“Not so bad as it might have been. We’re still pregnant, anyway.”
“So I’ve been thinking,” which wasn’t true, because the idea came to him only as he spoke, “I should get a house-cleaning service. Ella Dane shouldn’t have to clean our house.” Especially since she was so bad at it. “And if Dr. Vlk says bed rest, then you’re going to bed. I’ll cut down on my hours and ask Uncle Floyd if I can work at home more. You don’t have to be alone.”
She rolled her face away on the pillow. “I’m not alone. Never.”
He waited for her to say more, but she drifted off to sleep again, unself-conscious as a little girl. He kissed her, and then touched her belly, feeling the baby rush up against his hand and slide away. Amazing. And still alive. Now, how was he going to get Lacey home, with two cars, not letting her drive?
He’d have to call Ella Dane. That would leave him with three cars and two drivers. If he drove Lacey home in his car, and met Ella Dane at home, and drove Ella Dane back here in his car, then she could drive Lacey’s car home. . . . Planning and calculating, he walked from the room, his cell phone in his hand, and tripped over a little boy in the doorway. “Sorry, kid,” he said, “you looking for someone?”
“I followed her back here,” the boy said. A nice-looking child with thick blond hair and a late-summer tan, not yet faded in mid-October, a boy who’d spent the last seven months outside, climbing trees and playing baseball every minute he wasn’t in school. Wholesome. Eric thought of the tiny being curled inside Lacey. He might be blond like her; he might have a strong body and an open face like this boy. “I can’t find her,” the boy said.
“Your mom’s here somewhere? You’re not supposed to be wandering around.” What if he opened a door and found her with her feet up on one of those medieval-torture tables? That was no way for a boy to see his mother. “She won’t leave without you.”
He seemed unsure, but he allowed Eric to lead him back through the white hallways to the waiting room, where he slumped in one of the cushioned chairs and hid himself behind a ragged copy of Highlights for Children. Eric stepped outside to call Ella Dane, and when he came back in, the little boy was gone.
Chapter Twenty-two
LACEY LET ERIC help her up the porch steps. After all her fears, the house was as radiantly peaceful as October sun could make it. Eric brought the leather sofa cushions from the living room and set them at the head of Lacey’s bed. She hadn’t had so much attention from him in weeks. “Good?” he said.
She wriggled her shoulders against the cushions. “Perfect.”
They looked around her room. Someday the china cabinet would stand here, where the head of her bed now touched the wall. They’d have an oval table in the middle of the room, mahogany with ball-and-claw feet. She’d take down the miniblinds and put curtains across the bank of three windows that looked out on the backyard, brocade and tassels and a layer of lace, a rich and elegant room. Now, her sheets smelled like an old motel, like dirty feet and sour nighttime breath. And Bibbits.
“Can you open a window?” she said.
He was so sweet, but already he was looking past her. He checked his watch; he was thinking about the courtroom she’d called him out of and all the work he still had to do. He put up a good show, she had to give him that. He opened the window, made sure she had a glass of water, and told her to stay in bed unless she needed to go to the bathroom, not to get up for anything. He brought her drawing supplies, her laptop, and the television from the living room. He went out to buy liver and bacon and even cooked it, although she knew the smell of liver made him gag. The smell would be his excuse to leave her alone; he would take his laptop upstairs.
The front door slammed in a meaningful way as Ella Dane left the house to avoid the smell of meat. Sulking. What was it now, apart from the liver? Maybe she was upset because Lacey had called for Eric’s help and not hers.
“Your mom’s got a bee up her butt,” Drew said. Suddenly he was at the foot of her bed, as if he’d always been there, sitting with his knees drawn up to his chin. His light hair flopped over his eyebrows, and she couldn’t see his eyes. He had mosquito bites on his ankles, some of them freshly raised welts, others scratched, scabbed, scratched again. He stuck his left pinky in his ear and rooted for wax, and Lacey marveled again at his persuasive reality. When he moved, the mattress shifted under her.
“Language,” she said.
“I’m just saying.”
“She’s going out because she doesn’t like liver.”