Four Reasons For Fatherhood. Muriel JensenЧитать онлайн книгу.
be all right with you if I just show up every three years or so?”
He knew that was nasty, but he was feeling nasty. She’d completely misunderstood what he was trying to do here and he just couldn’t figure her at all. So even though they had four little boys in common, it didn’t look as though they were going to find a way to come together on anything.
She sagged visibly. “I said I was sorry about that. I’m defensive about people who come and go in other people’s lives, because my father did that. He built bridges in Africa and Central America. I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of love that’s only intermittent.”
“Maybe the love was constant,” he suggested after a moment. “It was just that the nature of his work only allowed you to see him intermittently.”
She shook her head. “All the child knows is that he’s never there. And after you’ve waited months and months and he finally arrives, you suddenly realize that he’s going to be gone again before you know it. I don’t think children should have to live like that.”
“I had no children when I embarked on this life. And it’s not like I go thousands of miles away. I just go to work.”
She nodded. “But the result is the same. Your family never saw you and they missed you.”
She was right. Guilt rattled inside him.
“Why don’t you relax for the rest of the evening?” he said, moving toward the stairs. “I’ll get them going on their showers after the movie.”
She opened her mouth to protest that he’d been working hard all day, but he cut her off with a wry, “It’s your last chance. I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon. Go on. You must have something to do to get ready for your show on Friday.”
It was for the best, she knew. Her real life with the boys would include only the five of them, so the sooner they adjusted to that reality the better off they would all be. It was only right.
She just couldn’t decide why it felt so wrong.
SUSAN HEARD THE WIND pick up around two in the morning. It whispered in the trees behind the house but within minutes had grown to a roar. Branches scraped against the house and the windows; she heard the trash can at the side of the house fall over, the chimes on the patio tinkled as though trying to play some up-tempo jazz piece.
And then she heard the first rumble of thunder. It was in the distance, low as the crackling of paper.
Oh, no. She hated electrical storms. She had no childhood trauma to trace it back to, no logical explanation for the serious fear that built in her when thunder rattled overhead and made the house shake.
It wasn’t hereditary because her mother had always slept through them, surprised to hear in the morning that there’d been a storm.
She remembered sitting in the middle of her bed as a child, knees pulled up to her chin, eyes closed against the flashes of light as she rocked herself and waited for the storm to end.
The second clap of thunder came, considerably closer and therefore louder.
“This is ridiculous,” she told herself firmly as she swung her legs to the floor. She was a mother now. She couldn’t cower in the middle of her bed. She had to check on the boys, bring in the chime before it woke the whole neighborhood, put the trash can in the garage.
A peek into the rooms showed the boys still sound asleep. She adjusted blankets, tucked in feet, then left both doors slightly ajar as she ran downstairs to haul in the chimes.
As she did so, a brilliant flash of lightning lit the sky and she hurried back inside, the bamboo tubes riotously noisy in her hands. She closed the doors and put the chime on the dining-room table.
But she wasn’t fast enough to cover her ears before the clap of thunder struck, louder, closer, reverberating long enough to laugh at her attempts at courage.
But she made herself function. The trash can. She had to bring in the trash can.
She opened the kitchen door into the garage and reached to the side for the light switch—and collided with a solid object trying to occupy the same space.
Shock was followed instantly by terror. She screamed as a hand reached out to catch her arm, the sound bloodcurdling even to her own ears.
“Susan, it’s me!” Aaron said, flipping on the light. He was still holding her arm, looking as though she’d alarmed him as much as he’d alarmed her.
She stared at him, unable to speak.
“I heard the trash can rolling around,” he explained, “and I thought I’d better bring it in before you had to chase it into the next county. I’m sorry I frightened you. I didn’t realize you were up.”
“It’s all right,” she whispered, her heartbeat choking her. “I…didn’t know you were awake.”
Light filled the dark house like sunshine, then was snuffed in an instant as thunder crashed and rolled, the noise deafening and interminable.
Susan wasn’t sure whether to cover her ears to block the sound or her mouth to hold back the scream. She decided to cover her ears and bite her lips.
Aaron flipped off the garage light, stepped into the kitchen and pulled the door closed.
“Are you afraid of—?” Lightning flashed and thunder struck again, sounding as though a truckload of cymbals had overturned on the roof.
All pretense of courage gone. Susan wrapped her arms around Aaron’s chest and held on. It helped considerably when he enfolded her, providing a haven against the next barrage of sound, and the one after that.
SEPARATING HER FROM HIM, Aaron speculated with a smile in the darkness, would probably require surgery. She was holding him so tightly, it felt as though she would join him in his skin if she could, as though their bodies may already have fused in a few places.
“I don’t like…thunder,” she said against him in a quiet moment, her fingers still clutching the back of the T-shirt he’d pulled on with his jeans.
He ran a hand gently between her shoulder blades. “And I thought this was just a very bold seduction,” he teased.
She raised her head long enough to give him a scolding look, then lightning flashed and she buried her face against him again as the harsh sound followed.
He noticed she was trembling and felt sure it was due as much to her mid-thigh-length nightshirt as it was to her fear of the storm.
He swung her up into his arms and carried her to the sofa bed in the family room. He sat down with her and pulled the blanket over her.
“You’re probably thinking,” she said in a frail voice, “that it’s ridiculous for a grown woman to be afraid of thunder.”
“No,” he said. “I was just wondering if you’re warm enough.”
She sighed and let her head fall against his shoulder. “I’m fine. You’re very warm.”
“Mmm.” Actually he was getting a little hot. Hotter than was really safe under the circumstances.
“I can’t believe this hasn’t awakened the boys,” she said. “They were sleeping soundly when I checked, but it wasn’t this bad then.”
“I’m sure they’ll come looking for us if they wake up.”
“Are you comfortable?” she asked.
That was a tricky question. His body was comfortable. The blanket covered him, too, warding off the nighttime coolness of the house. But the softness of her in his lap, the loop of her arms around his neck, the silken skin of her cheek against his throat was making him decidedly uncomfortable.
She wasn’t his type; he’d concluded that already. And she considered him a failure at familial relationships.
But