Andie awoke to the sound of thunder. Outside, she could hear the heavy pounding of rain. It pattered on the deck and beat on the roof before it tumbled down the gutters to the ground below. She looked at the clock: past two. She was alone in the bed.

There was a frigid draft coming from somewhere. She shivered and saw that the glass door to the deck was open a crack. Her robe was thrown across the chair by her side of the bed. She reached for it and wrapped it around herself. Then she rose and padded across the hardwood floor to the glass door.

She looked outside, scanning the deck for Clay as she started to push the door closed. Lightning streaked across the sky. She saw him, as the thunder boomed.

He stood at the railing, his body held very erect, his face tipped up to the pouring rain. He was naked. The rain streamed down his face, slicked his hair to his scalp and ran down his body in a thousand tiny rivulets. His face, in profile, was transfixed, pure, strong, very male.

Andie gasped. He took her breath away. She’d known him for nearly twenty years. But did she really know him at all? All those years she had taunted him for lacking a spirit of adventure, for being Cautious Clay.

And all this time, he’d been someone who stood naked in freezing rainstorms. It was humbling, she realized. How little we know of those who fill our lives.

As she watched, he turned his head slowly to meet her eyes through the glass of the door. It was as if he had felt the intensity of her gaze. Water ran in his eyes now and dripped off his chin and nose. He stared at her over his shoulder, his eyes far away, defiant. Lightning flashed and thunder cracked once again. And then he turned fully toward her and walked to where she waited beyond the glass door.

She pulled it open enough that he could step through and then closed it behind him to keep out the rain and the biting wind.

She could feel the coldness, the wetness of him as she turned from the door to face him. “What were you doing out there?” There was nothing of the worried wife in her voice, only her curiosity, her wonderment.

He shrugged. “I’ve always loved storms. My mother—not Della, the other one, Rita—she loved storms.”

Andie opened her robe. “You’re cold. Come here.”

He took one step. She enfolded him, wrapping her robe and her arms around him. He sighed and she gasped as his body met hers. He was cold, so cold. She shivered as she gave him her body’s heat.

He started kissing her before she had warmed them both. And then she forgot her shivering. He stepped back and scooped her against his chest and carried her to the bed.

They had been married a week. To Andie, it seemed that what they shared now had always been. He touched her and found her ready. He slid inside. Andie welcomed him with a lifting of her hips and a gratified sigh.

After their pleasure had crested and receded, she pulled the blankets up to shelter them.

“What was she like, your natural mother?”

He turned her and wrapped himself around her back, spoon fashion. Andie thought he wasn’t going to answer her, but then he said, “She was a dreamy kind of person. It seemed to me like she was always off in her own world somewhere. I guess that’s not surprising. For her, the real world wasn’t too great. She was sick a lot. And she had trouble holding a job.”

“Did you feel that she loved you?”

“Yes,” he said after a moment. “I think she loved me. And she did the best she could.”

“You never knew your father, right?”

“Don Barrett is my father.” His voice was flat.

“I meant your natural father.”

“I know what you meant. And you’re right. I never knew him. I never even knew who he was. He was gone long before I was born.”

“Do you ever wonder about him?”

“No.”

She wanted to see Clay, so she rolled over and lifted up on an elbow. His face was in shadow. She thought of switching on the light but didn’t. There was something safe and intimate about the dark. Maybe in the dark he would confide in her a little.

“What is it?” His voice was guarded.

“I just can’t believe that you never wonder what he was like.”

“I did wonder. When I was a kid. But I got over it.”

“It just seems to me like something you would always wonder about.”

“That’s probably because you would always wonder, if you were me.”

“That’s true.”

“But you’re not me, Andie.”

“Well, I know that. Whew. Do I ever.”

He chuckled then and seemed to relax a little. He even took her hand and caressed it thoughtfully, toying with the gold bracelet of linked hearts she wore. “Look. Don and Della are all the parents I’ll ever need. That is honestly and truly the way I feel.”

“Do you hate your natural father?”

Clay sighed and stopped stroking her hand. “No, Andie. I don’t hate him.”

“There are agencies, aren’t there, who will track down birth parents?”

