Twelve Days (14 page)

On the fourth day of Christmas, Sam woke on the sofa in the family room feeling raw, all his emotions exposed in the harsh light of day.

His wife was driving him crazy. She'd touched him. He couldn't remember the last time she'd touched him. And then, when she'd kissed him...

He swore softly, and when he looked up there she was standing in the doorway wearing a familiar terry-cloth robe in a soft pink color, her hair caught in a careless knot on her head. Her face was totally bare, her toes, too. He could see them sticking out from under her robe, her nails painted a soft pink, too.

He took the sight of her, all rumpled and soft and so touchable, like a kick in the gut. Once more, he feared he was a split second away from grabbing her and locking his arms around her and kissing her as if he'd never, ever let her go. He'd barely gotten a sweet, familiar taste of her the night before, when she'd pulled away, looking every bit as surprised and uneasy as he'd been.

She didn't look so uneasy this morning, just surprised and a bit self-conscious as she held the robe together with a hand between her breasts. Now that he looked closer, he could see the damp tendrils of hair that escaped to unfurl against her neck, that flushed look to her skin, and that faint smell of lavender that told him she'd just gotten out of the bathtub. Looking closer still, he thought she must not have a thing on under that robe.

"Hi," she said.

He nodded, unable to get a word past his too-tight throat. God, he wanted to touch her so badly.

Crazy as it sounded, he'd actually decided it was better that they'd hardly touched at all in weeks. He thought he might wean himself off of her little by little, but still here so he could see her, sometimes smell her delicate lavender scent, still hear her voice. He was backing away one step at a time, doing all he could manage.

And now he wanted to grab her so bad he clenched his hands into fists, then didn't dare move a muscle.

"I... That last load of laundry wasn't quite dry when I went to bed, and my favorite pair of jeans are in there. I wanted to wear them today, but—"

"What?" he asked. What did laundry have to do with anything?

"Nothing. I just came down to get my clothes, and... Well, I'm surprised to find you still here."

Surprised he wasn't still avoiding her, she meant.

It was late for him to be getting up. He hadn't slept well at all. He'd been thinking of her, her soft, sweet mouth on his, her curled up under the quilt on their bed, her body all warm and soft and ready for him. And he thought it was a good thing to wean himself of her slowly? It was hell. Especially after last night.

"I'll just grab my clothes," she said, backing out of the room and disappearing through the laundry-room door.

Sam just stood there. He couldn't seem to do anything else.

She was back a moment later with her jeans in her hand and one of her favorite sweaters, a fuzzy blue thing that cupped her breasts in a way that used to make him ache to touch her, as well.

Every time he looked at her now, he thought about kissing her or touching her or even more than that.
Loving her.
There was a time when the best thing in his entire world had been loving her.

She disappeared upstairs as if someone were chasing her and she had to get away. Sam stood there for a full two minutes. He watched the time go by on the clock on the kitchen wall, and then he headed for the stairs. Their bedroom was the last door on the right. He walked in like a man who had every right to be there, caught her in the middle of tugging on her jeans, giving him a gut-clenching view of her bottom encased in a little pair of pink panties and long, smooth thighs that had him nearly groaning out loud.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, her cheeks even more flushed, and tugged on her jeans, her bra, her sweater, and even when that was done, she didn't turn to face him.

"What is it, Sam?" she asked, sounding as weary as he felt.

"You kissed me last night," he said, and it came out sounding like an accusation.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to," she said carefully.

"You haven't wanted me near you in months."

"I know. I'm sorry."

Which meant what? That it had finally registered in her head that he hadn't touched her in the longest time and that maybe something was wrong. That maybe she should do something about that.

"Is it so wrong for me to kiss you?" she whispered. "Because I still want to, Sam."

He glared at her. The ache in his chest just got bigger. It was growing like a balloon that might pop any moment.

"Is that so hard to believe?" she asked. "That I might miss you?"

