Harlequin Superromance January 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: Everywhere She Goes\A Promise for the Baby\That Summer at the Shore (50 page)

“Maybe.” Vivian stuck her milk in the microwave to heat up, deciding against more chocolate. With so much to think about, she would need all the soporific powers hot milk could give her with none of the caffeine.

“They say that the more education the mother has, the better it is for the child.”

“Do I have to agree to Karl paying for classes tonight?” If so, she was going to need more than hot milk to drink.

“Are you going to get more or less stubborn about it after a night's sleep?”

The microwave dinged and Vivian removed her mug, wrapping her hands around the warm crockery. “Neither. How about we work out the details of this whole idea before we decide who's going to pay for my college classes.” The milk both energized and relaxed her as she drank it in one long gulp then put the two mugs in the dishwasher.

Susan was standing when Vivian walked past her. Her mother-in-law put a hand on her shoulder, then seemed to change her mind and pulled Vivian into her embrace. Vivian rested her head on Susan's soft shoulder, which smelled slightly of kielbasa and cabbages. The smell of Healthy Food's kitchen. “You're a good daughter-in-law. I'm sorry I didn't see that right off.”

Vivian squeezed the older woman, almost afraid she would disappear and Vivian would be transported back to Las Vegas without the warmth of a guiding hand at her back. “You're a good mother-in-law, and I didn't see that right off, either.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

A
FTER
HIS
CONVERSATION
with Tilly at Babka, Karl headed home. He unlocked his door and stepped into his apartment. Once, before Vivian, he had come home to silence and emptiness every night. He had
valued
the quiet. Now it felt like a vacuum and he strained to hear Xìnyùn whistling, terrified he would come home and there would be nothing but stale air to greet him.

He hung up his coat—the coat he'd given Vivian was still hanging in the closet because she'd refused to take it—and let Xìnyùn out of his cage. The bird wasn't his pet. Vivian said it wasn't even her pet, but Karl still had the responsibility to make sure the bird got mental stimulation and exercise, and stayed healthy.

There was that word again.
Responsibility.
Duty.
Tilly talked about obligations as though they were distasteful concepts, when he had let Vivian stay with him in the first place because of duty and he was playing basketball with a miniparrot because of a responsibility to the bird. If everyone did their duty, there wouldn't be abused children, or homeless veterans, and his dad might still be alive.

The bird lobbed the ball of wadded-up paper into the cup and whistled. “Jackpot.”

Karl laughed. He would never have thought a bird would be such good company, but the two things he looked forward to most in his day were playing basketball with the bird and the hour or so he got to see Vivian at Healthy Food.

Between a developing case at work and making the drive south every day to make sure Vivian was still there, he wasn't getting as much sleep as he needed—being beaten by Tilly in an argument made that clear. But not seeing Vivian wasn't an option.

He tossed another ball to Xìnyùn, who missed the cup and chirped, “Hit me.”

When he'd first started driving to Archer Heights every day, he had done it out of a sense of duty. The paternity test was clear—he was the father of Vivian's baby. He never should have expressed doubt in the first place. He'd promised her they would be friends and partners in the raising of their child, and he was going to own that promise.

But at some point his feelings about the drive had changed. Maybe it was when Mr. Biadała had asked Karl if Vivian was going to Phil's wedding, and Karl had stared blankly at the man, wondering how he could have asked such a simple question to which the answer was obvious. Maybe it was seeing the guilty amusement on Vivian's face when she'd opened the door to him, using her body to shield his mother and her friends playing blackjack in the kitchen. Maybe it hadn't been one of those moments, but a culmination of them all that made him realize Vivian was as much a part of him as Healthy Food, Archer Heights and his own family were. More special, even, because he'd been born a Milek in Archer Heights, but he had
chosen
Vivian, and she had chosen him.

Now the drive to his old neighborhood was a pleasure. He liked to see the small changes in Vivian's body during the day and wished they shared a bed at night so he could explore those changes in more detail. To see the curve of her pink lower lip over her sharp chin. To have her be completely unimpressed by the seriousness of his life and make him laugh as only someone who loves you can.

Karl finished his losing game of H-O-R-S-E with Xìnyùn and put the parrot back into his cage, draping the cover over the bird. He wiped down the counters and headed off to his bathroom to brush his teeth. When he climbed into bed the sheets were cold and smelled of whatever flowers his dryer sheets were scented with. Not of jasmine, as they did after Vivian was here. Instead of the heady fragrance only his wife had, it was the generic smell of millions of sheets in millions of homes across the United States. If he wasn't capable of giving Vivian what she needed, this was how his sheets would smell for the rest of his life.