“Yes, there are. And a lot of them operate using illegal means. They break confidentiality laws right and left.”

“Yes, but—”

“Stop. Listen. I happen to believe that this country’s adoption laws are humane laws, in most cases. I know there are people obsessed with finding kids or parents they lost. But I’m not one of them. I’m honestly not. So get that idea out of your head.”

“What idea?” She tried not to sound guilty.

“I know you, Andie.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means if you get it in your head to track down my birth father, you’ll be doing it for yourself, not for me. The man is a complete stranger to me. I don’t have any desire to meet a stranger who says he’s my father.”

“But it’s natural, isn’t it, to want to know where you came from?”

“For some people, I’m sure it is. For me, it’s a moot point. I needed to belong, to be included in a real family. I wanted a true home, a place where they would always take me in if I needed them, no matter what. And I got what I needed when your aunt and uncle adopted me.”

Andie leaned closer to him, trying to see what was really in his eyes. “Are you sure?”

“I am positive.”

She plopped back onto her pillow and stared up at the shadowed ceiling. “I believe you.”

He grunted. “You sound so disappointed.”

She pulled the covers up around her chin again and rubbed her toe along Clay’s leg. During the past week she’d discovered that one of the loveliest things about married life was the feel of Clay beside her in their bed.

He moved his leg toward her, a silent reply to her caressing toe. “Well? Are you?”

“What?”

“Disappointed.”

She confessed, “I am, I guess. A little.”

“Why?”

“Oh, I suppose it just occurred to me, right now while we were talking, that I could do this wonderful thing for you, find your father for you. It was going to be terrific. You were going to be so grateful. You’d never again bark at me at work because you couldn’t find some file you needed. And at home, you’d look at me with adoration, because I’d reunited you with your past.”

“I already look at you with adoration.”

But not with love, she thought, before she could stop herself. She pushed the thought away, turned toward him and snuggled up close. “Good. Keep it up.”

“I aim to please.”

 

Ruth Ann demanded, “You’re going to have to go into more detail about this. I don’t get what you’re saying.”

It was Sunday afternoon. They were in the living room of Andie’s apartment, packing books and knickknacks to take to the house on Wildriver Road. Andie had put off the job of closing up the place longer than she should have. Now the month was almost over and she had to be out in three days. As they packed, they’d been talking. And now Andie was trying to define her vague worries about her relationship with Clay.

“It’s hard to explain. It’s all so new between us.”

“So try, anyway.”

Andie scooped up another handful of books and stacked them in a box.

Ruth Ann, as usual, would not be evaded. “I said, try anyway.”

“Oh, Ruthie…”

“Come on.”

“Well, he’s got this thing.”

“What thing?”

“About love.”

“What about love?”

“He doesn’t believe in it, not in man-woman love, anyway.”

Ruth Ann reached a top shelf and took down more books. She handed them to Andie. “Explain.”

Andie bent to put the books in the box with the others. “He believes in the love you have in families, you know, the urge to care for each other and help each other in life. But he doesn’t believe in being in love. He says that’s only sex.”

Ruth Ann leaned on the bookcase and let out a disgusted groan. “Men.”

“So even if he ever got to the point where he might be in love with me, he’s not going to be in love with me, because he doesn’t believe in it. You know?”

“Blessed Saint Anselm, my head is spinning.”

“And I want his love.”

“Not unreasonable. Do you love him, er, I mean, are you in love with him?”

Andie turned her attention to a pair of carved mahogany bookends that her father had bought her two birthdays ago. She began carefully wrapping them in tissue.

“Well. Are you?”

“It’s too soon to tell.”

Ruth Ann collected another stack of books. “You want my advice?”

“Yeah. I suppose.”

Since Andie was still busy with the bookends, Ruth Ann climbed off her chair and boxed the handful of books herself. “Come on. Fake some enthusiasm, or I won’t tell you what I think.”

“All right. I do. I want your advice.”

“He’s acting like a man. But you’re acting like a woman. I don’t know which is worse.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that until you’re at least sure you’re in love with him, why borrow trouble? Are you having the best time of your life or what?”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Then cheer up.” Ruth Ann climbed up on the chair again. “There’ll be plenty of time to suffer if things ever really go wrong.”

