Читать книгу Blame It on Chocolate - Jennifer Greene - Страница 12

HAVING GROWN UP with doctors, Lucy not only failed to treat them like gods, but could easily tell the real silver from the tinsel. Dr. Jargowski was totally darling, with his gentle eyes and sneaky sense of humor and unshakeable patience. Unfortunately, he was a quack.

“Don’t be silly,” Lucy told him irritably. “I can’t be pregnant.”

“You are.”

She redraped the cloth in a lot more modest fashion, mentally damning Nick from here to Poughkeepsie for bullying her into this waste-of-time doctor visit. “You don’t understand. This has to be an ulcer. I have a great job. A job I absolutely love. But a few weeks ago, things changed—the job’s even more wonderful, really, but it also become much more serious and stressful. And I’m a type A, you know? A worrier. A perfectionist. Anybody who knows me would tell you that I’m prime ulcer material—”

“You might find this hard to believe, but I’m usually the one to make a diagnosis, not the patient, since I happen to be the doctor,” Dr. Jargowski said with wry humor, and gave a subtle nod to the nurse, indicating she could leave the room now that the pelvic, private part of the examination was over.

Lucy didn’t care whether the nurse was there or not. “Well, the blood tests and exam have to be wrong. Maybe I have weird insides, did you think of that? Maybe I have a hernia or something making me nauseous. Maybe I have, I don’t know, fibroid tumors in my stomach—”

“Try to trust me a little, would you? ‘Weird insides’ is not a medically descriptive term. And you’d be making medical history if you showed up with fibroid tumors in your stomach, since that’s an impossibility. The symptoms, in fact, are not emanating from your stomach at all.”

“Look, would you listen to me? I don’t have a guy! I haven’t seriously dated anyone in almost two years! And of course I go out. But I don’t casually—” She waved her hand expressively.

“Ah. Well, even if you don’t normally…” He waved his hand in the same expressive gesture “…it definitely appears that you must have. At least once. Around seven weeks ago.”

Men. Men, men, men. Outside, Lucy found that the late afternoon had deteriorated into a drizzling, drooling rain—which was going to melt all the snow and make everything icy. That was probably a man’s fault, too.

She dove into her car, locked the doors, started the heater and defroster on high and then sat there, freezing to death while she waited for it all to work. Eventually she thawed enough to move—or at least to lean over far enough to click open the glove compartment.

She used to keep pepper spray in there, but over the years she’d come to define “emergency supplies” a little differently. Thankfully she didn’t waste time storing plain old candy bars for the serious crises, because now, she could go straight for the truffles. After downing three of Bernard’s best, the steam had cleared from the windshield and her body was no longer stiff as an icicle.

Now she was just completely hysterical.

She drove home snuffling and blubbering and talking to herself. There was no one she could tell. No one she could face. Hell’s bells, looking at the woman in the mirror shamed her. Twenty-eight-year-old responsible women just didn’t make mistakes like this. And Lucy was more than responsible. She was ultra-responsible.

In the privacy of the car, she had to admit there was a slim, very slim, possibility that the doctor wasn’t a quack.

It was even vaguely, remotely possible that the Night of The Chocolate could have involved some completely unplanned, unexpected, impossible-to-prepare-for—impossible-to-imagine—behavior on her part.

It was about the Bliss, she thought morosely. Bliss just wasn’t regular chocolate. And the night she’d tested the new Bliss, she’d discovered right away that there was something chemically…extra…in the new beans. Something powerful. Something dangerous. That had to be it. What else could explain something that could change a sensible, practical, basically shy woman into a raving nymphomaniac?

Oh, God. She’d buried the memory so deep she was positive it’d never find its way to the surface again.

She moaned several times during the drive—every time that memory edged closer to her consciousness. On the inside, she felt like an eggshell with spider cracks, cracks that were slowly seeping over the whole surface of the shell. Her whole life was about to explode in a big, messy phlat. There was no way it’d ever go back together the same way.

Please God. Let this be a mistake. Let me have an ulcer. Let me have a tumor. Let me have anything but a pregnancy. Come on. You know this isn’t fair. Nobody should have to pay for the one single thing they did wrong, should they? Can’t you find some really good sinners to vent on?

