T he next few weeks were full of adjustments. Adjusting to marriage, adjusting to each other and, for Brittany, adjusting to all the changes in her body. The past was pushed into the background by the necessity of figuring out the present.
Brittany still wore the locket Dan had given her, but she no longer thought about him every minute of the day. There was so much to deal with in her life right now that she didn’t have time to think about her loss. When she did think about it, she found the pain growing less acute.
Michael did everything he could to make her life comfortable. He bought her a car, used but reliable, so that she wouldn’t have to rely on him for transportation. When she protested that he was spending too much money on her, he shrugged. But the car stayed in the driveway, and the keys stayed on the hall table.
When he opened a bank account for her, she argued vociferously.
“I don’t need your money, Michael. I still have some left of what my parents gave me.”
Michael glanced up from the stack of papers he’d been making notations on. “It can’t be all that much. You’ll need more.”
“You’ve given me so much already,” she protested. “I don’t need the money.”
“Use it to buy things for the baby, then. Aren’t babies supposed to need all kinds of terribly expensive things?” he suggested vaguely, his attention drifting back to the paperwork at his elbow.
Brittany opened her mouth to continue the argument and then shut it again, fuming silently. In the month since their marriage, she’d learned that arguing with Michael was one of life’s more frustrating exercises. He never got angry. He simply stated his viewpoint and then dropped the subject, as if leaving the decision up to her. There was no pressure, no demands. So why did she have the feeling that she was going to end up doing exactly what he thought she should do?
He shut the folder he’d been studying, then he pushed his chair back from the table, reaching for his plate.
“I’ll get that,” Brittany said.
“It’s no bother,” he said, intercepting her. “I’ve got to go check a couple of sites, and I’ve got some paperwork that will probably keep me in the office most of the afternoon. Is there anything I can get you while I’m in town?”
“No, thank you. I have everything I need.” Brittany trailed after him into the kitchen, vowing to break every plate in the house if he tried to wash the dishes before he left. To avoid the necessity for violence, she all but snatched the plate from his hand, standing in front of the sink like a soldier guarding a nuclear power plant.
“I’ll take care of the dishes,” she said firmly.
Michael’s brows rose as if he thought her attitude a little odd. “Okay. I guess I’ll get started, then. If there’s anything you need—”
“I know. I can call the office and they’ll get hold of you. I’m pregnant, Michael, not dying.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like I thought you couldn’t take care of yourself.” He hesitated a moment and then gave her a half smile. “I’ll see you later. Take it easy.”
Brittany still hadn’t moved when she heard the door shut behind him. Her shoulders slumped as she wandered back into the dining room. The checkbook still lay in the middle of the table.
Why did she argue with him? It was true that the baby was going to need a lot of things and she was going to have to buy some clothes for herself. She was down to one pair of pants she could get into, and those wouldn’t even zip all the way up. The few hundred dollars she had left in her own account wasn’t going to go very far.
It was just that when she’d married him, she hadn’t expected to become an instant parasite, which was what she felt like. The problem with Michael Sinclair was that he was so damned self-sufficient. He didn’t need anyone or anything.
He didn’t need her to cook or to take care of the house. He was capable of doing those things himself. He didn’t seem to expect anything of her. He treated her like a cross between a porcelain doll and an old school chum. Friendly, casual and very careful. In a fit of annoyance, Brittany picked up the checkbook, then threw it against the wall, feeling a twinge of satisfaction when it bounced onto the floor. If she’d thought about it at all, she would have assumed that there’d be something she could do so that she felt like more of a partner in this arrangement.
Only Michael didn’t need her to do anything. She sighed, her anger replaced with a vague depression. Touching the slight rounding of her belly, she bent down and picked up the checkbook. Rather than spend another day staring at the television, she might as well go and get some clothes that fit.
She was really an ungrateful wretch, she thought remorsefully. He had put his entire life on hold for her, and she resented the fact that he didn’t seem to need her help. He provided her with a nice home, a car, money. He was polite and never acted as if he expected gratitude from her, and she snapped and snarled at him.
“It’s just that he’s so polite,” she mumbled, picking up the rest of the dishes and carrying them into the kitchen. “Doesn’t he ever get angry?”
