed to be drifting farther away. He was tired of waiting…and he was running out of time. In three short days he was due back in Seoul.

He caught her in his arms. Her brown eyes widened. She opened her mouth to protest, but his lips covered hers, stifling the sound in her throat. She tasted sweet—like milk and Libby. His tongue explored her mouth with thorough domination.

Then he let her go.

Swaying a little, she blinked dazedly up at him, her
lips still moistly parted, her hands still clinging to his shoulders. Del glared down at her. Did she think she could find this with anyone else? Did she think that he would let her?

He pulled her close again, murmuring in her ear, “Let’s go to bed, Libby. You need a nap.”

It was exactly what Libby had needed to hear—an hour ago. Now the words filled her with rage. Did he think he could ignore her for a week and then just sweep her off to bed? She pushed away from him. “A nap, huh? Give me a break. Is that all I am? A convenience for you?”

Del’s anger, tightly controlled for the past week, suddenly surged to meet hers. “If you think there’s anything convenient about this arrangement, then think again. I’m staying here to help you out, and all you can do is snap at me.”

Libby wanted to cry—but darned if she’d give him the satisfaction. “Nobody asked you to stay. In fact, why don’t you just go right now.”

“Maybe I will.”

“Fine.”

“Fine!” He stalked back into the den.

Head held high, Libby marched out the back door. The arrogant swine! Acting as if she was the one who’d asked him to stay, when really it had been all his idea.

She didn’t need him. She didn’t need any man. Not for anything. She jerked on her padded coat and headed to the garage, her fists clenched at her sides. If that was his attitude, she’d darn well get that bassinet down by herself.

The wooden garage door was old and heavy. Libby
heaved it up with one mighty tug. The ache in her back lanced around to her side but she ignored the pain, scanning the neatly arranged garage.

There it was. She could just see the bassinet up in the loft, resting under a stack of boxes. The loft itself wasn’t too high. Only about three feet higher than the hood of the truck parked neatly beneath it.

She couldn’t find a ladder, but she refused to give up. She should be able to get up there no problem at all, she decided. She’d simply climb on the truck hood, get the bassinet and climb back down again. Nothing to it.

She put her foot up on the front fender. It was hard—much harder than she’d expected—to hoist herself up. She bounced up and down, trying to get some leverage, with no results.

She frowned. Maybe she should try tackling the problem from another direction. She turned around and backed toward the vehicle. After just three tries, she ended up sitting triumphantly on the hood.

Now to stand. She tried—and slipped. She fell back, her coat padding her fall. More surprised than hurt, Libby lay there a moment, her legs dangling over the front fender. It wasn’t until she tried to sit up again that she discovered the full extent of her problem. She couldn’t get up. Like a turtle flipped on its shell, the weight of her belly and the padded coat kept her pinned in place. She tried rolling to one side, then the other. She tried sliding forward. Finally, she resorted to wiggling and flapping, trying to inch her way down.

She was still flapping when Del found her. “Libby! Oh, my God, are you hurt?”

Embarrassment, not pain, kept her from answering
for a moment. She took a deep breath. “No,” she admitted gruffly. “I’m stuck.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t break your neck. You
^knew
I’d get that down for you.” His tone was harsh, but the arms scooping her up were gentle. He lifted her against his chest and Libby’s arm automatically encircled his strong neck. She peeked at his face and much of her embarrassment faded. He sounded angry, but his expression was positively stricken. White lines edged his mouth and his eyes were dark with worry.

He must care a little bit, Libby thought. All at once,

the thought of him leaving, of not being there for the birth of the baby, seemed too much to bear.

Her arm tightened, and he stared intently down into her face. “You’re so pale. Are you sure you’re not hurt? I think you should go to the doctor’s.”

“Of course I don’t need to see a doctor,” Libby said, slightly mollified by his concern. “I just slid

down—I didn’t fall. I’m perfectly—uh-oh!” Her eyes widened.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Del demanded.

