Navy Blues

“Right,” she answered, forcing some enthusiasm into her voice. It was working out exactly as she’d planned it: they would both wake up in the morning, feel chagrined, make their apologies and go their separate ways once more.

Only it didn’t feel the way she’d anticipated. It felt wrong. Very wrong.

Steve was in the living room before she moved from the bed. Grabbing a thin robe from her closet, she slipped into it as she rushed after him.

He seemed to be waiting for her, pacing the entryway. He combed his fingers through his hair a couple of times before turning to look at her.

“So you want to forget last night?” he asked.

“I … if you do,” she answered.

“I do.”

Carol’s world toppled for a moment, then quickly righted itself. She understood—it was better this way. “Thank you for the poinsettia and candy.” It seemed inappropriate to mention the terrific lovemaking.

“Right.” His answer was clipped, as though he was eager to be on his way. “Thanks for the dinner … and everything else.”

“No problem.” Stepping around him, Carol opened the door. “It was good to see you again, Steve.”

“Yeah, you, too.”

He walked out of the house and down the steps, and watching him go did crazy things to Carol’s equilibrium. Suddenly she had to lean against the doorjamb just to remain upright. Something inside her, something strong and more powerful than her own will demanded that she stop him.

“Steve,” she cried frantically. She stood on tiptoe. “Steve.”

He turned around abruptly.

They stared at each other, each battle scarred and weary, each hurting. Each proud.

“Merry Christmas,” she said softly.

“Merry Christmas.”

* * *

Three days after Christmas, Carol was convinced her plan had worked perfectly. Thursday morning she woke feeling sluggish and sick to her stomach. A book she’d been reading on pregnancy and childbirth stated that the best way to relieve those early bouts of morning sickness was to nibble on soda crackers first thing—even before getting out of bed.

A burning sense of triumph led her into the bathroom, where she stared at herself in the mirror as though her reflection would proudly announce she was about to become a mother.

It had been so easy. Simple really. One tempestuous night of passion and the feat was accomplished. Her hand rested over her abdomen, and she patted it gently, feeling both proud and awed. A new life was being nurtured there.

A baby. Steve’s child.

The wonder of it produced a ready flow of emotion and tears dampened her eyes.

Another symptom!

The book had explained that her emotions could be affected by the pregnancy—that she might be more susceptible to tears.

Wiping the moisture from the corners of her eyes, Carol strolled into the kitchen and searched the cupboard for saltines. She found a stale package and forced herself to eat two, but she didn’t feel any better than she had earlier.

Not bothering to dress, she turned on the television and made herself a bed on the sofa. Boeing workers were given the week between Christmas and New Year’s off as part of their employment package. Carol had planned to spend the free time painting the third bedroom—the one she planned to use for the baby. Unfortunately she didn’t have any energy. In fact, she felt downright sick, as though she were coming down with a case of the flu.

A lazy smile turned up the edges of her mouth. She wasn’t about to complain. Nine months from now, she would be holding a precious bundle in her arms.

Steve’s and her child.

Four

With his hands cupped behind his head, Steve lay in bed and stared blindly at the dark ceiling. He couldn’t sleep. For the past hour he hadn’t even bothered to close his eyes. It wouldn’t do any good; every time he did, the memory of Christmas Eve with Carol filled his mind.

Releasing a slow breath, he rubbed his hand down his face, hoping the action would dispel her image from his thoughts. It didn’t work. Nothing did.

He had never intended to make love to her, and even now, ten days later, he wasn’t sure how the hell it had happened. He continued to suffer from a low-grade form of shock. His thoughts had been in utter chaos since that night, and he wasn’t sure how to respond to her or where their relationship was headed now.

What really distressed him, Steve realized, was that after everything that had happened between them, he could still want her so much. More than a week later and the memory of her leaning against the doorjamb in the kitchen, wearing his shirt—and nothing else—had the power to tighten his loins. Tighten his loins! He nearly laughed out loud; that had to be the understatement of the year.

When Carol had stood and held out her arms to him, he’d acted like a starving child offered candy, so eager he hadn’t stopped to think about anything except the love she would give him. Any protest he’d made had been token. She’d volunteered, he’d accepted, and that should be the end of it.

But it wasn’t.

Okay, so he wasn’t a man of steel. Carol had always been his Achilles’ heel, and he knew it. She knew it. In thinking over the events of that night, it was almost as though his ex-wife had planned everything. Her red dress with no bra, and that bit about placing decorations on the tree. She’d insisted on standing on the chair, stretching and exposing her thigh to him … his thoughts came to a skidding halt.

No.

He wasn’t going to fall into that familiar trap of thinking Carol was using him, deceiving him. It did no good to wade into the muddy mire of anger, bitterness, regret and doubt.

He longed to repress the memory of Carol’s warm and willing body in his arms. If only he could get on with his life. If only he could sleep.

He couldn’t.

His sister, Lindy, had coffee brewed by the time Steve came out of his bedroom. She sat at the table, cradling a cup in one hand while holding a folded section of the Post-Intelligencer in the other.

“Morning.” She glanced up and greeted him with a bright smile. Lately it seemed his sister was always smiling.

Steve mumbled something unintelligible as a means of reply. Her cheerfulness grated against him. He wasn’t in the mood for good humor this morning. He wasn’t in the mood for anything … with the possible exception of making love to Carol again, and that bit of insight didn’t suit him in the least.

“It doesn’t look like you had a good night’s sleep, brother dearest.”

Steve’s frown deepened, and he gave his sister another noncommittal answer.

“I don’t suppose this has anything to do with Carol?” She waited, and when he didn’t answer, added, “Or the fact that you didn’t come home Christmas Eve?”

“I came home.”

“Sure, sometime the following morning.”

Steve took down a mug from the cupboard and slapped it against the counter with unnecessary force. “Drop it, Lindy. I don’t want to discuss Carol.”

A weighted silence followed his comment.

“Rush and I’ve got almost everything ready to move into the new apartment,” she offered finally, and the light tone of her voice suggested she was looking for a way to put their conversation back on an even keel. “We’ll be out of here by Friday.”

Hell, here he was snapping at Lindy. His sister didn’t deserve to be the brunt of his foul mood. She hadn’t done anything but mention the obvious. “Speaking of Rush, where is he?” Steve asked, forcing a lighter tone into his own voice.

“He had to catch an early ferry this morning,” she said, and hesitated momentarily. “I’m happy, Steve, really happy. I was so afraid for a time that I’d made a dreadful mistake, but I know now that marrying Rush was the right thing to do.”

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