The Baby Came C.O.D. Part 12

"Honey, I really need you to look after Rachel for me, and Mr. Quartermain is still sick. He has germs I don't want you getting."

"But you're getting them," he heard Libby protest. He could almost see her pout. In about twelve years, she would make one h.e.l.l of a heartbreaker. And in another ten on top of that, she'd be a lawyer to be reckoned with, he judged.

''Mama's strong."

He'd vouch for that, he thought. And soft. Very soft. His mind began to drift as he allowed himself to imagine just how soft she could be.

"You could still get sick," Libby persisted.

Definitely lawyer material, Evan decided. He'd enjoy seeing Libby arguing a case.

"Then you can take care of me," Claire told her.

He could hear unadulterated joy in Libby's voice. "I can? Really?" She was probably hoping Claire would get sick, just a little, so she could get her mother to make good on her promise, Evan thought.

"Really. Now get back to Rachel. Remember, she needs you."

All traces of desire to come visit the patient had left her voice. "Yes, Mama."

If he strained, he could hear the sound of her feet thundering on the rug as she flew to her charge. For a tiny thing, she had heavy feet.

"You're good at that," he told Claire as she walked into the room. "Reasoning with her instead of just telling her to obey."

He had absolutely no idea about parenting, but in his opinion, she had it down pat.

"Kids react to respect, the same as adults." Claire set down the tray she was carrying on his bureau. "Okay, it's time to get you back among the living. I have the cla.s.sic healer for you." She gestured at the bowl in the center of the tray. "Chicken soup. Plus apple juice and some tea," she offered in a quick rundown, then flashed a mischievous smile. "And if you're very good, I'll let you have some gelatin for dessert. Cherry."

So saying, she placed the tray on his bed. Evan eyed the soup. "I don't like chicken soup. They always make it too salty."

Now that he was getting better, he was being difficult. Why didn't that surprise her?

"Well, 'they' didn't make it," she informed him. "I did. And mine isn't too salty."

He didn't think anyone in his generation cooked anymore. His mother lamented that it was a lost art. His sisters knew how to boil water and how to dial for takeout.

"You made it?"

She lifted her chin, pretending to be affronted. "Don't look so surprised-I can cook."

Now that he thought of it, the soup did smell good. But how had she managed to make it? "I don't have anything in my refrigerator."

"The chicken's on loan from mine, okay?" She held out the spoon to him. "Now shut up and eat. You need to get your strength back."

And he knew just what he wanted to do with it when it returned.

Capitulating to the aroma and the vague hunger rumbling through his belly, he took the spoon from her. "All right."

"Attaboy, you'll be up and about in no time." Deciding that he couldn't sit up the way he was, she s.h.i.+fted the tray back to the bureau. "Of course, you can't eat like that unless I bring you a straw."

She remedied the problem by rearranging the pillows until they were all behind him. As he sat up, Evan's head began to swim unexpectedly, and he grabbed her arm to steady himself. It surprised and embarra.s.sed him to discover just how weak he still was.

She stiffened slightly as his fingers accidentally brushed against the side of her breast. Claire felt her stomach tighten as taut as a high wire.

"Sorry," he apologized. "I didn't realize just how weak I was."

"You just need to eat something," she murmured selfconsciously. She was acting like a schoolgirl. Struggling to hide her nerves, she set the tray in front of him again, then sat down on the other side. "I can make the plane go into the hangar if you're too weak to feed yourself."

It was tempting to have her feed him, not because he felt weak, but because he liked having her fussing over him. Liked it far more than he would have believed only a few days ago.

"No, I think I can handle my own hangar."

"Okay, Ace, call me if you need me." She began to rise.

"Why don't you stay and talk to me?" he asked. "Tell me about the project you're working on," he suggested when she looked as if she was going to beg off with an excuse.

Well, this was a surprise. Claire slowly sat down again. "All right. It's a logo for Aesthetic Athletics," she began. "There's this guru sitting in the middle, wearing a huge pair of running shoes. He's meditating about being in the Olympics..."

Chapter Nine.

Libby stopped for breath, waiting. When her mother didn't say anything, Libby c.o.c.ked her head and looked at her.

Mama had a funny look on her face, like she was a jillion miles away. Libby tugged on her sleeve to get her attention.