"Yes," he said raggedly, reaching hard for every breath. She was going to kill him, right here and now.

Instead, she came to him, tentatively put her hands on his arms and stroked up and down. He thought her hands were trembling and knew he was, just from having her hands on him and feeling as if she wanted him.

She had the tiniest, most delicate hands. They'd almost not found a wedding band small enough to fit without it having to be sent off to be sized, and they hadn't had time for that. They'd run away to get married, because her family was still so upset with them and the baby was coming. Rachel didn't think they could wait for everyone to calm down, and she didn't want a lot of upset, unhappy people at their wedding. And Sam... well, he'd just wanted it done. He'd wanted his ring on her finger, her life seemingly irrevocably tied to his.

Right now, his ring was still on her finger, and her hands were on his body, and he had no idea what it meant. Because the ties had certainly unraveled over the years. They were frayed and worn and ready to snap in two at any moment.

Still, he wanted her. He was trying very hard to ignore the fact that they were in their bedroom and she'd come straight from the bath. He loved the taste of her skin, the smell of her, straight from the bath. Especially when he caught her just as she climbed out, her skin still warm and glowing and a bit wet. He loved backing her against the vanity, then lifting her onto it and sliding between her thighs and taking her, right there. So fast it made his head spin and hers.

She eased herself into his arms now, and his head went spinning just the same. His arms came around her, crushing her to him. He felt the contact down to his toes, and the next thing he knew, he was kissing her like the dying, starving man that he was. He pressed his mouth to hers and she opened to him. He let himself inside of her in that one small way. She tasted faintly of coffee and sugar, and herself, so familiar he shuddered and ached and pulled her harder against him.

"Rachel," he groaned, his hand at the small of her back, arching her to him, to fit into the cradle of his thighs and nestle against his hardening body.

She wound her arms around his neck, and he felt her hands in his hair, holding him to her. She was so soft, so touchable. It had been so long since she'd come to him so eagerly. He'd almost convinced himself she didn't want him at all anymore.

He kissed her again and again and again, was just backing her toward the bed when the baby started to cry. He didn't even realize what it was at first, and when she went to draw away from him, he simply couldn't let her go. His thoughts were so jumbled, all that registered was that this little bit of heaven was ending and that they might never get it back.

It seemed he wasn't as ready to give her up as he thought.

The baby cried again, the sound echoing around the room.

Rachel mouthed, "I'm sorry," as she slipped out of his arms and down the hallway.

Sam stood there, breathing hard, his head still filled with the scent of her, and he was getting angry. Because he'd made up his mind, made his peace with this. They were simply disaster together, him and Rachel. For half his life, he'd wanted her and tried to make her happy, and never been able to do it. Trying anymore seemed as futile as banging his head against a brick wall and nearly as painful, and yet he still wanted her.

Rachel was back a moment later, the baby he simply couldn't look at in her arms. She sat on the bed, her legs crossed, a pillow in her lap, the baby lying across it. He could hear her sucking contentedly on her bottle, and it was so odd, hearing a baby in this house, seeing her.

It felt different from all the times her sisters' and brother's kids had visited, because it was just him and Rachel and the other two children. It felt like their little family, in moments when Sam's control slipped and he let himself think dangerous thoughts like that. And it hurt. Even now, it still hurt.

He'd never held their baby. The doctor had tried to talk him into it, to hold her and build some memories of her and then let her go. He hadn't seen how anything could have helped him let her go, particularly holding her in his arms. But he was sorry now that he hadn't. He was so sorry for everything, still felt so guilty. How could a marriage possibly survive under a burden like that?

"Sam?" Rachel asked tentatively.

He turned his head away. "I've got to go, Rachel."

He headed down the stairs, ignoring her calling to him. He did it by remembering how it had ended last night, that broken look on her face when she'd apologized and he'd asked what she was apologizing for.

Everything,
she'd said with heartbreaking sadness.
Everything.

