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"Are you sick, Mom?" Claire laid her palm against her mother's forehead. It felt hot, too hot.

"What's wrong with her?" she asked the nurse on duty.

"Now, don't worry, Mrs. Callahan. She's just got a cold. She complained about her chest hurting last night."

Claire frowned. She hated that patronizing tone some nurses and doctors adopted. She wasn't stupid and she didn't worry needlessly. Despite what the nurse said, she didn't like the look of Kitty's eyes.

"She'll be fine," the nurse insisted.

But Claire couldn't stop worrying, and even Nick's homecoming the next day couldn't keep her mind from her mother for long.

At dinner he mentioned her preoccupation. "Is something wrong?"

Her eyes met his. She sighed. "I'm worried about my mother. She's sick." She quickly explained Kitty's condition. "When I was there today, I had a chance to talk to Dr. Phillips and he finally admitted he's worried about pneumonia."

Nick frowned. "Shouldn't she be in the hospital?"

"I asked him that and he assured me that if her condition warrants a move, she'll be moved." Claire sighed. "He's a good doctor. I think he'll watch her closely."

Nick didn't say anything else, but his eyes were thoughtful. Later, as they were preparing for bed, he said, "I'll call tomorrow and talk to Dr. Phillips myself, Claire."

A warm rush of gratitude filled her heart. "Thank you. That will make me feel a lot better."

Still later, as they lay in bed together, he said, "I went to see a specialist while I was in Boston."

Claire's heart jumped in alarm. "What's wrong?"

"Don't worry. Nothing’s wrong . . ." He hesitated. "I wanted assurance I wasn't sterile."

Sterile! Had he been worried that it was his fault she hadn't conceived?

"But all the tests showed everything's normal." He tightened his arms around her. "So neither one of us needs to worry about your not getting pregnant yet. The specialist agreed with Dr. Ardale. He said we're worrying about it too much."

That night, Claire fell asleep more lighthearted than she'd felt in weeks, secure in the knowledge that Nick would take care of everything.

* * *

Two days later Kitty was moved to the hospital. She was diagnosed with double pneumonia. For a few days after she'd been admitted, her condition remained stable but serious. Then, abruptly, several complications developed, among them absesses on both lungs and pleurisy.

Nick called his office and told Wanda to cancel all his appointments. "I'll be here at the hospital if you need me," he said.

He could see how worried Claire was. Her face was pale and strained. For hours they sat together outside Kitty's room. She had been moved into intensive care, and they were permitted to see her for five minutes every hour.

After forty-six straight hours during which Claire refused to leave her mother, Nick was still at her side. He did everything he could to alleviate her burden: he talked to the doctors, he insisted she eat, he paid for a room down the hall from the waiting room and forced Claire to lie down. She didn't sleep, but she did rest.

Finally, at five o'clock that afternoon, Kitty's condition improved slightly, and her doctor came out to talk with Claire and Nick.

"She's doing better," he said. He glanced at Claire, then directed his remark to Nick. "Why don't you take your wife home, Mr. Callahan? Both of you could use a good night's sleep. Come back in the morning."

"I don't want to leave," Claire said.

Nick hated to pressure her, but he could see that she wasn't going to last much longer. She was devoid of color except for dark smudges beneath her eyes. He gave the doctor a meaningful look. The doctor nodded slightly.

"Mrs. Callahan, I promise I will phone you if anything changes."

"But—"

"Go home, get some rest."

"Nick?" She looked up.

Nick's chest tightened when he saw the frightened expression in Claire's eyes. "It'll be okay," he promised. He put his arm around her waist, and when she laid her head against his shoulder, he hoped he was right.

* * *

Where was it? She had to find it. It was somewhere, somewhere in the fog. Claire tried to take a step, but the thick fog swirled around her, and when she tried to escape its creeping tendrils, her legs wouldn't work. She cried out as the fog crept closer. "No, no, I have to go. I have to." Her heart pounded in fear. She felt so helpless. Panic was beginning to set in.

Someone was talking softly. Someone held her shoulders. "Claire, it's okay. You were dreaming. You're okay."