Her car swerved and she had to give up the sniveling. The temperature was dropping, turning the roads to black glass. By the time she reached home, she’d leveled the glove compartment’s supply of emergency truffles and her chin had locked in a grim line. Her hands were stiff from controlling the wheel so hard. Whether her life was a disaster or not, she just wanted to get inside her house and put up her feet for a while. She was whipped.

She’d almost forgotten her dad was installed at her place until she pushed open the door and found all the lights on. “Dad?” The TV blared from the living room. It sounded like sports in a foreign language-although truth to tell, most sports sounded like a foreign language to her. Her fresh-painted white boxes in front of her green couch—the boxes that functioned as a coffee table, she thought—were littered with magazines, three dirty glasses, a bowl of aging cereal and a spill of loose pocket change.

“Da—?”

“Oh, there you are.” Her dad strolled in from the kitchen, his hair unbrushed and sticking straight up, his feet bare. He’d been top of his class at Harvard Medical School, had students trail him down the hall whenever he spoke, had an international reputation as a heart surgeon. And he’d turned into a waif. “I was getting really worried. And really hungry.”

“Hungry—”

“I don’t care what you make, honey. You know I’m not fussy. I don’t want to be any trouble. Don’t you usually get home from work sooner than this, though? I’ve had a terrible day. Terrible…”

“Oh, Dad.” She pushed off her jacket and reached out her arms. Luther made an attempt to fold into them. “Have you talked to Mom?” At the look in his eyes—holy kamoly, for an instant there, he looked as if he were going to cry, so she hastily changed the subject. “I don’t always cook during the week, so I’m not sure what’s around. But we’ll look, okay?”

“Everything’s such a mess….”

She noticed that. Oh God, oh God. The kitchen in her duplex was hardly state-of-the-art, but it was still hers. There was no one to tease her for keeping the counters spotless and the sink smelling like fresh Soft Scrub, and she’d slowly been collecting Staub. It cost more than she could afford, she admitted it—and suffered lots of guilt for indulging herself—but she’d only been buying a piece at a time. Which meant she had three. Her dad must have tried to heat something for lunch in the red Staub terrine. The remnants looked like baked cheese. All-day-baked cheese. Well-well-well-well baked cheese.

“My nurse cancelled my surgical schedule for another week, but eventually I have to go back to work. Obviously. It’s just…I don’t know where to go. How to function. I can’t commute from here, but I can’t go home….”

“Okay, okay…” She squirted soap in the sink, started the water running, patted her dad, ran back out in the cold to fetch the mail, started a pot of tea, opened the fridge. “I could do some fresh pasta with chives and mozzarella and mushrooms—”

“How about burgers?” Her dad sank in a kitchen chair. “What if I can never work again?”

Lucy pawed through the freezer again. “Or we could have some veggie lasagna. With a fresh salad—”

“How about pork chops? With your mother’s mint sauce. Unless that’s too much trouble.” Her dad covered both his eyes. “I never cheated on her, you know. She’s the only woman I ever loved. I adore her, Lucy. I don’t know what I did that was so wrong.”

“All right, all right. We’ll have burgers.”

“She said…she didn’t love me anymore.”

“Oh, Dad—”

“She said I couldn’t find my own shoes. That I needed a keeper, but she wanted to be a wife, not a keeper. She said I couldn’t find my own shoes, my own wallet. She said I couldn’t find my own life. Lucy?”

“What?”

“She was right. I can’t. What am I going to do?”

She gave him some lettuce to shred. Then some more tea. Then started working with some ground round—in the long run, she refused to stuff her dad with the cholesterol-packed diet he wanted, but tonight just wasn’t the right time to argue with him.

She just didn’t seem to have a choice about putting her own crisis on a far back burner. She cooked. Picked up. Cleaned. Listened to her dad. Tried to fit in a general plan for Project Bliss to give to Nick in between it all, but of course, the phone kept ringing.

Right before nine, someone rapped on the back door. She found Russell hunched on the porch. At nineteen, her cousin was cuter than an Abercrombie model, all boyish charm and shy smiles. He’d glommed on her when they were kids, followed her around like a puppy, and once she’d moved into her own place, he’d shown up regularly.

