That was a blessing, she decided, as the odor grew more pronounced. The air itself felt saturated with grease, coating her tongue and throat every time she took a breath. The exhaust fan in the bathroom ceiling seemed to be sucking the smell of the frying meat in under the door. She’d heard of pregnant women getting horribly sick when they smelled grease, but never had she imagined it would be as awful as this. Her stomach rolled. She gulped frantically, trying to swallow her gorge. Her feeling of nausea went from mild to pronounced in seconds. Sick, she was going to be sick.
Carly barely managed to get her hair rinsed before the nausea hit her in punishing waves. She shoved back the shower curtain, stumbled from the bathtub, and barely had time to grab a towel before her stomach started turning inside out.
Hank had quickly changed out of his monkey suit while the bacon fried. His work shirt not yet buttoned, he was about to crack an egg into the skillet when he heard an odd sound. He cocked his head to listen. It sounded as if Carly was gagging. He turned off the gas burner and raced to the living room. As he approached the bathroom, he called out, “Carly, are you okay in there?”
“Don’t—come—in. Fine. I’m f-fine.”
She didn’t sound fine. He curled his hand over the doorknob. He heard her retching again. When he could stand it no longer, he cracked open the door. Wrapped in a towel, she was on her knees by the commode, her slender hands clenched over the rim of the bowl to support her upper body. He took one look and pushed inside. She saw him from the corner of her eye and released her hold on the porcelain to hug the terrycloth to her breasts.
“Go away. I’m not dressed.” A violent spasm racked her body. When it subsided, she sobbed and said, “Get out of here. Please. I need some privacy.”
No way. Hank grabbed a clean washcloth from the bowl by the sink and wet it with cold water. Then he went down on one knee behind her.
“Here, sweetheart,” he said as he slipped an arm around her waist.
Her hands closed over his wrist and forearm. The towel started to slip, and she mewled in distress.
“Easy, easy.” Hank discarded the washcloth and grabbed the nightgown she’d pulled from the overnight case and left on the vanity. “It’s all right, sweetheart. I’ll get you covered.”
Beneath his wrist, he felt her stomach muscles knot. The next second her body jerked as another wave of nausea struck. She got nothing up. After drinking binges, he’d experienced the dry heaves a few times and knew how they hurt. He also recalled how utterly exhausted he’d been afterward.
After the spasms abated, he supported her weight with one arm while he worked the nightgown over her head. When he grasped one of her hands to poke it down a sleeve, she resisted, clinging frantically to the towel.
“I won’t let the towel slip. There’s my girl. Give me your hand.” Working in increments, he finally got the nightgown on her. “See there?” The roomy folds of cotton encompassed both woman and towel. “You’re completely covered.”
His heart caught when she let her head fall back against his shoulder. Her wet hair felt cold where the strands dangled against his bare chest. He tugged the towel from under her gown and dried her hair with one hand to keep her nightclothes from getting soaked. She leaned weakly against him as he worked.
“Sick, so sick,” she whispered. “The bacon. The smell.”
“Oh, God, I’m sorry.” Hank remembered his mother telling him how sick she’d always gotten if anyone fried bacon around her when she was pregnant. “I never even thought.”
“Me either,” she said weakly. “I didn’t know it’d make me sick.”
Hank wished he could trade places with her. The bout of vomiting had left her looking totally exhausted. He could feel her body quivering. “I’m here, sweetheart. I don’t have much practice caring for pregnant ladies, but I’ll learn as I go.”
He tossed aside the towel and grabbed the washcloth again. He cranked on the faucet, freshened the terry with cold water, and bathed her upturned face. As he dabbed under her eyes, she wrinkled her nose and frowned. Her small face was a roadmap of black streaks, compliments of the mascara that he’d applied to her lashes earlier that day. After rubbing her cheeks clean, he tucked in his chin to regard her pale features. Perfect. Even with her hair hanging in damp ropes over her shoulders, she was beautiful—a church angel, just as he’d described her to his father. Only she was wonderfully real and all the sweeter for it—an impossibly pretty lady who’d lived in a bubble all her life, until he’d come along to burst it.