Nick. She fell back against the pillows and opened her eyes. The bedroom was dark except for the soft glow of the lamp in their adjoining sitting room.

Claire shuddered. "Wh . . . what time is it?"

Nick slipped his arm around her and pulled her close. His body felt warm and safe. His lips nuzzled her temple. "It's four-thirty."

Four-thirty. She'd been dreaming she had to go somewhere, but she wasn't able to move. She could still taste the fear when she'd realized she was helpless. She shivered again.

"Were you dreaming about your mother?"

"No ... at least I don't think so . . . I . . . felt as if I'd lost something, as if I had to find it, but I was helpless. I couldn't make my legs move. I was so afraid."

His arms tightened. "Well, the dream's over. You're safe here with me, darling."

Claire lay very still.
Darling.
He'd called her darling. She turned her head toward him. "Nick," she whispered, but the whisper was cut off as his lips met hers.

He made love to her with sweetness and tenderness and a giving of himself that made Claire feel warm and comforted and protected. And when they came together in a stunning climax, she clung to him.

Afterward, she dozed off to sleep once more, only waking when she heard Nick talking in low tones.

She sat up sleepily. Muted sunlight filled the bedroom. Nick stood with his back to her as he spoke softly into the bedside phone. She smiled. He'd been away from his office for nearly three days.

But when he turned around and she saw his face, she went cold inside. His eyes never leaving her face, he walked around the bed. "Claire ..."

She knew. She knew even before he spoke.

"Claire, darling, I'm so sorry." He sat on her side of the bed and drew her into his arms.

No!
Claire's mind screamed a denial.
No!
She stared at Nick. "How . . . what happened?"

"She just gave up. Quit fighting. They tried everything, but they couldn't save her."

"Mom," Claire whispered. Tears gushed from her eyes as her body shook uncontrollably. Nick's arms held her tightly, his hands stroked her hair and her back.

Images of her mother swirled through her mind. Kitty baking peanut butter cookies. Kitty singing in the kitchen, her high, clear voice floating in the air. Kitty playing the piano. Kitty posing in front of the mirror in her bedroom, trying on one dress after another. Kitty bringing Claire hot tea and cinnamon toast when Claire was home with a bad cold.

Her mother was only fifty-three years old. How could she be dead?

Mom, Mom. Don't leave me. Please don't leave me.

The one person who had always thought Claire was perfect was gone. Claire felt, as if the anchor that had kept her securely fastened to the world had slipped, and now she was cartwheeling through space with nothing to hold on to.

All the tears Claire hadn't shed over the past six years, she shed now. She felt as if she'd never be able to stop crying. And the whole time, Nick held her and whispered comforting words. Finally, when her tears had subsided he gently helped her from the bed.

"Why don't you take a hot bath, and I'll call your aunt and uncle and Peachey," he said. He squeezed her hands.

Claire nodded numbly. Her head throbbed and her eyes felt grainy. She heard him making the calls while she soaked in the hot water, but her brain refused to function the way it normally did. She soaped herself, rinsed, dried herself, began to dress—but all the while her mind was divorced from her physical activity. All she could think about was Kitty. Now her mother would never be the person Claire remembered. Kitty's life was over, and Claire would never see her again.

Claire sat at her dressing table and stared at herself in the mirror. The haunted face staring back at her didn't look like anyone she knew. She shivered against the thought that refused to disappear. Lowering her head onto her arms, she closed her eyes.

Her mother was dead.

Now there was no one left who loved Claire unconditionally.

No one.

* * *

Aunt Lily and Uncle David and Peachey had all come and gone again. Claire moved through the day like a sleepwalker. She heard the words people said, but they had no real meaning. When Nick gave her two pills to take, saying, "Claire, take these. Then try to get some rest."

"I want to go see my mother," she said.

"Later. We can't see her until later today." He bent and kissed her cheek. "Please, darling. Lie down. You're going to need your strength in the next couple of days."

Wearily, she succumbed. She took the pills, then lay on the bed and tried to sleep. Anything to escape her thoughts. Even Nick's tenderness and his continued use of the endearment darling failed to bring her comfort. She wasn't sure how much time had passed, but when she couldn't sleep, she headed for the tower room, a place she had come to think of as her refuge.