She gave him a big hug, but whispered, “Maybe it would have been better if you called first this time—”

“I couldn’t, Luce. I had something really important to discuss with you.” He only stepped in as far as the doormat, standing there in the dim light with too thin a jacket and no gloves.

“And you’ve driven all the way from Mankato—”

“It’s not that far, but…aw hell. I just have to get this off my chest. And you’re the only one I can discuss this with—”

“What?”

“I think I’m gay.”

“Gay,” she repeated, and thought, nope. This wasn’t happening to her. Maybe she was the crisis counselor in the family. Maybe she’d been born with the assignment of being the Listener and Soother for the Fitzhenrys. Maybe with so many dramatic people in the clan, they naturally gravitated toward the nondramatic, boring one. Only for Pete’s sake. Her whole world had fallen apart today.

And right now, if she’d even wanted to throw up, she couldn’t have scheduled the time.

A voice called out from the living room. “Who’s that, Lucy? Your mother?”

Russell mouthed, “Who in God’s name is that? Your dad?” and she yelled back cheerfully, “It’s Russ, Dad, just come for a visit.”

“Well, tell him to come on in.”

Russell whispered, “I can’t.”

She said, “You’re going to have to now. Come on. I’ll get you something to eat. Take off your jacket.”

“I only wanted to talk to you. I don’t want anyone else to know about this,” he said desperately.

“And we won’t be talking about this in front of my dad. But right now, there’s no way to pretend you’re not here.” She would have thought she was stating the obvious, but Russ still had to be herded into the living room.

“So, I’ll bet the girls are really chasing you, huh, Russ?” was the first thing her father said, making her wince—but it was typical family teasing. Girls had adored Russ from grade school on, and as far as Lucy knew, he’d adored them just as likewise. She had no idea when the gay question had started troubling him, but soon enough could see that discussion was going no further—not tonight.

Her dad immediately perked up for the company. At some point he miraculously found the beer at the back of her refrigerator, and a short time later Russell came back from the kitchen with her one and only partial bottle of wine. She raised a serious protest about his drinking and driving, but her father readily settled that by insisting that Russ could spend the night.

She made up the second twin in the spare bedroom, blinked a bleary-eyed good-night to them both around eleven, and crashed in her bedroom. Literally crashed. She pushed off her shoes and dove, head-first, for the lilac-flowered duvet cover. Between the feather bed and down comforter, her bed was conceivably the softest thing in the universe. So soft that she determined that she was never moving. Ever again. Even for a minute. Even for a second.

She’d never gone to bed in her clothes—it was unthinkable—but honest to Pete, she couldn’t move. For the first time all day, she felt…safe. Part of the feeling came from being cocooned in all the soft, luxurious down bedding. And part of it came from the purple. She’d really hard-core nested with color in here. The fake Tiffany lamp was lavender, the carpet a pale lilac. The old brass bedstead definitely wasn’t purple but she’d found it thrown out in an alley, brought it home, and buffed it within an inch of its life. The dark purple satin sheets, the swoop of dark purple drapes…for a woman who dug in dirt most days, the room was an unabashed female hideaway. Exactly what she craved.

She’d had more than enough stress today. She’d think about everything tomorrow, but for right now she just needed…

The telephone rang.

Of course her dad could have answered it. Or Russell.

But when the receiver next to her bed rang again, it was obvious no one else was going to pick it up. And it could have been her mother. Or Ginger. Or something wrong at the lab or greenhouse…worry built up so fast and thick in her throat that she grabbed the phone and then almost dropped it.

“I’ll be back in town tomorrow, Lucy,” Nick said, “but I had to know what the doctor said. Are you all right?”

That voice. It made her think of dark chocolate, but not just dark chocolate…a dark chocolate mint with brandy inside, or maybe with a little vanilla mascarpone filling in there, too. It was a voice that flowed into a woman’s mind and seeped into her fantasies. It was a voice that tended to make bone tissue turn liquid. It was a voice with so much pure lusty male vibration to it that it could probably make a puppy puddle.

“Lucy?” Nick repeated. “Are you all right?”