Just then, the door burst open.

“Hey, Mommy. Lookit this.” A big brown box with two little sneaker-clad feet sticking out from under it staggered into the living room. “I’m a box. Pack me.” The box fell over, giggling hysterically.

Ruth Ann rolled her eyes and grabbed another handful of books as her younger son, Kyle, wriggled his way out of the box.

Clay came in then, carrying a stack of boxes. Andie got up and went to meet him. “Hello, there.”

He returned her smile. “Hiya.” They kissed around the stack of boxes.

Behind them, Ruth Ann made some knowing remark about newlyweds.

Andie asked, “How’d you guys do?”

Clay set the boxes down on the table in the little dining nook right off the living room. “Not bad for a Sunday. We hit the jackpot at Grocery Superstop.”

“Yeah, did we ever,” Kyle put in. “We had so many boxes, I had to ride with one on my head the whole way home. It was really funny, wasn’t it, Clay?”

Clay smiled at the boy. “A riot. Come on. Help me get the rest from the car.”

“You bet.” Swaggering just a little with the importance of this grown-up job he was doing, Kyle followed Clay out.

“Clay’s good with kids,” Ruth Ann said when the boy and the man were gone. “Kyle was really irked this morning when he heard he was going with me instead of to the batting cages with Johnny and Butch.” Butch was Ruth Ann and Johnny’s older boy. “Kyle hates to be stuck with the women. I was sure I was going to have nothing but trouble from him all day.”

Andie chuckled. “I’ll bet. But the minute he saw Clay he perked right up.”

“Exactly. And now he’s just thrilled to be driving from one store Dumpster to another, scavenging for packing boxes.”

“Yeah, it worked out fine.”

Ruth Ann suddenly looked reproachful. “Clay’s going to be great with the baby, Andie.”

“I know that.”

“And you’re nuts about him, even if you’re not willing to admit it’s love yet.”

“I know. And stop looking at me like that.”

“You should get down on your knees every day, I’m telling you, and thank the good Lord.”

Andie met her friend’s gaze. “I do, Ruthie. Believe me. I do.”

“So do what I told you. Stop worrying. Let yourself be happy.”

“I’ll do my best, Ruthie. I swear I will.”

 

Over the next few months, Andie took her friend’s advice seriously. She stopped borrowing trouble, stopped worrying that Clay’s heart would forever be closed to her. Instead, she concentrated on making a good life with him.

And it worked. Life was good. She and Clay put in killing hours at the office through the first half of April and didn’t mind them a bit. After all, when they went home, they had each other.

Then the office settled down. Uncle Don took over while Andie and Clay went to Hawaii for the honeymoon they hadn’t had time for until then. For nine whole days, they did nothing but bask in the sun, swim in the surf, eat, sleep and make love. After the lovemaking, Clay would often lie with his head against the new roundness of Andie’s belly and tell her that he could feel the baby move.

She laughed. “But it’s only like moth wings, even to me.”

“I can feel it,” he assured her. “There. There it is.”

When they returned, they signed up for natural childbirth lessons. Clay was eager to be her birthing coach. He went with her to her obstetrician and asked more questions than she ever would have thought of. And then, the next Saturday, he drove her down to Sacramento to one of the huge superbook-stores there. He bought out what seemed like half the section on pregnancy and childbirth.

And then at home, while Andie planned how she’d make the small bedroom next to theirs over for the baby, Clay pored over all the baby books he’d bought.

“This is fascinating,” he told her. “You should read this. It tells about the baby’s development inside the womb, week by week.”

Andie was trying to choose curtains. “Just read me the good parts,” she suggested vaguely.

He took her at her word. “Let’s see. We’re at eighteen weeks. Right about now, the baby has eyebrows, hair on its head and lanugo. That’s fine hair all over the body. This lanugo may help in temperature regulation, or it may be an anchor for the vernix caseosa, which is a waxlike substance that protects the baby from immersion in the amniotic fluid.”

“How charming,” Andie remarked with a shudder.

“It’s a miracle,” Clay said with such a great show of solemnity that she knew he was at least partially teasing her.

She pointed at a crib set in one of her catalogs. “What about these?”