His calm control was so different from Dan’s volatility that it was hard to remember that the two of them had been friends. Didn’t he sometimes resent her presence? Didn’t he sometimes regret what he’d done?
She rinsed the dishes and set them in the dishwasher, her expression thoughtful. Maybe he was trying to avoid making her feel as if she owed him something. Maybe he was trying to make it clear to her that his help came without strings. And here she was bitching and moaning as if he were making her life a misery.
Guilt clutched at her. She’d have to make it up to him. Tonight, she’d cook him a special dinner.
***
Michael rolled his head against the ache that had settled in the back of his neck. Too many hours spent over a drafting board, too many arguments with contractors who thought they understood the design better than the architect, and too many nights spent lying awake, thinking about Brittany sleeping just down the hall.
He shut the door of the Mustang behind him with a little more force than necessary. It was dark already, and the evening air was chill with a promise of winter to come. The holiday season was just around the corner, and he couldn’t remember a year when he’d felt less like celebrating.
He hunched his shoulders inside the sheepskin-lined denim jacket, staring at the lights that spilled from the windows of the house. His house. His home. His wife. Only he couldn’t really think of her that way. She was only sort of his wife.
So why was it that he was beginning to feel a definite possessiveness about her? Why was it so hard to remember that she’d only married him because she was carrying his best friend’s child?
Mumbling irritably under his breath, he stalked across the lawn to the door. His key was only halfway to the lock when the door was opened from inside. Light and warmth poured out in a welcoming flood. Brittany stood just inside the door, wearing a loose dress in a color he couldn’t quite describe, something between gold and green with overtones of both.
“Hi,” she said. He blinked in the brilliance of her smile.
“Hi.” Still he hesitated on the doorstep, feeling oddly wary.
“Are you going to come in, or are you going to eat your dinner on the porch?” Her question was light and teasing.
“Sorry.” He stepped into the hallway, shrugging out of his jacket. Brittany took it from him before he had a chance to turn toward the coat closet. “Dinner?”
“Don’t tell me you’re not hungry,” she said brightly, shutting the closet door before turning to look at him. “I spent the past two hours in the kitchen.”
“I told you I didn’t want—”
“I know, I know. You didn’t want me to feel like had to cook for you. But I wanted to do this. I thought we could celebrate tonight.”
“ ‘Celebrate’? Celebrate what?” He followed her into the dining room, feeling his wariness grow. They’d achieved a sort of balance the past few weeks. They didn’t get too close, didn’t rock the boat. He had a feeling that whatever Brittany had planned was going to rock the boat with a vengeance, and he wasn’t sure he liked the idea.
“Oh, I don’t know. We can celebrate my new wardrobe.” She turned from the table, holding out a glass of wine, sweeping her other hand over her dress at the same time. “I have now officially joined the ranks of pregnant people. I bought maternity clothes today.”
“You look very nice,” he said slowly. She looked more than nice. She looked beautiful. He took a sip of wine, wishing he didn’t have to notice just how beautiful she was.
“Or we could celebrate the fact that fall is almost over,” she offered, reaching for her own wineglass.
“I didn’t think the end of fall was something that people celebrated. Are you supposed to be drinking?”
A flash of irritation showed through the determined good cheer. “Apple juice.” She held the glass up to the light so that the golden color was obvious. “I’m taking good care of myself,” she said brightly.
“Good.” Michael sipped the wine without tasting it. There was something in her mood that made him uneasy. It was as if she were trying too hard to be bright and cheerful.
“How was your day?”
“It was fine.” The look she flashed him told him he was hardly carrying his end of the conversation, and he forced a smile, trying to relax. “How was your day?”
“It was great.” If she’d smiled any wider, her cheeks would surely have split. “Not only did I buy some clothes better suited to my newly acquired size, I also went to the supermarket and got some groceries.”
“You didn’t have to do that. I told you I could handle the shopping. I don’t want you carrying a lot of heavy bags.”
Her smile seemed a little rigid, but it stayed in place. “I made sure none of them were too heavy.”