“There’s no ulcer, no tumor, nothing terrible. Thanks for calling, Nick. And thanks for arranging for me to get into a doctor so quickly. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She hung up.

Then unplugged the phone. Thank God there were still some land lines left in this world.

NICK BARELY STEPPED out of the car before the front door opened. Out bounded Baby and Boo Boo, accompanied by his niece.

“Hey, Uncle Nick! Bet you didn’t expect to see me, huh?” Gretchen had turned twelve a few weeks ago. Nick had figured out that was some monumental thing to her because she’d changed her whole style of clothes, but what that all meant completely eluded him. This morning she had on a down jacket over a corduroy shirt that showed her skinny tummy—and here it was, freezing like a banshee outside. She was so gawky, all hair and big eyes and knees, so shy she could make herself sick in public situations. But not with him. She adored him almost—almost—as much as he adored her.

“Hey, shorty. What’s this, you’re already skipping school at your young age?” He pulled her into a hug, loving the smile she beamed up at him. She was smaller than the dogs. Although God knew, almost everyone was smaller than the dogs.

“Nah. There was a teacher in-service day. So I had it free. And I’m supposed to be at Dad’s this week, but he’s busy and he and Mom are fighting anyway, you know? So…I thought I’d come out and see Gramps and you.”

Nick couldn’t kick his big brother from here to the South Pole, but often enough, it was tempting. Clint and Gretchen’s mother had never gotten married, thank God, but they still couldn’t seem to resist fighting in front of the kid all the time. It killed him. The squirt likely wouldn’t be half so painfully shy and misfit-y if somebody was around to actively parent her.

“Can I hang with you?” Gretchen asked.

“Hmmm…” He had to talk to Lucy this morning. Immediately. It wouldn’t wait—not after hearing her voice last night—not if he was going to keep his sanity. The rest of his work, he could either shuffle or make-happen around a few hours with Gretchen. He’d done it in the past. “I need to have a half hour with Lucy at the lab. Alone. A real serious meeting.”

“Oh. Okay.” Her face fell five feet. “I understand.”

He could tell she did. He could tell she’d had to understand too damn many things, too damn many times, for a twelve-year-old. “How about this for a plan? We can walk over together. You can hang with Reiko or Fritz or Fred. Or just wander around. In fact, you could help make sure I get that time alone with Lucy. We’ll get our meeting over a whole lot faster if we aren’t interrupted by anyone.”

“I could do that! I’ll make sure nobody interrupts you!”

“And then we’ll do the day. I still have some work, but you can hang. Have to go over to the plant—but you’ll love that anyway. And I’ll finish what I have to and then we’ll split, okay? You bring your fiddle?”

“Uncle Nick! I play the flute, you know that!”

“Yeah, I know. And you’re so good I was thinking maybe you could play for me a little later, huh?”

“You don’t really want me to.”

Damn kid never thought anyone wanted to be with her. “Yeah, I do. Give me a second to pick something up from the house…and then we’ll walk to the labs with the dogs, okay?”

“Yeah, that’d be great.”

Okay. So walking with a twelve-year-old kid wasn’t exactly a great way to get his psyche prepared for the talk with Lucy. But he usually had a gift for multitasking. Hell, he’d just traveled from Paris to Berne and back, did some moving and shaking to get the construction on the new greenhouses started, contacted security people, initiated a new contract with their Berne people—and that was just the last two days. Surely he could handle a reasonable discussion with a twenty-eight-year-old woman?

“So Uncle Nick…then Uncle Nick…and after that, we like…”

Gretchen, God love her, treated him like a hero. Sometimes, like this morning, it made him feel lower than pond scum. He adored her. He’d adopt her if there was ever a need. But he wasn’t the kind of hero she wanted him to be. If the world were the right kind of place, she’d have a dad who’d earned that kind of respect, and a ton of other role models who could do a better job than him.

But right now she was chattering nonstop, at least until they reached the doors to the lab. She quieted instantly, doing her shy thing. The dogs, by contrast, howled as if someone were killing them because of being left outside.