But by then he knew.

“My water broke,” Libby said in a small voice.

“I
hate you!”

“I know.”

“I really,
really
hate you!”

Del’s mouth quirked wryly. “Right now I’m not liking myself too much, either.”

Libby probably would have responded, but the pain that held her in its grasp peaked at that moment. Her face contorted in agony. The fetal monitor strapped around her belly uttered encouraging quick beeps that finally slowed to a steady hiccup as the cramping gradually subsided again, and the once fairly rational woman Del had brought into the hospital reverted to the virago she’d become after eighteen hours of labor.

“I don’t like anything about you. Your shoulders are too broad, you’re too tall—and your hair. I hate the way it always falls right into place. It’s so.thick,” she said in a disgusted voice.

Del ran his hand through his offending hair. “Sorry about that.”

Blocked on that point, Libby glared at him fumingly. The pain was coming again. She could feel it gathering low in her belly. “I don’t like your nose, either,” she panted. “It’s not straight.”

“It
is
a bit crooked.”

The cramp kept tightening. “Come here,” Libby gasped. “I’ll straighten it out for you.”

Del prudently remained out of reach. “I don’t think so. Here. Hold my hand.”

Libby grabbed his hand, squeezing as the pain peaked again. She rode the wave, her fingers clenched around his. When she was done, she stared up at him, her eyes dark and exhausted. “Del, I don’t think I can do this much longer.”

He didn’t see how she could, either. Everyone—the doctor, the labor nurses coming on and off shift—kept assuring them Libby was progressing nicely, in fact, quite rapidly for a “primip” or first-timer. Del hated to imagine how long the process must take for those not progressing quite so “nicely.”

Somehow he hadn’t expected it to last so long-or hurt Libby quite so much. The film they’d seen had only been half an hour, after all. A little grunting, a little sweating and the baby had slipped out. He’d expected Libby to do the same.

At first, it seemed as if that might happen. Libby had been very calm during her early contractions, much calmer than he’d felt. His stomach had felt as if it had jumped into his throat when her water burst in the garage, and he’d kept swallowing, trying to force it back down.

He’d wanted to rush her to the hospital; she’d insisted they wait. She’d taken the time to collect her overnight bag, pillow and a carefully selected set of tiny clothes for the baby. She’d even taken a shower. He’d wondered if she’d even need him, she’d been so self-possessed.

Now he was in no doubt: Libby needed him all right. If he wasn’t there, who would she vent her spleen on?

“Del…”

He looked at her. Her brown eyes were suddenly vulnerable. “They’re sure my slip didn’t hurt the baby?”

“Positive.”

“How do they know?”

Patiently he repeated what he’d already told her several times already—information the doctor and nurses had told her, too. “Because the monitor and every other indication shows that the baby is fine. They think you were probably in the first stage of labor for a couple of hours before it even happened.” He frowned. “Although I still don’t understand why you didn’t tell me your back was hurting.”

“I didn’t think it meant anything,” she said, responding to the faintly scolding note in his voice. “My back hurts a lot lately.”

She fell silent as the labor nurse, a plump, grayhaired woman, briskly entered the room. “We’re coming along,” the nurse said, checking the tape the monitor steadily disgorged. She studied the series of zigzagging lines and then glanced at Del, “I can stay for a while if you want to take a short break.”

Libby clutched his hand tighter. “Don’t go,” she said, ignoring the nurse’s frown.

Del patted her hand, a feeling of warmth settling in his chest. She did want him there. “I won’t,” he promised.

With a disapproving cluck the nurse left. Libby
waited until the door shut behind her before confiding to Del, “She doesn’t like me.”

He glanced at her in surprise. “Sure she does. She seems nice.”

“To
you,”
Libby said. “She thinks I’m a wimp.”

“Nah. I’m sure she doesn’t.”