“Good.” He stared at his glass. He seemed to be saying “good” an awful lot tonight. It was obvious Brittany was trying to accomplish something with all this good cheer, but he wasn’t quite sure what it was, and any disturbance in the status quo made him uneasy.
“I hope you like beef Wellington. I’ve always wanted to try making it. I thought if we were going to celebrate tonight, we ought to have something special. It should be done in a little while. Why don’t we go into the living room until then?”
“Sure.” He had the feeling he was failing some sort of test. If he had some idea what it was Brittany wanted, he might have been able to figure out his role. But the least he could do was try to drum up a little enthusiasm.
“Beef Wellington sounds terrific,” he said too heartily.
He sat on the sofa while Brittany sat in the chair across from him. He looked at her and she looked at him. It occurred to him that someone should say something, preferably her. But she seemed to have run out of cheerful remarks, and he couldn’t seem to think of anything intelligent to offer. The silence stretched. Seeking inspiration, his gaze fell on the fireplace.
“Why don’t I light a fire?” He didn’t wait for a response. At this point, any action he took had to be better than sitting there like a wax dummy.
Unfortunately, lighting a fire only took a few moments. Once the flames started licking at the kindling, there was really no excuse to continue kneeling on the hearth, unless he wanted to take up fire worship.
Returning to the sofa, he reached for his wineglass and took a healthy swallow before looking at Brittany again. As she stared at the tiny flames, he had the awful impression that she was fighting the urge to cry.
“The weather sure is cooling off,” he said loudly. “I guess winter will be here before too long.”
Great. You sound like the weatherman. Couldn’t you think of something intelligent to say? Like the fact that she’s never looked more beautiful? Or is her hair as soft as it looks?
“ It is getting cold, isn’t it?” She didn’t take her eyes off the fire. “It’s hard to believe how quickly time passes.”
Michael swirled the wine in his glass, watching the lights in the cabernet. She was thinking about Dan. The name hovered unspoken between them. Did she think about him often, wonder how her life might have been if he hadn’t died?
Of course she thinks about him, you idiot. She was in love with him—she’s carrying his child.
The thought was unpalatable, and he tossed down most of the wine without tasting it.
“Dinner smells terrific.” His tone was too forceful, almost challenging her to disagree, but it snapped her out of the melancholy he sensed creeping over her.
“I’d better go check it,” she said.
He followed her into the kitchen a couple of minutes later, for the first time really noticing the beautifully set table in the dining room. She really had gone to a lot of trouble in an attempt to make this a special evening. He’d started off on the wrong foot, but he would do the best he could to try to recapture the mood she’d been trying to set.
That didn’t seem likely, however, considering what awaited him in the kitchen. When he walked in, Brittany was staring at the stove, her shoulders slumped, her whole posture indicative of defeat. Sitting in a roasting pan on top of the stove was dinner.
Michael had eaten beef Wellington once or twice, and he was sure it wasn’t supposed to look quite the way this one looked. The crust was not the golden brown he recalled. Rather, it was quite dark. Some people might have called it burned, but he wasn’t quite so tactless.
“It looks ... done.”
“It’s burned.
“Not really. It’s just a little...darker than usual. It looks great.”
“Do you really think so?” Once she brightened a little, Michael was determined to eat every centimeter of blackened crust.
“I think it looks wonderful. Why don’t I carve it while you serve whatever else it is you’ve made.”
He lifted the roast onto a cutting board and got out the butcher knife, feeling his spirits lift. There was something very domestic about the scene. Here he was about to carve the roast, and Brittany was putting broccoli into a bowl. It was right out of a Norman Rockwell.
He sliced the end off the roast and the good cheer faded. The meat inside the blackened wrapper was raw. Not rare but raw.
“How does it look?”
He quickly scooped the end slice back into place, holding it there with the knife as Brittany came over to inspect it.
“It’s ... well ...” He groped for something to say. This dinner seemed very important to her. He didn’t want to be the one to tell her that it looked as if it needed another hour or so in the oven. “Actually, it may need just a minute or two more in the oven,” he said carefully.
“It’s not done? Let me see.”
Reluctantly, Michael lowered the knife, letting the end slice fall to the cutting board. Brittany stared at the meat in dead silence.
