With This Ring (16 page)

He remembered how Sam had asked him to take care of her. "I'm trying, Sam," he whispered. "I'm trying."

It was only then, in the silence of the night, with Amy's cats the only witnesses, that Justin allowed himself to cry for the loss of the man he'd loved, too.

Lark paid the cab driver and allowed the doorman at the Marriott Marquis to help her out. "Thanks." She pushed her way through the revolving doors, walked past the security desk and around to the circular bank of elevators.

Lark always stayed at the Marquis when she came to New York. She liked its location at 45th and Broadway, in the heart of the theater district, so that most nights she had no need of a cab. Tonight, though, she'd met Terry Gruber, an old friend from flight attendant school, and they'd gone to Terry's uncle's Italian restaurant in the Village.

Feeling pleasantly full and with a slight buzz from the wine they'd drunk, Lark hummed "Someone to Watch Over Me" while the glassed-in elevator whizzed her to the sixteenth floor. She hadn't been able to get the song out of her mind since seeing "Crazy for You" the night before. She felt relaxed and contented and glad she'd decided to take a few days vacation after her last, particularly grueling, shift.

Too bad Amy hadn't been able to come with her, she thought as she exited the elevator and headed toward her room. Amy loved New York—the galleries and museums and theaters. The two friends had visited the city often in the past and always enjoyed their stay. But even if Amy hadn't been teaching and unable to take time off, she still had too many things left to do to get ready for her wedding.

Lark had mixed emotions about Amy's getting married. She was glad for Amy, but she also knew things would never be the same. They were already changing. But that was inevitable, Lark supposed.
Maybe I'll get lucky one of these days and meet the man of my dreams, too . . .

Reaching her room, she unlocked her door and walked inside. She tossed her purse on the bed and kicked off her heels, sighing with relief.

Her gaze settled on the bedside phone. The red message light was on. Idly wondering who had called, she picked up the remote and clicked on the T.V., selecting the in-house channel. There was only one message:
Call Justin Malone at Amy's apartment, no matter how late you get in.

What in the world? Justin Malone? Lark knew who he was, of course, although she'd never met him. But Amy certainly talked about him enough. Lark couldn't help smiling. Amy really liked Justin and kept hinting that maybe Lark would, too—a hint Lark had pointedly ignored. She'd had enough disastrous fixed-up dates to last her a lifetime.

Why was Justin Malone calling
her?
A dreadful feeling gnawed at her stomach. Had something happened to Amy?

She picked up the phone.

It rang only once before a low, masculine voice answered.

"Justin? This is Lark DeWitt."

She listened—disbelief, shock, then concern for Amy, flooding her in rapid succession.

When he was finished, she said, "I'll get there as soon as I can. Do you want me to call you back when I know what time I'll get in?"

"Yes."

For the next hour, as Lark made the requisite phone calls, she tried not to think about anything except the arrangements necessary to get her to Houston. But once that task was accomplished, and she'd called Justin back, she could no longer keep from thinking.

She closed her eyes and fought the tears that threatened. Crying was so useless. It was weak and self-indulgent and changed nothing. She had learned that hard fact a long time ago. Crying certainly wouldn't do Amy any good, and right now, Amy's welfare was the only thing that counted.

Oh, God, poor Amy. And she'd been so happy the past few months. Her happiness was like a golden aura, shimmering around her, touching everyone in her sphere.

This would shatter her. Completely devastate her. And as if Sam's disappearance wasn't bad enough, it had happened when both her parents and Lark were away.

Please, please, let everything be okay. Let him be found. Don't let this happen . . .

Lark shivered, although the room wasn't cold. She was terribly afraid that all the prayers on earth wouldn't be enough to put Sam and Amy back together again.

* * *

Alan's hand shook as he replaced the receiver. He stared at the closed bathroom door. Beyond, he could hear the water running. Faith was taking a shower, getting ready for their day.

He bowed his head.

There would be no sightseeing today. Instead, in a moment, as soon as he had himself under control, he would pick up the phone and make arrangements for them to go home.

But first . . . he had to break the terrible news to Faith. He refused to allow his thoughts to go beyond the immediate task. He sat on the side of the bed. He felt sick.