His hand hesitated over the lamp switch, knowing he should turn it off and also knowing he wouldn't sleep tonight, light or no light. And so he lay in his bed, blinking to calm the bright light of the lamp in his eyes. On another not-so-distant night that felt like eons ago, he'd jokingly handed Vivian books to help her sleep. Karl rolled over onto his side and faced the spine of the Melville book, still unfinished. He picked it up, opened to his bookmark and began “Billy Budd” where he had left off
.

It was a gift placed in the palm of an outreached hand upon which the fingers did not close.

Melville's language, even so cluttered and impenetrable to a modern reader, could not hide the great wrong the British Navy was about to commit upon the person of Billy Budd. Though he was innocent of murder in the barest sense of the word, Billy Budd was guilty as a point of fact, and so he was about to hang.

And since he felt that innocence was even a better thing than religion wherewith to go to Judgment, he reluctantly withdrew.

Karl had read “Billy Budd” in law school, when the chaplain's opinions of the condemned Budd hadn't felt so personal. At the time, he'd felt the story was cut-and-dried. Billy Budd had killed someone; there was no arguing that fact. The Articles of War said the punishment was death. Ergo, Billy Budd must hang. Age must have added some gray back into Karl's life because he finally saw the tragedy in Billy Budd's story.

He closed the book and bounced it off his chest as Vivian's words echoed through his head.
Do you still judge me for nearly cheating Middle Kingdom and getting fired?

Shades of gray notwithstanding, the situations weren't the same. Billy Budd had been wrongly accused of mutiny and, when too overcome by his stuttering to defend himself, had pushed his accuser, who hit his head and died. Vivian had nearly cheated her employer out of money to help her wastrel father. Billy Budd had been sentenced to hang. Vivian had been fired.

Not the same at all.

And yet—both were innocent of the crimes they were being accused of. Billy Budd had not been guilty of mutinous assembly, and the death of his accuser was debatable as murder. Vivian hadn't actually cheated. She'd thought about it, but the law didn't judge a person's thoughts to determine guilt or innocence. Actions were key, and Vivian's biggest problem had been the inconclusive video evidence.

They had both been punished according to the rules of their employers. In both cases the justice was “by the book.” And in both cases the justice felt like a waste.

When Karl bounced the book this time, his hands slipped and the paperback bobbed off his chin. Clearly it was time for sleep and not confused thinking about a Victorian writer—or Karl's wife.

He put the book back on his nightstand and turned off his lamp before he could change his mind. Karl flipped over onto his other side so that he faced away from the book. The other half of the bed was empty, unfortunately, and when he stuck his legs out the sheets were cold. Despite the shock of it keeping him awake, he left his legs there.

He wanted to sleep. He needed to sleep. But he'd had an epiphany he still wasn't sure what to do with.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

S
USAN
HAD
ENGINEERED
this week's family dinner so that Karl would be an hour early. Plenty of time, she had said, for Vivian to discuss her plan to buy out Healthy Food. Vivian had gone to the library during her time off and researched restaurant business plans. She and Susan had estimated the present value of Healthy Food and estimated its value in ten years, when Susan planned to retire. Together they had worked out different buyout plans, along with some classes that would benefit Vivian and a list of things she would need to learn from Susan at Healthy Food. Fortunately, neither of those was how to cook; Susan hadn't cooked in the kitchen in years. Vivian was a good cook, but she didn't think she was up to the burden of cooking in a professional kitchen.

When Karl swept into the house through the kitchen door, Vivian was waiting for him with coffee and a variety of
kolaczki.
He stilled, looking uncharacteristically uncertain hovering in the doorway for a moment before greeting Vivian with an obligatory kiss on the cheek and sitting down at the table.

They'd shared intimate touches and little kisses as though they were really husband and wife, each touch feeling both natural and fake. More Karl fulfilling his duties to his wife, Vivian supposed, rather than because he wanted to. She
wanted
them to be fully real. She wanted their marriage to be fully real.

“Am I the first one here?”

“Your sisters won't be here for another hour.” She pushed a folder over to him. “I have something to discuss with you.”

God, this felt like a business meeting rather than a discussion between husband and wife about their future. How much of that was her fault? Karl wanted her back in his apartment, living as his wife. She just wasn't willing to agree to his terms. And what an ugly word that was—
terms.
As if their very relationship had to be negotiated. You say “I love you” and I'll give up on my request that you stop judging me for my past.

Only it seemed the cost of being husband and wife was too dear for each of them. Each had to give up some essence of who they were. Or, in Vivian's case, who she had learned she could be.

The folder made no sound as Karl slid it toward himself. “I thought we were waiting to discuss the divorce until you had a job that could support you. And health insurance.”

He didn't open the folder. Just rested his hand on it, like he was holding down a dragon.