The place was as deserted as a carnival in the rain, no sign of life in any of the offices. All the noise and action emanated from the communal lab, where the whole staff clustered, bustling around some fresh chocolate tests. Reiko and Fred and Fritz called out welcoming hellos to both him and Gretchen. So did Lucy.

But he saw what she tried to pull off. She took one look, startled when she saw him, beamed out a cheerful hello and dove for the side door.

He caught up with her midflight, with what he hoped was an unobtrusive hand plucking her shirt-tail. “We’ll be in Lucy’s office for a few minutes, everyone. You okay, Gretchen?”

“Sure,” she said, which was what Gretchen always said, but in this case, Reiko was already inviting her to try the new chocolate. The kid’d be okay.

Lucy would probably be okay, too.

Whether he was going to be okay was the real question. Because one look at her face and he knew this was going to go bad. Very bad. Maybe very, very bad.

As soon as they were out of sight, she said, “I know, I know, we didn’t finish our Bliss project discussion the other day—”

“No, we didn’t. And we need to get that done damn quick. But that’s not all we have to discuss right now.”

“What?” At the door to her office, she moved in first, quickly, as if allergic to being that close to him. He’d felt the startled tremor streak her spine when he’d touched the back of her shirt. And now she didn’t hide behind the desk, but she moved as far as the windowsill, where she could lean, arms under her chest, chin up…as if she were braced for a blow.

He latched the door and leaned there, giving her some space, but for damn sure blocking the exit. “So,” he said gently, “you’re pregnant.”

“Huh?” She shook her head as if disbelieving such an incomprehensible ridiculous statement.

Aw, hell. Politicians lied better than she did. Nick felt as if a lead ball—with spikes—had just dropped in his stomach. Yeah, he’d guessed the truth from her voice last night. From everything. Until that instant, though, he thought there was still a chance of some other answer. Fear of disaster didn’t always mean a disaster was going to happen. Only he saw those hazel eyes shifting from his like a thief in a bank.

He wiped a hand over his face, wishing he could wash himself into a state of invisibility. “You’re pregnant,” he said again. “By me.” For a second there, he wasn’t dead positive if he was saying it aloud for her sake or his.

“For Pete’s sake. I’m going to sue that doctor. I realize it was your doc, but all the same, he can’t just tell someone else a patient’s confidential medical infor—”

“Luce—” He had to interrupt her. “No one told me. I just added it up. Your sudden throwing up, the timing, your swearing there was absolutely nothing wrong. Only you’ve never even taken a sick day, much less mentioned ever having an upset stomach to anyone. So…I looked at a calendar. The night you called me about the successful experiment—”

“That night doesn’t have to mean anything. For all you know, I sleep with zillions of guys. Regularly.”

He didn’t say, when cows fly. But straight arrows like Lucy just didn’t tumble for strangers. Or on a whim. Hell, her greenhouse floor was clean enough to eat from; she was that persnickety. “Look. You don’t have to make up stories. We’re in this fix together—”

“You’re not in any fix, Nick. I am. This was totally my fault. You never came on to me. Never invited anything. Nothing would ever have happened if I hadn’t…” She swirled her hands.

“Is that supposed to mean you didn’t intend to tell me?” When she didn’t give him the correct answer for that question, he said, very very quietly, “You just agreed to take on a mountain of extra work—to become an integral part of a chocolate project that could throw the cacao market on its ear and shake up the whole chocolate industry. Yet you didn’t figure you needed to mention that you had a major health issue like a pregnancy on your plate?”

“Well. No.”

Okay. He didn’t have a temper, he’d told himself a hundred times. And if he did, there were very few people who could push it. But Lucy headed the list. Ramifications of this pregnancy—her pregnancy, their pregnancy—kept popping in his brain like mini-explosions. What to do. How. Where. When. But first, he obviously had to deal with that sick, panicked expression on Lucy’s face.

“Luce…listen to me. We can work out whatever you want to work out. We can make happen whatever you want to happen.” He heaved out a wary sigh. “Although you know my grandfather will only have one solution.”

“No one has to know it’s yours. And that includes Orson,” she promised him.

“That’s no solution.”

“I’ll get a mountain of pressure from family, too. Everyone will have an opinion about what I should do and try to railroad me into doing it.”