After a bit, the water stopped.

Five minutes later, the bathroom door opened and Faith emerged, drying her hair with a towel. She took one look at his face and said, "What's wrong?"

"Come here, darling." Alan patted the bed next to him. When she was seated beside him, he put his arm around her. "It's not good news."

Her beautiful eyes—Amy's eyes—didn't waver. "Tell me."

Afterwards, she put her arms around him, and they held each other and cried for their daughter . . . and her lost dreams.

* * *

Claire Malone couldn't sleep. She kept thinking about Sam and Justin and Sam's fiancée, Amy. Claire hadn't yet met Amy, but she'd heard all about her from Justin, who thought she was wonderful. Claire's heart ached for Amy. For all of them. They'd all lost someone they loved.

Claire's eyes filled with tears as she remembered Jessie's reaction. The poor kid had fought so hard to control herself, but she hadn't been able to. She'd collapsed, weeping, into Claire's arms. Claire held her and wished, not for the first time, that she could take a child's pain away.

"I-I loved him," Jessie sobbed.

"I know." Claire smoothed Jessie's hair. Why was life so hard? Why did good people have to get hurt?

When Jessie's tears finally abated, she wiped her eyes and in a thick voice said, "Is Justin with Sam's fiancée?"

Claire nodded.

"Do you think there's anything we can do?"

"I don't know. Justin said he'd call tomorrow."

"Let me know. I-I want to help."

The other kids had taken it hard, too, especially Katie, who had adored Sam. Tears streamed down her face. "It's not
fair
!" she cried.

"No. It's not," Claire agreed. The unfairness of life was one of the hardest lessons anyone ever had to learn. She remembered how angry she'd been after she'd gotten over the first desolation of her husband's untimely death. She'd railed at the unfairness of it all, furious with the fates that had stolen Sean away from her. In the end, though, there was nothing to do but accept . . . and go on.

All these thoughts, and more, refused to stop churning in Claire's mind. Finally, at four o'clock, she gave up trying to sleep. Rising, she tiptoed into the bathroom—she didn't want to disturb Katie—and splashed water on her face, then reached for her robe. She would go downstairs, fix a pot of coffee, and mix up a meatloaf and put it and some potatoes into the oven to roast. When that was done, she'd bake some brownies. And later this morning, she would take the meal over to Amy's apartment.

Food wouldn't take away the pain, but perhaps it would help Amy to know that people cared.

At the very least, preparing something for Amy and Justin would make Claire feel better.

* * *

At four-thirty, Justin tried to sleep on the bed he'd fixed up on Amy's couch. He had just checked on Amy, and although her breathing was shallow and uneven, she was sleeping.

He had done everything he could think of to do. Located Lark and spoken to her. Gotten the number where Amy's parents were staying in Beijing and managed to get her father on the phone. Talked with his mother and several co-workers at the magazine. Called Owen Church and let him know how Amy was doing. He'd found the cat food and put fresh food and water in the cats' bowls. He'd even managed to get Amy to take a few bites of the Lipton Chicken Soup he'd fixed. And tomorrow morning he would call Amy's school and talk to her principal and explain what had happened. Surely they would be understanding. Justin couldn't imagine Amy being in fit enough shape to go back to work for a week or so, maybe longer.

He couldn't think of anything else.

He closed his eyes. He knew he needed to sleep, at least a few hours, if he were going to be in any shape to help Amy get through tomorrow. He wondered what time Lark would get in. She'd said she thought the first flight out would be at eight in the morning. She might get to the apartment as early as twelve-thirty.

He turned on his side, trying to get comfortable. Just then, he heard a cry. Leaping up, he disposed of the distance between the couch and Amy's bedroom area in a half-dozen long strides.

As he came around the screen that served as a divider, he saw that Amy was sitting up, clutching her stomach. Her face was contorted with pain. "Justin," she gasped.

"What? What is it?"

And then he saw the blood.

His heart stopped.

"Oh, Justin, c-call 911. I . . . it's the baby . . . "

The baby!