“This isn't about the divorce.” Of course he would assume it was about the divorce. She'd be mad, but she'd told him straight-out that she wasn't interested in a real marriage until he could honestly say he wasn't judging her past and that he loved her. Since he hadn't stopped actively disapproving of her, divorce would be the next logical step in their relationship.

Vivian was through making logical decisions. She wanted a relationship with Karl built on something other than sex and the child she was carrying. “I want to buy Healthy Food,” she said. He raised his brow at her, as well he should, given that she had no money to speak of. “In about ten years, when Susan retires,” she clarified.

He didn't say anything, but bent over the folder, opened it and read every word on every page. Halfway through, he reached for his coffee cup and a
kolaczki.
Vivian tried not to fidget. She and Susan had worked out many scenarios for her takeover of Healthy Food. Some of them included help from Karl. Most of them didn't. Still, even if she didn't need his financial help, she wanted his support. Married or not, living together or not, Healthy Food was part of his heritage. She wanted to believe he would support her in this. That maybe he trusted her—just a little more than he said he did.

Finally, when he closed the folder, he said, “My mom has an insurance settlement she's never touched. You don't have to buy her out. She could give Healthy Food to you.”

“There are tax implications involved in a gift of that size.” Despite Vivian's protestations, Susan had investigated the possibility of gifting Healthy Food. Susan had been willing to jump through the hoops needed to make it happen. Vivian wasn't.

Karl sipped his coffee. Then he took another cookie. He had a preference for the strawberry ones.

“I don't want to be given this,” Vivian insisted. “I want to earn it. I want to work for it.”

“Some of these scenarios involve substantial amounts of help from me.” He retreated deeper into the cold, businesslike Karl she remembered from the first night in his apartment. The one who approached every decision as though it was a problem to be solved. Once again, she was a problem.

She took a cookie. “I'm not foolish enough to believe I can do this on my own. Just that I want to work for it. And help is different than a gift.” He'd said similar words after the first disastrous meeting with his family—that a helping hand was different than a rescue. She finally understood what he'd meant.

“I have an insurance settlement that could buy Healthy Food.”

She bit into her cookie and chewed, hoping the action would sooth her irritations. She could love his stony face, but being offered money when she'd just said she wanted to earn something was worse than being a surprise problem in his apartment. This was more like waking up in a hotel room finding out she'd drunkenly married a stranger. She wasn't just a problem to be solved; she was a problem to throw money at.

“I don't want a gift from you or your mother.”

“We're married, so it wouldn't be a gift. We would be buying my mother out together.”

She loved this man. Of that fact, Vivian had no doubt. She loved his steadfastness, his devotion to his family and his sense of duty. What she didn't love was when he was all of those things without the warmth of emotion to soften them. She spent the time chewing her second bite of cookie remembering that she had benefited from his problem solving and so could have patience with the stony face.

“This isn't about our relationship. This is about me and a future for Healthy Food.”

“How are those not things about our relationship?” His voice had the cold edge of anger, which she hadn't expected. “We're married. I want us to stay married, and not just for the sake of the baby. I want you living in my apartment, sleeping in my bed. How is that not about you?”

“You know my terms on that.” There was that ugly word again.

Karl picked the folder up and shook it at her. “Is our relationship as quantifiable as this?”

Vivian opened her mouth to argue, but she was the one who'd used the word
terms
to begin with. “I don't want to move in with you as part of a plan for Healthy Food. I don't want our relationship to be based on practicality.”

“What part of ‘want' is unclear?”

All the parts of it that didn't sound like “I love you.”

“And a relationship based on practicality didn't stop you from appearing in my apartment lobby asking for health insurance and a place to live.” She watched his eyes as he said the words, but even in his anger they lacked fire. “Both of which I gave you with hardly any questions.”

And there, right there, was the biggest reason why it was foolish for her to want to sleep in his bed and wake up next to him every morning. So long as he still thought about how she had been fired and how desperate she'd been every time he saw her, she would be less of a person in his eyes. Any desire to sleep with her didn't change the fact that he couldn't truly love her so long as he thought so little of her.

“I was a different person then, and willing to settle.” She nodded toward the folder. “But now I know that I want the husband, the child, the career, the family. Maybe it's not possible, but I'm not going to settle for less.”

Karl tapped his fingers on the folder, and for the first time in their relationship he was speechless. Not silent—he was often silent—but completely lacking in speech. He opened his mouth to say something, then shut it. Completely stunned and gaping like a fish. What had she said that she hadn't said a million times before, in each of their previous arguments? If their conversations about her moving back in were a broken record, the player was broken now, too.

Vivian stood and gathered the coffee cups and cookies. “Your sisters will be here soon. Keep the folder. You can let me know what you think about the idea later. When you're no longer confusing it with how you feel about me.”