“It’s raw.”
“Well, not raw, exactly. Just a little too rare.”
“It’s raw. The crust is burned and the meat is raw.” She set the bowl of broccoli on the counter with a crack. “All I wanted to do was cook a decent meal.”
“It would only take a little more time in the oven, and I’m sure it would be fine.”
“Don’t patronize me, Michael.”
“I’m not patronizing you. If we just put the roast back in the oven and cook it awhile longer, it will be fine.”
“Right. We cook it until the crust actually turns to charcoal instead of just coming close.”
“So, we peel the crust off.”
“I don’t want to peel the damned crust off,” she snapped furiously. “All I wanted was to cook a simple meal, sit down and enjoy it.”
“Beef Wellington is hardly a simple meal.” He’d intended to offer consolation, but it wasn’t taken that way.
“Right! I should have tackled a nice simple frozen lasagna. Is that what you’re trying to say?”
“No. I just meant—”
“I don’t care what you meant. I know you think I’m a helpless idiot:” She shoved past him, snatching up the roast and throwing it into the sink, jabbing it with a fork in a vain attempt to make the entire piece of meat disappear down the garbage disposal.
Michael looked on in confusion. He’d obviously done something to upset her but, for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what. Maybe this was one of those mood swings pregnant women were supposed to experience. He watched her furious attack on the roast for a moment before venturing a comment.
“I don’t think that will go down the disposal that way.”
Brittany spun away from the sink, the fork held like a weapon in her hand. “I’m perfectly capable of running a garbage disposal.”
“Okay. Sorry.” He lifted his hands, palm out. His acquiescence only seemed to make her madder.
“Don’t you ever get mad?” She didn’t give him a chance to answer, turning back to continue her attack on the roast. “Why should you bother to get mad at me? You probably don’t think I’m worth it.”
“You’re not making any sense, Brittany.”
“Of course I’m not. Poor, stupid Brittany. She can’t manage anything on her own.”
“Would you stop this?”
If she hadn’t been so engrossed in her own emotional turmoil, she might have heard the edge in Michael’s voice. But all the frustration and helplessness of the past few months had finally come to a boil. There was no stopping the torrent now that she’d started.
“You think I can’t manage anything. After all, I was stupid enough to get pregnant. You can hardly blame me for Dan’s death, but I undoubtedly didn’t manage things too well after that, did I? I bet you pat yourself on the back every night for coming to my rescue. You’re so damned noble. So bloody self-sufficient.” She jabbed furiously at the uncooperative roast, oblivious to the taut silence behind her.
“Well, maybe I’m not as good at taking care of myself as you are. But I’m damned if I’ll stay here, damned if I’ll let you make me feel like a helpless child. You can take your charity and stuff it—Oh!”
She broke off on a gasp as Michael’s hand closed over her upper arm, spinning her away from the sink. At first glance he looked no different than he usually did ... until she saw his eyes. Anger darkened them to almost black, and the hand that held her arm was not hurtful, but it was far from gentle.
“I think you’ve said just about enough,” he suggested. The quiet tone restored the voice that surprise had stolen from her.
“Let go of me.”
“Shut up.” He used his grip on her arm to pull her closer. “You’ve been babbling on for the past five minutes, making very little sense.”
“It all makes perfect sense,” she muttered mutinously.
“Do you really think that I pat myself on the back for helping you? That I think you’re helpless?”
“Well, you act that way.”
“How do I act that way? Explain to me what I’m doing to give you the notion that I think so little of you.”
“You treat me like I can’t reason for myself. You’re always telling me to take care of myself, questioning whether or not I should be drinking wine or vacuuming the floor or dressing myself.”
“Did it occur to you that I might be concerned?”
“Of course you’re concerned. After you’ve made all these noble sacrifices for me, I’m sure you’re concerned.”
He drew her even closer, leaning down until only inches separated their faces, his eyes blazing directly into hers. “If you say one more word about my ‘noble sacrifice,’ I swear I’m not going to be responsible for my actions.”
He paused but Brittany had run out of words. She’d wondered if he had a temper, although now that she was seeing it up close, she decided that she’d rather not push him any further. Not that she thought he’d do her any physical injury. Still, he looked more than a little intimidating.