“I’m hoping the coolness will help. It always makes me feel better.”
“Mm,” she murmured and rested more of her weight against him.
Hank moved the cloth to her arched throat. She sighed, her soft bottom coming to rest high on his thigh. A certain part of his body hardened, and he clenched his teeth, hating himself for responding to the contact. She might not realize that a man had no control over things like that. He didn’t want to alarm her.
“When this passes, I’ll get you to bed. Maybe you can fall asleep.”
With no warning, she began retching again. Hank gripped her shoulders until the nausea ran its course. The violence of the heaves worried him. He feared that she might injure herself or the baby. Afterward, he pressed the wet cloth to her convulsing throat again. The coldness seemed to help, and she sighed shakily.
“This is so humiliating. I could just die.”
Hank’s heart caught at the hopeless resignation in her voice. He rested his jaw atop her head. “Don’t be silly. Everyone gets sick now and then.”
She shuddered and gulped. He simply held her for a while. Then he gathered her into his arms, struggled to his feet, and carried her to the bedroom. The backs of her bare thighs felt damp and warm against the inside of his right forearm. In order to lay her down, he circled to the far side of the bed.
She moaned when her head touched the pillow. Then she pushed weakly at the hem of the gown, trying to cover her legs. Hank lent assistance, tugging at the cotton where it was trapped under her bottom. His knuckles connected with soft flesh, and memory blips flashed through his head of that night, how silken and smooth her skin had felt when he’d pulled down her jeans.
“I need to stay in the bathroom,” she protested. “Sick. I’ll get sick again.”
Hank hurried back to the bathroom for a freshly lined wastebasket. When he took it to her, she rolled onto her side, hugged it with one arm, and hooked her chin over the edge. He sat beside her and smoothed her hair back from her face, wishing to God he knew what to do.
“Aside from that little bit at Mom’s, you haven’t eaten anything since breakfast. Right?”
She nodded almost imperceptibly.
Hank glanced at his watch. It was nine o’clock. If she’d eaten at eight that morning, she’d put nothing substantial in her stomach for thirteen hours. Going on an empty stomach made him feel slightly nauseated sometimes, and he wasn’t pregnant. He tugged the sheet up over her legs.
A moment later, her body convulsed, her knees jerking up to bump his hip. Her delicate features contorted. In the light from the bathroom, he could see tiny red spots appearing on her eyelids. She was straining so hard that capillaries were bursting. That couldn’t be good for her or the baby.
He wet a fresh washcloth and pressed it to her throat. Then he went to the kitchen to phone his mother. If anyone on earth knew what to do, it had to be Mary Coulter. She’d borne six children.
Mary was laughing when she answered the phone. By that Hank knew the wedding celebration was still in full swing. “Mom, this is Hank. Carly’s really sick. Dry heaves. I’m a little worried.”
Mary clucked her tongue. “That flu is nasty stuff. Do you have anything for an upset stomach?”
Hank released a weary breath. “It’s not the flu, Mom. She’s pregnant. I can’t give her just anything for fear it may hurt the baby.”
Long silence. Then Mary said, “Oh. I see.”
Hank wished he’d been ab
le to break the news to her a little more gently. The best laid plans. He heard Carly retching again and ran a shaky hand over his hair. “This is bad, really bad. I have no idea what to do.”
“Saltines and Seven-Up always settled my stomach when I was expecting.”
“I doubt she could hold it down.” He glanced toward the bedroom again. Carly had quieted now. “I’m afraid all the straining will make her miscarry or something.”
“I used to get so sick I thought I’d die, but I didn’t, and neither did my babies. You need to get something in her stomach if she’s got the dry heaves. Do you have any saltines?”
“No, but I can check at the main house or run get some.”
“And Seven-Up,” Mary added. “Room temperature’s best. Let the carbonation dissipate a bit. Tiny nibbles of saltines and sips of the soda. Too much, too fast will only make her sick again. If that doesn’t work, you should call the ER and see if you should take her in. I’m certainly no doctor.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
Mary sighed. “You’re welcome, Hank. I’ll expect a call in the morning to let me know how she and my grandchild are doing.”