Libby knew better. No wonder birthing women wanted someone to be with them during the process. They knew instinctively that labor nurses had seen the process too many times to provide much sympathy.

Another wave gathered. She gritted her teeth. Del squeezed her hand to get her attention. “Relax,” he ordered. “Work with the pain-don’t tense up against it.”

He coached her along and Libby heaved a sigh of relief when the contraction released her again. She’d once thought she wouldn’t want Del around to see her grunt, sweat and strain. During the past few hours she’d discovered intense pain won out over vanity any day. She didn’t know what she’d do without the sound of his calm, patient orders. She’d been probed, pricked, cleaned up and cleaned out. She was anchored to the delivery bed by the fetal monitor strapped around her stomach and the IV attached to her wrist. And she was tired of it all.

She started to sit up.

“What is it?” Del asked sharply, his arm sliding around her shoulders to steady her. “Do you want to push?”

“No, I want to go home.” Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Libby wondered. If she could just get out of this white, sterile prison everything would be fine. She tried to swing her legs over the side of the bed.
Del’s arm tightened. “Stop it, Libby. You aren’t going anywhere.”

She wanted to argue-she wanted to cry. The pain was rising again-stronger this time.

“Breathe slowly,” Del demanded. “No-don’t shut your eyes and grimace. Look at me.”

His will was stronger than hers. She looked into his blue eyes as the pain crested, then flowed away.

When the monitor slowed its excited beeping, he dropped a kiss on her forehead. “Good job. You’re doing great, sweetheart. Honestly.”

The nurse bustled back in, checking the monitor and Libby. Despite her no-nonsense attitude, she was very gentle as she checked how many centimeters Libby had dilated. “Shouldn’t be long now,” she said, lowering the sheet and giving Libby’s knee an encouraging pat before she left again.

Libby didn’t believe her. Nurses had been telling her the same thing since she came in yesterday afternoon. “Oh, no, not again,” she whimpered, feeling the gathering tension beneath her belly. “Del, I just can’t take anymore.”

But Del was relentless. She didn’t want to breathe, she didn’t want to concentrate, but he made her, cupping her face between his hands and holding her gaze. More people were in the room now, she noticed vaguely between the ever-quickening contractions. Her doctor-who’d made herself pretty scarce after the initial check on Libby’s condition-and another doctor, who Del told her was a neonatologist, specializing in newborns.

But it didn’t seem important who was there, a
marching band could have passed through for all the attention Libby paid to anyone. Her whole focus was on Del and the pains that kept intensifying until suddenly they weren’t pains at all but a rippling motion that seized her body.

“She’s ready,” the nurse announced. “We’re going to start pushing now, Libby.”

Excitement built in the room. Libby could see the anticipation in the doctors’ and nurses’ intent faces. New energy surged through Libby. She strained and sweated, concentrating only on Del’s low coaxing tones, his intent face. “Good girl,” he said, helping to support her. “You can do it, Libby. It’s coming. It’s coming! Oh, Libby!”

Wonder suddenly crossed his face.

“The head’s out,” the doctor announced. “Pant through the next contraction, Libby, and then one more big push ought to do it.”

She panted through the next contraction, resisting her body’s urgings, then bore down, straining with all her might. Her insides seemed to drop as the baby whooshed out.

“It’s a girl!”

“My God, she’s a miracle.” Moisture gleamed in Del’s eyes and his arm tightened around Libby’s shoulders. “Look, Libby. We made a real, little person.”

Weariness forgotten, Libby reached eagerly for her baby. But the neonatologist and a nurse had taken her away to a draped table across the room. They were working intently over the small, purplish body.

Fear gripped Libby. “What’s wrong?” The baby
hadn’t cried, she realized suddenly. “Del! Please go see what’s happening!”

But he was already instinctively moving in that direction, his face tense.

The labor nurse stepped up to Libby’s side. She took Libby’s hand in a comforting grip.

Oh, please let my baby be all right,
Libby prayed silently.
Please cry, darling!