“Caving into pressure from any side is no solution, either.”

“So,” she said, as if that single word were a finished thought.

“So,” he echoed, and took a step forward, meaning to touch her. Why exactly, he didn’t know, when he had never initiated a personal contact of any kind with Luce before. But the instinct to touch seemed to bubble up from a well of frustration and helplessness—feelings he had no tolerance for. This was all going crazy wrong. So far their whole conversation had been awkward and weird and unnatural. For darn sure, he’d wanted to face her, wanted to have this out. Wanted it down in black ink, what they were both going to do—if there really was a pregnancy.

Only in both his head and heart, he just couldn’t seem to totally believe it. That single occasion, hell, it hadn’t even been a whole night. One single crazy, crazy hour had led to this. In fact, when he’d wakened the next morning—in his own bed, alone—he thought he’d dreamed the whole thing. It just seemed incomprehensible that anything intimate could have happened between them.

And now Lucy was shrinking from him.

Nick couldn’t remember feeling lost. The feeling was alien to everything he knew about himself. When his parents died, grief had overwhelmed him, but he’d had to take on responsibility and grow up so fast that he’d never had time to wallow. God knew, he’d made mistakes. And he’d played around plenty. But from the time he was a kid, he’d had the power to make all the major decisions about his own life with nominal outside interference. Now, though, there was Luce. Who didn’t seem willing to even talk to him, much less include him in giant decision-making that affected both of them.

This wasn’t just…upsetting and unsettling. He couldn’t feel more lost if he’d been dropped in the South Pole without a compass.

“Look, Luce,” he tried again. “Let’s work from stuff we know we can agree on. I’ll pay all your doctor bills. And for anything else you need or wanted related to this—”

“Actually, I don’t think I’ll need help. You know what great insurance I have from Bernard’s. But don’t worry. I’ll ask if something gets beyond what I can manage.”

Shit and double shit. Strangers could be having this conversation. Not people who were supposed to have been lovers. “Okay, skip any talk of money for now. What about…the pregnancy itself. I mean, I don’t know whether you’re scared or happy or angry or what. Have you thought about what you want to do?”

Her shoulders drooped just a little as she shook her head. “I just found out yesterday. To be honest, Nick, I’m still reeling.”

It was the first honest, natural thing she said. “Me, too,” he admitted. “I don’t know what to say, what to do. But it seems like the place to start is with the sure things. If you’re absolutely sure you want to keep the baby, that’s one thing. But if you’re considering—”

“An abortion? Or adoption?” She swallowed hard, as if trying to talk through a stone-size lump in her throat. “I’ll consider everything. All the options. But the only thing I’m positive of right now, Nick, is that you and I don’t even like each other. Not really. We had a moment. That’s all. There’s no basis for a marriage or anything crazy like that.”

“I wasn’t thinking marriage.”

“I’m sure you weren’t,” she said swiftly. “I just wanted to clear the air, make sure you know that I’d never pull that chain in a hundred years.”

She’d stiffened up all over again, as if braced for him to say something hurtful. He started to answer her, but then the doorknob rattled, followed by strange scratchy noises. “Not now,” Nick called out, but the knob just rattled again.

“Uncle Nick, it’s not me!” He heard Gretchen’s voice pipe up, and glanced at Lucy, who was obviously as distracted by the child’s voice as he was. Her lips twitched at Gretchen’s obvious fib.

“If it isn’t you, how come I can hear your voice?” Nick said wryly.

“Because it’s Baby and Boo Boo. Somehow they got in the front door. And they ran all over the place. They’re trying to find Lucy. And I can’t hold them. But don’t interrupt your meeting! I’m right here! I won’t let them in! Don’t you worry, Uncle Nick!”

Any other time, he’d have laughed—and Lucy undoubtedly would have, too. This time she just said quickly, “We can’t discuss this now, Nick. Not at work. And besides that…”

Yeah, he knew. Besides that, outside the door was clearly bedlam.

Of course, pregnancy was a kind of bedlam, too, but for now, hell, both his personal life and Project Bliss seemed like trying to handle balloons in a high wind. He’d not only lost control. He couldn’t imagine right then how the hell he was ever going to get control again.