Hank knew that tone. “I’m sorry for dropping the news on you like this. I intended to tell you soon. I just didn’t want to say anything before the wedding.”
“A baby, Hank? How on earth did that happen?”
Hank started to answer, but then, for the life of him, he couldn’t think what to say. For years, his mother’s naiveté had been a family joke. She’d told all her children the stork had left them beside the bed in their father’s boot. None of them had ever believed it, of course, but Mary had seemed so certain of her facts that they’d been pretty sure she did. Now that he was grown, Hank knew better, but he still found it difficult to discuss things of that nature with her.
“It just happened, Mom,” he settled for saying.
Mary clucked her tongue. “Well, it’s a lovely surprise. And here we are, running low on champagne. This is definitely reason to celebrate. A new little Coulter is on the way.”
Hank pinched the bridge of his nose. His mother would announce the news to everyone the moment she got off the phone unless his father managed to gag her. Ah, well. It wasn’t as if the secret could be kept for long. She’d save him the trouble of telling everyone. It’d be less embarrassing for Carly that way.
“Love you, Mom.”
“I love you, too.” She paused. “Should we have a mother-and-son talk?”
“About what?” he asked cautiously.
“I don’t want to see that lovely young woman having one baby after another, with barely a break in between. You need to plan these things.”
This woman had popped out six kids like a Gatling gun run amok, and she was lecturing him? “I know.”
“Yes, well. After this, try doing it to music with a nice beat. I’ve heard it helps.”
Music? The tips of Hank’s ears burned. “That’s a new one.”
“Not really. Been around for years. It’s called the rhythm method.”
An airless pounding began in his temples. He was holding his breath, trying not to laugh. Great joke—if she was kidding. Dangerous ground if she wasn’t. “Hmm.”
“If that doesn’t work, try using your socks.”
The image that leaped to mind made him wince. “My socks?”
“Yes, sweetie.” Mary giggled. “When you take off your boots, stuff your socks in them. That way, the stork can’t make his delivery, and he moves next door to the neighbor’s house.”
Hank was still standing there, grinning like a fool, when his mother broke the connection.
Seconds later when he reentered Carly’s room, she was resting. He hated to disturb her, but he didn’t want her to waken and not know where he was.
He touched her shoulder. “I’m going to get some stuff that may settle your stomach.” When she stirred, he added, “I hate to leave you like this. If I have to go clear to the store, will you be okay for about thirty minutes?”
She made an unintelligible sound. Hank drew up the covers so she wouldn’t get chilled. “I’ll hurry. Okay?”
She nodded.
Hank didn’t want to leave her, but he had no choice. On Friday night, the hired hands went to town. Molly and Jake were at his parents’ house. If there were no saltines or Seven-Up at the main house, he’d have to drive to the market for some. Remembering how light hurt her eyes, he turned off the overhead fixture as he left the room.
Carly yearned for sleep, but the bouts of nausea came so frequently that dozing was impossible. She tried lying on her back. No help. Her stomach churned no matter what she did. Oh, God. She was so sick she thought she might die. When another wave of nausea struck, she almost wished she would.
Afterward, she lay with her head resting on the edge of the wastebasket, her eyes unfocused on the white plastic liner forming a cocoon around her face. She wondered what Hank had gone to get. She hoped it helped, whatever it was, and would be safe for the baby. She had no idea what time it was, only that it had grown late. She couldn’t believe he’d dressed and left the house just to get something for her stomach. It was sweet of him. Maybe, she decided dimly, he wasn’t as self-centered as she believed.
As if her thoughts had summoned him, she heard the rumble of his truck. Moments later, headlights bathed the room. She heard the engine die. Then a door slammed, and boots thumped across the porch. He had a distinct walk, a decisive but relaxed stride, one heel shuffling with every other step. An expert at identifying people by their walks, she filed that information away. If her eyesight failed completely, she might need to know the sound of his walk someday.
He entered the house with exaggerated care, barely making any sound. Carly realized he hoped she was sleeping. Oh, how she wished she were. Eyes closed, she listened as he approached the bed.