“I didn’t make any noble sacrifices when I married you. I married you because I wanted to. I wanted to help you, and I felt like I owed it to Dan.”
“You thought I was a helpless nitwit,” she muttered to his shirtfront.
“No, I didn’t. Even though you’d gone through some rough times, I thought you’d come out pretty damned good. Just because you need a little help doesn’t mean you’re a nitwit.”
“Then why do you act like you think I’m helpless?” She lifted her eyes to his, her anger gone but not the hurt she felt. “You’re all the time telling me not to lift things or move anything. I feel like I can hardly breathe.”
“I just don’t want you to hurt yourself.” His fingers dropped from her arm.
“You make me feel like I’m too stupid to take care of myself, like if you’re not there to watch over me every minute, I’m going to do something dumb.”
“I don’t mean to do that.” Michael looked away, thrusting his fingers through his hair.
“Then why do you? Do you think I’m helpless?”
“No, of course not,” he said impatiently.
“Then why?”
The silence stretched out until Brittany wondered if he was going to answer. When he spoke at last, his voice was husky. “About a month before Dan before Dan was killed, my mother had a miscarriage.”
“Oh.” Brittany’s breath caught. “I didn’t know.”
“They really wanted that baby. It hurt her terribly. Dad finally took her on a cruise to try and get her mind off it. She took good care of herself, but she lost the baby anyway.” He shrugged. “I guess if I’m a little overprotective of you, maybe that’s why.”
“Oh, Michael.” Brittany wondered if it were possible to simply slither into a corner somewhere and melt away. She’d been so sure that his attitude was all about her. It hadn’t even occurred to her that it might have a basis in something totally unrelated. All these weeks she’d been so angry and frustrated.
“It must have been very difficult for your mother.”
“It was rough.”
“I’m sorry I acted like a shrew.”
“I’m sorry if I was smothering you.”
Silence settled awkwardly between them. The kitchen seemed suddenly much too quiet. Brittany laughed uneasily. “I guess we just had our first fight.”
“I guess we did.”
“I guess maybe we’re really married now.” Michael half smiled, his eyes shadowed. “More or less. Do I really make you feel stupid?”
Brittany shrugged. “Not really. You just seem so self-sufficient. I guess I feel a little useless around here.”
“I didn’t marry you so you could be useful.”
“I know, but I’d feel better if there was something I could do.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But something. I can’t just sit around for the next five months twiddling my thumbs.”
“Aren’t there things you need to do to prepare for the baby?” he questioned with some vague image of her knitting booties.
“Nothing that’s going to take up all my time.”
“Well, there must be things around here. What about cooking?” His eyes fell on the mangled roast that lay pathetically in the sink. “Maybe not.”
Brittany laughed, feeling as if a weight had lifted. They were talking. Really talking. The quarrel seemed to have used up the tension that had been building between them.
“Don’t you trust my culinary expertise?”
“Well, I wouldn’t put it that way, exactly. Let’s just say that I wouldn’t want to depend on you to keep us from starving to death.”
“Coward.”
“You didn’t see how dangerous you looked with that fork in your hand,” he teased.
“Speaking of food...” She looked at the roast, suddenly aware that she was hungry.
“I’m starving. A friend of my parents’ has opened a new Mexican restaurant.”
“I love Mexican food.”
***
That evening marked a turning point in their marriage. It was as if by surviving their first quarrel, they’d established a relationship separate from the events that had brought them together. Brittany and Michael had formed a rapport that was not dependent on the relationships they’d had with Dan.
It was, as Beth had told her, impossible to live with someone and not become involved with them. A marriage license tied them together, but it was more than that. There was a bond there, and with each day that passed, it grew stronger.
***
“Brittany, I’m so glad you could join me for lunch.” Beth’s smile was welcoming as Brittany settled into the chair across from her and took a menu from the waiter.
“It isn’t like my schedule is heavily booked these days. Most of my friends are in school.”
“It gets lonely, doesn’t it? I felt as if I’d fallen into some kind of black hole where no one knew I existed anymore.”