"Mama, Mama, aren't you listening to me?"

Fresh from putting Rachel to bed, a task that seemed to drain her of most of her energy, Claire had returned to the living room and sunk down on the sofa. Just in time. Her legs felt as if they'd given way.

Libby's voice was fading in and out of the buzzing in her ears.

"Hmm?" How could she be on a roller coaster when she was sitting still? Claire tried to concentrate on her daughter, but it wasn't easy. "I'm sorry, honey, I think I'm just going to lie down for a minute, all right?"

And then Claire stretched out, right where she sat, collapsing against the dark blue sofa like a balloon that had had all its air suddenly released.

Libby stood looking at her mother. Something was wrong. Mama never lay down during the day. And she always listened to her, even when she looked as if she wasn't. Libby started to feel strange, funny, like there were all these big b.u.t.terflies in her stomach trying to get out at once.

She shook her mother by the shoulder, wanting her to get up again. "Mama?"

Claire drew a long breath and let it out again, trying to regain ground. It didn't work. Ground was quickly slipping away from her.

It was just because she was pus.h.i.+ng herself too hard- that's all. All she needed was a few minutes to rest and she'd be good as new.

"Just for a minute," Claire repeated. Her voice echoed in her head, sounding as if it were coming from deep inside a well. "I promise I'll be up and listening to you in a minute."

Shutting her eyes, Claire curled up on the sofa, bringing her knees to her chest almost reflexively. She felt cold and hot at the same time and didn't know if she wanted to get something to cover herself with or to change her sweater for something lighter. It was a moot point Either choice involved moving, getting up. And she didn't have the strength to do that.

She would in a minute, she felt certain, but not right now. Right now, it was all she could do to concentrate on breathing.

"Mama?" Libby whispered. The b.u.t.terflies got bigger.

Puzzled, worried, Libby turned on her heel and raced up the stairs to where she knew Rachel's daddy was. He wasn't as good as Mama, but he was a grown-up and grown-ups knew what to do.

She hadn't been allowed into his room the past four days because he was sick, but she knew it was okay to talk to him now. Mama said it was okay. Last night, Mama had let him come downstairs and eat with them at the table instead of taking a tray up to him the way she did before.

Mama had made a joke, and then he had made a joke right back and they had all laughed. Even Rachel, because when she laughed, she made bubbles. Libby liked that feeling, having a daddy at the table to laugh with. Mama didn't know, but she had pretended, just for a little bit last night, that Mr. Q. was her daddy, too, and Rachel was her sister.

Maybe if she pretended hard enough, they would be.

Mama had always told her to believe in dreams because dreams came true sometimes. And Mama was never wrong.

It was good to get dressed again, to feel something besides pajamas rubbing against his skin. The life of a layabout just wasn't for him. He felt restless when he wasn't doing something.

Although he had to admit that these past few days, after he'd gotten over being so weak, hadn't been all that bad. He'd had time to read and to think. A great deal of time to think and reflect on the life that was whizzing by him as he was working.

He'd missed a lot of it, he decided. He'd been so caught up in being the best, in doing his best, he hadn't had time to enjoy anything being the so-called best garnered him. If you took away the work, his life was pretty empty.

Or had been, he thought, up to a couple of weeks ago.

Evan tucked his s.h.i.+rt into his waistband and then stopped. He was being watched. He could feel it. Something Devin had said about a p.r.i.c.kly feeling dancing along his neck whenever he was being watched came back to him. He was experiencing that same sensation now. Maybe they did have more in common than he thought.

Turning, Evan expected to see Claire leaning against the doorjamb, her eyes laughing at something he didn't fathom, a quirky little smile playing on her lips the way it usually did.

Instead, he found a junior edition of her peering in.

It wasn't like Libby to just stand there, looking undecided. Libby always came racing into a room as if she were running across a field, intent on getting her kite airborne. But she was just standing there now. And there were signs of confusion on her small face instead of the usual unbridled joy he was quickly becoming accustomed to seeing.

Something was up, he thought. Evan sat down on his rumpled bed, his socks in his hand. He looked at her and smiled. "Hi."

Libby took his greeting to be an invitation to come in and she did, he noted, with somewhat less than her usual vigor.

It was funny what a few days flat on your back could do, he thought, pulling on one sock, then the other. He welcomed her company now where he had once cringed at it.