“I’m awake,” she told him, her voice so hoarse it didn’t sound like her own.
“How’s the tummy?” Gentle concern thickened his voice.
“Same.”
“I was afraid of that. I’ll be right back. Okay?”
He left the room, making no attempt to be quiet now. She heard the rustle of paper sacks, then the sound of his footsteps going to the kitchen. When he returned to the bedroom a minute later, he said, “Here it is, the Coulter cure for morning sickness, saltine crackers and Seven-Up.”
She clung to the wastebasket. “I can’t. It’ll make me sick.”
The glass clicked as he set it on the table. A gentle glow of amber bathed the room when he flipped on the bedside lamp. The mattress sank as he sat beside her. The soft light bathed his chiseled features so she could see him clearly.
“There’s nothing in your stomach. That’s why you’ve got the dry heaves.” Paper crinkled as he opened a sleeve of crackers. “Tiny nibbles and sips.” He tugged the wastebasket from her limp embrace and set it on the floor. “Let’s try the pop first. Your mouth is probably too dry to swallow.”
“I can’t,” Carly insisted.
He slipped an arm under her shoulders to cup the back of her head in a big hand. Bringing the glass to her lips, he said, “Just a little, sweetheart.”
Carly was too weak to argue with him. She took a tiny sip. To her surprise, it tasted good. He tipped the glass higher to give her a bit more. Then he lowered her head back to the pillow, handed her a single saltine, and urged her to take one bite.
“Just hold it on your tongue until it starts to dissolve,” he advised. “We’ll sneak some food down you. How’s that? Maybe your tummy won’t notice.”
The rationale eluded her, but he was determined. She nipped off a corner of the cracker and held it on her tongue until it grew mushy. Then she finally swallowed. She expected her stomach to turn inside out, but instead it growled.
Hank chuckled. “There, you see?” He glanced at his watch. “Three minutes. Then we’ll do it again.”
Silence settled over them. Carly had no idea how much time passed. She only
knew he gave her five sips of the pop, presumably at three-minute intervals, and she was starting to feel a bit better when he suddenly said, “What we need is conversation. I doubt you feel like talking, so I guess it falls to me.” He rested his arms on his knees. “This is a first. I can’t think what to say.” He slanted her a sidelong glance rife with mischief. “Could be the surroundings. Most times when I get a lady into bed, talking is the last thing on my mind.”
Carly wasn’t sure how to take that. He distracted her with a snap of his fingers. “That reminds me.” He reached in his pocket and drew something out. “Our agreement,” he explained. “The no-custody-suit, no-fun-for-Hank paper.”
He laid it on the table, safely away from the glass of pop. “I’m sorry I didn’t remember to give it to you at the apartment. I intended to, along with the bouquet and ring, but then you answered the door, and—” He broke off, tugged on his earlobe, and smiled. “We kind of got sidetracked.” He let that hang there for a moment. “In all the rush, I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings by insisting that you change dresses and all that. You looked beautiful. Honestly. It was just a little much for an afternoon wedding.”
Carly stared at the moon-washed window. Receiving compliments from him was embarrassing, a brutal reminder of how foolishly she’d behaved the night they met. He didn’t think she was pretty, had never thought so, and she’d been an idiot to climb in that truck with him.
He startled her by touching her hair. She flicked him a wary look to find him studying her with a wondering frown. “Okay, out with it. I just said something that upset you.”
“It’s nothing.” Nothing important, anyway. She wouldn’t allow it to be.
He arched a dark eyebrow. “Do I have to go back over everything I just said, point by point, and figure it out myself?”
“It’s not important.”
“Uh-huh.” His tone conveyed he wasn’t convinced. He lifted her head from the pillow to give her another sip of pop. Then he handed her another cracker. While she lay there, moistening a piece of saltine on her tongue, he began repeating everything he’d just told her. “I said I was sorry for not giving you the paper this afternoon.” He paused to study her face. “Nope, that wasn’t it.” He grinned and tried again. “Then I mentioned the bouquet and ring.” He regarded her closely as he spoke. “I’m batting a terrible average. One more strike, and I’m out. After that, I said—”