Later that afternoon, just as the shadows began to lengthen, Claire heard the low rumble of voices in Nick's study downstairs. She shook off the fog of half-sleep and rose from the loveseat. She recognized Tim's voice. She walked toward the stairway, actually had one foot on the top rung when Tim's voice stopped her.

"Will her mother's death affect your arrangement with Claire?"

Suddenly her mind was clear of all cobwebs, and she froze.

Nick's reply was clear and devoid of emotion. "Why should it? I still want a child. Even though Kitty is dead, Claire won't back out on our agreement."

"What if she never gets pregnant? What then?" Tim said.

A cold lump settled into Claire's breast. The same question had been haunting her for months. The sense of loss and loneliness that had been so overwhelming throughout the long, terrible day settled over her shoulders like a cloak of armor—heavy and inescapable. On top of losing Kitty, would she also lose Nick? Whether or not he loved her, she loved him, and life without him didn't bear thinking about.

But was she being fair to him? If she couldn't conceive a child for him, was it fair to keep him shackled to her out of some sense of fair play? Shouldn't she offer to give him a divorce so that he could find someone else—someone who
could
give him a child?

Claire closed her eyes against the pain that gripped her. A life without Kitty. Without Nick. Without love.

Please, God. Let me be pregnant now. Let last night's lovemaking result in a child. A little Kitty who can bear her grandmother's name. Someone I can love who will love me back. Please, God. I want a baby so badly—for me and for Nick.

* * *

Three days later, Claire stood at the graveside and watched as the minister read a final prayer before the casket was lowered into the ground. It was only mid-December, but overnight a cold front had moved in and the day was overcast and chilly with a forecast of rain. She shivered although she wore her full-length ranch mink. She felt numb. The events of the past days— Kitty's death, the hours at the funeral home, the scores of flowers, many of them from Nick's business acquaintances and friends, the cards and calls, the whole ritual of death—had kept her moving, but inside she felt hollow, with an emptiness that frightened her, and two thoughts churned over and over in her mind.

Her mother was gone.

And if she couldn't conceive a child for him, she would lose her husband, too.

That night, as Nick drew her into his arms, the emptiness was so vast she felt devoid of all feeling. And for the first time in their marriage, she said, "Not tonight," and rolled away from him. Then she lay for hours with her eyes open.

* * *

December 18th. It was one week before Christmas. Ten more days to wait. She and Nick hadn't made love since the night of Kitty's death. Claire didn't know why, but in some twisted way, she felt she didn't deserve the comfort of his arms and the pleasure he gave her. She was either pregnant now or she never would be. And if she never would be, she'd better get used to going without his lovemaking.

* * *

Christmas Day. It was a blur of images. Nick tried so hard, but nothing he said or did made Claire feel alive. They kept their celebration small because of Claire's bereavement—just Peachey and Tim and Claire's aunt and uncle—and Claire tried to take part, tried to enjoy the day, but even Nick's gift—an exquisite jewel-incrusted music box that played "I Will Wait For You," which Claire knew was Nick's reminder of their honeymoon—failed to give her joy or hope. Inside of her, she could feel a clock ticking, a relentless countdown. Three more days, it said. Three more days.

But she didn't have to wait that long.

The day after Christmas, two days ahead of her normal cycle, Claire felt the dull ache of cramps beginning.

* * *

Claire took a deep breath, raised her fist, and knocked on the door of Nick's study. "Come in," he called. She opened the door, and he looked up and smiled.

"Hi. Why'd you knock? You know you're always welcome in here." He stood, and when she walked toward him, he placed his hands on her upper arms and leaned and kissed her cheek. "Feeling better after your nap?" he asked, and she could see the concern in his eyes.

Claire held herself stiffly. Pain suffused her, but she couldn't allow herself to give in to it. All night she'd lain sleepless. She hadn't told Nick about this latest disappointment. And since he'd been treating her very gently since Kitty's death, he didn't try to force her to make love. When he touched her shoulder and she shook her head, he didn't push her.