"Mama said you weren't catchy, so I can come in," Libby felt compelled to inform him. She was afraid he might send her away before she could tell him about Mama going to sleep in the middle of the day.

"That's right, I'm not 'catchy' anymore." He looked around for his shoes, then glanced at her. She had a very solemn expression on her face. It wasn't like her. That he had become a semiexpert on her behavior didn't even strike him as odd. "How are you doing?"

Libby answered the way her mother had taught her to reply to an inquiry of this nature. "Very well, thank you."

His shoes in sight, Evan remained on the bed. This didn't sound like Libby at all. Evan patted the place beside him for her. "Are you sure? You look a little puzzled."

Libby was quick to sit down next to him. She blew out a breath.

Just like her mother, he thought. This was probably what Claire had looked like as a little girl. He wondered if she'd had as much energy as Libby and then laughed silently at his own foolish question. Dynamos didn't sprout overnight.

"Mr. Q., why isn't Mama listening to me?"

He thought of telling her to call him Evan and decided to save that for another conversation. Right now, she had come to him with a problem. That, in itself, seemed like a milestone. That he wanted to help was another, if he were to stop to think of it.

"I don't know, Libby, maybe she just has a lot on her mind. You know, it hasn't been easy on her, taking care of all of us, you, me, Rachel, and doing her own work, as well."

He was accustomed to working long, grueling hours, but he didn't come home to a little girl to take care of or a house to clean. He had cleaning service for the latter. If he had to do it all himself, he didn't think he could manage. He didn't know how Claire did it and remained cheerful in the bargain. When did she get time to sleep?

"I help with Rachel," Libby interrupted. "I can diaper her good now, as long as Mama cleans her up first. It's icky." She made a horrible face, holding her stomach and sticking out her tongue in a. grimace.

He laughed, which made her laugh in turn. The light sound made him think of tiny wind chimes s.h.i.+fting in the breeze.

"I know what you mean. Is your mother with Rachel?" He was actually surprised that Claire hadn't come in by now. She was always on Libby's heels.

Her hair flew to and fro as Libby adamantly shook her head. "No, Rachel's sleeping. Mama's in the living room. On the sofa."

"You mean she's actually sitting down?" Would wonders never cease?

Evan rose and retrieved his shoes, stepping into the loafers. He wanted to go downstairs and join Claire. If she was sitting down, so much the better.

Libby shook her head again. "No, she's kinda lying down."

Evan looked at Libby. "Lying down? Your mother?" An uneasiness began to nudge itself forward. "Are you sure?"

Libby's eyes narrowed as a frown took her face. "I know what lying down is," she protested, insulted. "And Mama's doing it. Right now."

Maybe Claire was just tired, he thought. But he had his doubts. "Let's go check her out, shall we?" He held out his hand to Libby.

Libby bounced off the bed, wrapping her fingers around his hand.

"What's the matter?" she asked as they went down the stairs.

Why was Mr. Q. all nervous? She could feel the b.u.t.terflies getting stronger in her tummy again. She had come to him hoping he could make them go away, not make them bigger.

There was no need to alarm Libby. If she was frightened, she would just get in his way. Besides, this was probably all just nothing. Claire was undoubtedly just resting. Even the toughest batteries needed to be recharged once in a while.

"Nothing, I just thought of something I wanted to tell your mother."

The answer placated Libby. "That you're okay, huh? Mama took good care of you," she said with pride, puffing up her chest. "Mama takes good care of everybody."

"Not everybody," he contradicted. "I don't think Mama takes such good care of Mama." As a matter of fact, he knew it.

When he saw Claire slumped over on the sofa, the first thing Evan thought was that she had fainted. Dropping Libby's hand, he hurried over to Claire. Kneeling beside her, Evan raised Claire's head. She was paler than he'd ever remembered seeing her. Perspiration plastered her hair to her forehead and cheeks.

Evan brushed it away from her face, struggling with concern. He wasn't equipped to handle flesh-and-blood emergencies, only the paper kind.

Claire's eyes fluttered open, and she bit back a groan. "Just taking a nap," she mumbled.

"Nap, my as-asphalt," he amended, glancing at Libby. The little girl was staring at both of them with huge eyes. "Claire, you're sick."