“Too froufrou.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that I really hate ruffles. A kid could suffocate in all those ruffles.”

“Okay, how about these?”

“Better. Much better.”

A week later, he read her some more. “Okay, nineteen weeks. ‘First sucking motions likely. Can grip with hands. The ability to blink develops, though the eyelids are still fused…’”

And then the week after that: “‘Twenty weeks. The baby’s about ten inches long. Eight to nine ounces in weight…’”

Andie got to where she’d groan a little when he brought out his favorite book and opened it to the page that described the baby’s current development. But it was a happy groan. It was wonderful to see him so involved, to really start to believe in the amazing thing that had happened: the baby she’d been sure she was going to be raising alone had a father after all.

At the end of May, they hired another secretary at the office. Her name was Linda Parks. She was a single mother, in her forties and in need of a dependable job with good benefits. She was also a crack typist and knew both the spreadsheet and word processing programs that Barrett & Co. used. Linda had worked in another accounting firm in Oakland, from which she came highly recommended. She’d moved to the foothills seeking a safer environment for her children.

Linda learned quickly. By the middle of June, since business was only moderate, Andie was able to leave Linda on her own at the office for several hours a day. Clay kept busy, even though it wasn’t nearly the rat race at work that it had been at the beginning of the year.

He did the social scene more, took clients to lunch and played golf. When Andie kidded him about partying on company time, he reminded her that the only way to build the client base was to do a little wining and dining. She laughed and said she knew that very well. Couldn’t he stand a little teasing? He gave up looking wounded and admitted that he supposed he could.

June became July. In her seventh month, Andie grew ripe and round as a peach.

Clay went on reading about the baby’s growth.

“‘Week twenty-six. The baby’s eyelids can open and close. Increased muscle tone. Sucking and swallowing skills continue to develop…’”

The baby’s room was all ready. The curtains and all the bedding were yellow, with little bears and balloons on the wallpaper. The crib, bureau and changing table had been Andie’s when she was a baby. They’d been stored in the attic at her mother’s. Somehow, over the years, the wood had become worn and scratched. Clay refinished the furniture himself, insisting that Andie stay well away from the fumes of the stripping compound.

He continued with the progress reports.

“‘Huge changes taking place in the nervous system. The brain grows greatly during this month. Some experts believe this is the beginning of true consciousness…’”

In mid-July, Andie and Clay began their childbirth classes. Once a week, they went to a room at the public library and joined six other couples learning relaxation techniques, practicing breathing, seeing graphic films of real births.

At home, Clay read, “‘By twenty-eight weeks, all the baby’s senses are in working order…’”

Clay talked to the baby all the time. Sometimes he called it “he,” sometimes “she.” Andie asked him which he’d prefer. He said he didn’t care. She knew he told the truth.

He read on. “Conscious relaxation, deep breathing and meditative states in the mother stimulate the baby’s entire body and developing mind. Music and gentle, repetitive sounds are good for the baby’s hearing. When the mother sun-bathes, gets massaged, swims, walks, or even showers, the baby’s touch perception and balance are improved.”

By August, Andie was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. To her it seemed she lumbered around like an elephant, though her weight was in the average range for a woman in her eighth month. She felt hot all the time, too. And everything she ate seemed to hover somewhere up around her breastbone. And she dreamed of the night she’d be able to lie on her back without feeling dizzy—or on her stomach without feeling giddily numb, as if she were trying to rest on a basketball.

Clay’s response to her complaints was to read to her from his library of baby books, explaining that she couldn’t lie on her back because it pressed on the vena cava, a major vein. And her stomach now literally was shoved up between her lungs, so it made sense that food felt as if it got stuck there. And the reason she felt hot all the time was because her heart had expanded in size and her capillary action was greatly increased.

Andie groaned and threw a pillow at him. She had lots of pillows. She had to arrange them strategically under various parts of herself at night so she could sleep. It was getting to the point that she wasn’t even interested in making love anymore, which would have seemed impossible just a few weeks before.

Clay, through it all, was patient and wonderful. She despised him for being so terrific. Almost as much as she loved him.