That one word had carried so many regrets, so much pain. There was nothing left between them. He deeply regretted it, but he couldn't fix it.

Sam would have rushed out the door and not come back all day, but when he walked into the kitchen, Emma was there sipping a glass of milk. Emma with her sad eyes that saw too much and an expression on her face that said she still thought he was something akin to the big bad wolf who snarled at little boys and girls over the breakfast table.

"Hi," she said, just as tentatively as Rachel had only moments ago.

Was he really such a bear? So scary and snarly? Was this what he'd become? A grumpy old man at thirty-two.

Sam stifled the impulse to swear once again and went to the counter to pour himself a cup of coffee, thinking he might still escape somewhere to lick his wounds and shore up his defenses against his wife, maybe keep his distance from these kids.

"Good morning," he said, once his back was to Emma.

"I heard the baby. I got up to get her, but Rachel was already there."

"Rachel's enjoying herself with the baby," he said. "With all three of you. Why don't you relax a little and let her take care of all of you."

Emma said nothing. He turned around and judging by her expression, she didn't like what she'd heard from him. He couldn't seem to do anything right this morning. He felt so totally inept when it came to dealing with these children. He was searching for something to do, something to say to her, when the phone rang, saving him. He grabbed it, hearing Miriam's voice on the other end.

"How is everything with the children?" she said.

"Peachy," he replied, growling at yet another woman this morning.

"This is getting old, Sam."

"Yes, it is." He knew it. He'd griped at Miriam the day before and griped at the world in general lately. He had to stop. Leveling his tone, he asked, "What can we do for you, Miriam?"

"I just wanted to check in on you all. Make sure everyone's all right."

"Everyone here is fine," he reassured her.

"Good. I also need for Rachel to do something for me. I need for the two oldest children to be at Dr. Wilson's office sometime this morning. He's doing me a favor. He agreed to draw blood and get DNA swabs today for testing, even if it is Sunday."

"Why do you need blood and DNA?"

"We sent out information about the children all over the country, and there's a couple in Virginia whose two children were kidnapped by their nanny almost four years ago, a newborn boy and a girl of seven, and they have never been found. They think the photos of Emma resemble an age-progression photo of their daughter, and the ages are similar, the eye color, and the hair color. This kind of thing is going to happen, Sam, and we'll have to check it out every time."

Sam didn't know what to say to that. He looked at Emma, imagining her at seven, snatched away from the only home she'd ever known, something he knew a whole lot about.

Oh, Emma,
he thought.
What has the world done to you?

Sam turned his back to her once again, because the girl seemed to know something was going on. Which made Sam think about Grace.

"What about the baby?" he said.

"I don't know. If the older two belong to that couple, it's no telling where Grace came from. Maybe snatched from another couple. First things first. Let's get the blood test and go from there."

"How long?" he said. "Before we know?"

"Depends on how far they have to go with the testing. They'll do blood typing, because that's quickest and inexpensive. If the blood types don't exclude the possibility of a match, they'll move onto DNA testing. The couple hired an independent lab to do the work. No waiting for backed-up state agencies. We'll overnight the samples Monday and should know something in a few days."

Sam thanked her and hung up the phone.

"Is my mom back?" Emma asked.

He turned and studied her face, so hopeful, so trusting, as if she had all the faith in the world in the woman who'd deserted her. How could that be?

"Is that woman your mother, Emma? The one who left you?"

"Of course."

"She's always been your mother?" he asked.

"Yes. Why?"

Sam shook his head back and forth. "I just can't see her leaving you like that, if she was your mother."

"She didn't want to," Emma insisted. "She just had to see somebody."

"Who?"

"Somebody who could help us."

"Help you? How?"

"She was sick."

As in... mentally ill? That was Sam's first thought. It was easier to think the woman had mental problems than to think she'd simply abandoned them.

"What was wrong with her?" he asked.