Come on little one, you can do it,
Del urged silently. The baby looked so still and lifeless in the doctor’s hands.

Suddenly the small body arched. Tiny lungs filled and a quivering wail pierced the air.

Joyous tears filled Libby’s eyes. The nurse patted her hand. “There. See, she’s just fine. They’re cleaning her up and handing her to your husband right now to bring to you.”

Del took the blanketed bundle in his arms.and fell in love. He could actually feel his heart melting at the sight of those pansy eyes, button nose and pink dab of a mouth. Her skin had pinkened and the dark tuft of hair on her head stood straight up. Her fingers were so tiny. And her toes! He hesitantly touched a small foot. Had any baby anywhere ever had such exquisitely formed feet? She looked like a doll, and yet she felt so alive in his arms as she stretched her little arms and tried to kick her legs.

He walked back to Libby as carefully as if he were carrying a load of dynamite that could go off at any minute, his eyes fixed on the baby’s face. Her mouth opened, revealing a miniature tongue. So sweet, so
alive—yet so alarming was the cry she gave that he handed her to Libby in anxious relief.

For a moment, Libby couldn’t see her daughter clearly. Tears still blinded her. She blinked the wetness away, half laughing with delight at the feel of the warm little body in her arms. Slowly, the small face came into focus. The baby-her very own baby-had her daddy’s dark hair, his blue eyes. Surely there was some resemblance to herself in that puckered pink mouth? And that nose-where had she gotten such a tiny, adorable button of a nose?

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Del asked, leaning closer to nudge a small fist with his finger. “Her head’s a little pointy-but we can always put a hat on her.”

“Her head’s not pointy!” Libby protested.

“She’s a bit scrawny, too.”

“She’s
petite!”

“She’s perfect,” said the labor nurse, giving Del a reproving look. “A lot of newborns’ heads look like that for a day or so after they’re born.” She smiled down at Libby. “She’s wonderful. You did a great job.”

Libby smiled back. “Thanks.”

With a final pat on Libby’s shoulder, the woman walked toward the door. When she opened it, a wail could be heard from down the hall.

“You stupid, selfish jerk! If you ever so much as

look at me again, I’m going to—”

The door slammed shut.

“Looks like another mother-to-be just came in,” Del noted.

Libby pursed her lips in disapproval. “There’s no
need for all that screaming. You’d think the woman would try to control herself.”

He grinned. “Yeah. You’d think so.”

He watched Libby fuss with the blanket and cuddle the baby close. She checked fingers and toes, and the ID bracelet on the baby’s wrist that was a small duplicate of her own. She kissed a tiny plump cheek and the baby turned, seeking blindly with her mouth.

Del stared at the two of them. They were so involved in each other. Some of his joy faded. He felt like an interloper.but he couldn’t tear himself away. “What are you going to name her, Libby?”

“I’m not sure…”

“What about Nikki?” he asked almost diffidently. “After your Dad.”

Something in his voice caught Libby’s attention. She glanced up. He looked tired, almost as tired as she felt, but for once his thoughts weren’t hidden. His lean face was soft with yearning tenderness as he stared down at the baby in her arms.

Libby’s heart, full to bursting already, ached a little more as she nestled the soft bundle closer. Nikki. Yes, she looked like a Nikki.

Del added, “And maybe Elizabeth for a middle name? After you and your mom?”

“I think that’s a wonderful idea,” she choked out. Wanting to touch him, she reached up and put her hand on his arm.

Immediately, Del sank down beside her on the bed, a smile curving his mouth. He put his arm around her shoulders, and rested his chin on her hair as he gazed down at his daughter.

Libby leaned back against his strong chest, savoring the sense of completeness she felt whenever he was near. She had him at her side, her baby in her arms. The happiness rushing through her was almost unbearable.

She looked up into the understanding blue eyes above her. “Oh, Del,” she choked out. “You’ll never know how
much
I wanted a girl!”