And she did love him, was in love with him. Sometime in the past few months, she’d accepted the reality of her love and welcomed it. It didn’t even seem to matter anymore that Clay still clung to his frustrating belief that the kind of love Andie knew she felt for him didn’t exist.

Probably part of the reason it didn’t matter was that she knew he loved her, too. In exactly the same way that she loved him, even if he wouldn’t admit to it.

Finally, she told him of her love.

It was a night in the fourth week of August. Andie hadn’t been able to sleep. So Clay was rubbing her neck and shoulders, reminding her to breathe slowly and evenly, to picture fields of flowers, to see the color blue.

She thought the words of love and they rose to her lips. She released them.

“I love you, Clay.”

He went on working his soothing magic with his hands.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“I heard. Breathe slowly. In and out.”

“I’m in love with you.”

“Relax.”

“I mean it.”

“Whatever. Keep breathing.”

She turned around so she could look at him. The room was dark. It was hard to see his expression. She switched on the bedside lamp.

“I love you.”

Something happened in his face. Something tormented yet hopeful, a passionate expression, swiftly quelled. The look was there and gone so fast that the minute it disappeared, Andie wondered if she had really seen it.

Was it possible that he wanted to believe her and didn’t dare? Or was her heart making her see things that weren’t there? Whatever the truth was, the mysterious expression was long gone. Now he merely looked puzzled and a little concerned.

He lifted a bronze eyebrow. “Do you want me to say I love you, too? Is that it?”

The lifted eyebrow did it. Suddenly, she thought of Mr. Spock of “Star Trek” fame. As Spock would say, “But, Captain, love is illogical…”

Andie burst out laughing.

Clay continued to look perplexed and perhaps a bit pained. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” She fell over sideways on the bed, holding her huge middle, still giggling.

“Andie…”

“Never mind.” Somehow she collected herself. And then she sat up again and showed her back to him, turning her head so she could smile at him, smoothing her mass of hair out of his way over her shoulder. “Would you rub my neck a little more? It really does feel wonderful.”

He looked at her with equal parts wariness and suspicion. And then he shook his head. She thought he muttered something about women under his breath. But then he turned off the light and put his incredible hands to work once more.

Andie sighed; it felt so good. She breathed evenly as he had instructed her to do.

And she smiled to herself, marveling at how downright pigheaded her husband could be. She pondered the idea that she was probably going to live a whole lifetime at his side, during which he would never once utter those three incredible little words.

But she was also thinking that it was okay. She could live without those words. Because she knew, even though Clay refused to give his love a name, that he did love her—was in love with her. Clay showed his love every day in ten thousand little ways. It was enough.

Clay’s hands strayed. They glided, warm and soothing, over her shoulders and down her arms. “Feel sleepy now?”

“Um…”

He scooted up close behind her and put his arms around her. Then he gently explored her belly. After a few moments, his hands went still. “There. A foot, I think.”

She investigated where he was touching. “No.” She leaned fully against him, resting her head in the crook of his shoulder, feeling sheltered and protected as she’d never dreamed she would be. “That was an elbow, no doubt about it.”

He chuckled. And then he nuzzled her hair aside and kissed her earlobe. “You’re so beautiful, Andie.”

“There’s so much of me. It had better be beautiful.”

“I’m not kidding.”

“Neither am I. Do you realize that my belly button is an outie now? Sometimes it actually shows through my clothes. It’s gross.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“You’re overworked and losing your mind.”

“What we have—it’s very good.”

A warmth spread through her. This was as close as he would come, she knew, to speaking of his love. “Yes, Clay. It is. It’s the absolute best.”

Carefully he turned her so that she lay back in his arms. He supported her with his arm and his thigh so that that major vein he’d told her about wasn’t put under pressure. And then he kissed her, a very slow kiss.

When he lifted his head, Andie decided that maybe she still liked sex, after all. His hand strayed, caressing, stroking. Andie sighed. For a magical half hour, she forgot everything but the touch of those hands.

When at last he helped her arrange her pillows, she was truly ready for sleep.

“Clay?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks, Clay.”

“For what?”

“For all of it. For our lives together. For being you.”

“You’re welcome. Go to sleep.”

Smiling, Andie closed her eyes.

The next morning, Madeline Kirkland called.