Stunned, he grabbed for the phone at her bedside, nearly knocking it over. He punched in the emergency number. Managed to answer the dispatcher's questions. In the meantime, Amy had stuffed her pillow between her legs, obviously trying to staunch the flow of blood. Her face had drained of all color and her eyes looked enormous and were filled with fear.

"An ambulance is on its way," the dispatcher said.

Justin hung up. He reached for Amy's hand and squeezed it. "They're coming. Can you hold on by yourself for a few minutes? I have to go down and open the security gates so they can get in."

Amy managed to nod her assent.

Justin raced outside, down the steps and around to the front of her parents' house. He punched in the code, then tore back to Amy's apartment.

The nine minutes it took for the ambulance to arrive were the longest nine minutes of Justin's life. He just held Amy's hand and tried not to look at her terrified eyes and kept telling her over and over again to hold on. His mind swirled with the knowledge that she was pregnant with Sam's child. If he'd only known! And yet, what could he have done differently? They'd had to tell her about Sam. They couldn't have kept the information from her.

He looked at the clock. Seven minutes had gone by.

Where in God's name
was
that ambulance?

Finally it came and the paramedics took over. Justin watched helplessly as they ministered to Amy, then loaded her onto a stretcher and put her into the ambulance.

Christ, she was so white! And she looked so little lying there. Fear, dark and suffocating, clogged his throat. He would have given anything if her parents were there.

"You want to ride with us?" one of the paramedics said. Justin shook his head. "I'll follow you in my car."

"Okay. We'll see you there."

For the second time that day, Justin prayed, but this time he wasn't praying for strength. This time he was praying that the tiny life Amy carried inside her would survive.

* * *

Pain, like a red cloud, closed around her. No matter where Amy went, it followed her. She kept trying to get away from it, but it was relentless.

She moaned.

"It's okay, sweetie. I've got something that'll help."

Hands were lifting her torso, rolling her onto her side, swabbing her hip. Then, a sharp prick.

And finally, blessed oblivion.

* * *

Justin paced up and down the corridor. What was going on? Why didn't someone come and tell him how Amy was doing? She'd been there for nearly two hours, and he knew nothing. He glanced at his watch. Six-thirty. When he looked up again, one of the nurses was approaching him. "Mr. Malone?"

"Yes?" he said eagerly.

"Mr. Malone, is Miss Carpenter, um, is she your . . . was she carrying your baby?" said the nurse, whose name tag identified her as Marianne Zeller.

"No, no, she's just a friend. How is she? Is she all right?"

Her gray eyes were kind. "She's going to be all right, but I'm afraid your friend lost her baby."

Justin grimaced. Christ, wasn't it bad enough she'd lost Sam?

"Where's the father? Is he out of the picture?"

Justin nodded bleakly. He quickly explained the situation.

"Oh, dear," Nurse Zeller said. "How awful."

"Can I see her?"

"You can go into her room, but she's sleeping. We gave her morphine. It knocked her out, which is the best thing right now."

Justin followed the nurse down the hall and around a corner. He was relieved to see that Amy had a private room. Just as the nurse had said, Amy slept. She looked so fragile . . . and so young. Her hands lay at her sides. The left one was hooked up to an I.V. Her face had no color at all, and her hair, normally so shiny and curly and full of life, lay dull and listless.

Justin sat down next to her bed. He laid his hand gently on top of hers. In that moment, he would have given anything to be somewhere else. He did not want to be the one to tell her about the baby. And yet, what choice did he have? He certainly couldn't let one of the nurses or doctors do it.

Without warning, a violent anger seized him. Goddamn Sam! He should be here. He should never have left her. If he hadn't left her, none of this would have happened. If he hadn't left her, Justin wouldn't be sitting here now, waiting for Amy to awaken so that he could deal her another death blow.

In that moment, he hated Sam. In fact, if he'd had Sam there, he'd have cheerfully strangled him.

But Sam wasn't there.

And he'd never be there again.

* * *

Amy knew before Justin ever said a word. She saw the truth in his eyes. She'd lost the baby. The knowledge sat on her chest like a heavy block of steel, making it hard for her to breathe.