There was such feeling in the words that Brittany looked over the top of her menu, her eyes curious. “You sound like you know what it’s like.”
“I do. I was younger than you are, only sixteen, when I quit school.”
“You quit because you were pregnant?” The menu was forgotten.
“I was pregnant with Michael. In those days, there was no question of my staying in high school. Heaven knows, I might have contaminated the other girls.” She laughed, her eyes sparkling with amusement, but it didn’t take psychic ability to know that it must have been painful at the time.
Brittany hesitated, her eyes dropping to the table. In the two months since she and Michael had been married, Beth and Donovan had never by word or look made her feel less than a member of the family. At Thanksgiving, she’d been welcomed as if she and Michael had a real marriage, as if the child she carried were his.
Still, she sensed a slight barrier between her and her in-laws. She knew Beth feared that Michael was going to end up hurt. Perhaps they also feared growing too close to her or to the child she carried. After all, she wasn’t going to be part of their lives forever, as they might expect a real daughter-in-law to be.
She stirred in her seat, uncomfortable with the thought of a real daughter-in-law, a real wife for Michael. She’d grown accustomed to thinking that he belonged to her, even if it was only for a few months.
“Brittany?” Beth’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts, and she looked up to see the waiter standing next to the table. Flustered, she asked for a chef’s salad, hoping there was such a thing on the menu. Since he didn’t question the order, she assumed she hadn’t revealed her total unfamiliarity with the menu.
“You looked like you were miles away,” Beth commented when the waiter was gone.
“Not really. I was thinking that it must have been very hard for you, being so young and all.”
“It wasn’t easy but I had Donovan.” The way she said it made it impossible to doubt that that had been enough. “And you have Michael.”
“I don’t know where I’d have been without him,” Brittany admitted.
“The two of you seem to be settling in quite well.” If there was a touch of maternal anxiety in the words, Brittany could hardly blame her.
“It took a little bit of adjusting, but we’re doing all right. You know, I’ve thought a lot about what you said—about the fact that a marriage has a certain life of its own.”
“Goodness, did I say that? How pompous of me.” Beth leaned back as the waiter brought their salads.
Brittany waited until he was gone again before continuing. “It wasn’t pompous. It was very true. I mean, even though Michael and I don’t have a real marriage, there’s a definite bond between us. Maybe it’s because we were sort of friends before this, but we’ve made some adjustments and learned to talk to each other more openly. We’ve even had a quarrel or two. We’ve learned to compromise.”
“What do you think a real marriage is, Brittany?” Beth asked gently. “A real marriage is all about compromise, about each of you giving a little and taking a little. There are so many ties that come with living together day to day. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that either of you is going to be able to walk away from this without hurt.”
Beth’s words lingered in Brittany’s mind long after the lunch was over. Walking along the street, past shop windows full of Christmas displays, she thought about it. Ties. She hadn’t expected to feel tied to Michael. Gratitude, affection maybe, but not this feeling that their lives were bound together.
She stopped in front of a toy store window, looking in at the displays. Next year at this time, she’d be shopping for her son or daughter. And she’d be shopping alone. The thought slipped in unbidden, causing a surprising ache in her chest.
It was getting harder and harder to think of the time when Michael would no longer be a daily part of her life, But that had been the plan from the start. He’d only married her because she was carrying Dan’s child.
Once that child was born and she’d had a chance to get on her feet again, the time would come to break those ties.
Dan. She closed her eyes, trying to picture his face, but the image was fuzzy around the edges. The eyes showed a tendency to darken from Dan’s icy blue to Michael’s sky blue. She couldn’t make the hair stay sun-streaked brown. It was darker, richer. And the face... Why couldn’t she call his face more sharply to mind?
Hands shaking, she dug in her purse for her wallet, snapping it open to the picture of Dan. Yes. That was it. He was laughing into the camera. How could she have forgotten the way his eyes laughed? She stroked her thumb over the photograph, feeling tears fill her eyes.
Things would have been so different if he’d lived. But would they have been better?
She hushed the tiny voice, closing the wallet and tucking it back into her purse. She’d loved Dan. Nothing was going to change that. Nothing. And no one.