Turn It Up (23 page)

They all loved her.

But most of all, there was Max.

Tasha wiped away the tears flooding her eyes. There was no more denying it—how much she loved him. It had taken far too long to admit it, but it was there, inside her.

No rockets went off, no loud thunderclaps or brilliant fanfare accompanied her realization. Only tightness in her throat, and a building joy to melt the final layers of icy fear that had coated her heart for so long.

She loved him.

In the middle of her apartment kitchen with the mismatched appliances and all the cupboard contents loaded into cardboard boxes, her world turned one hundred and eighty degrees. Her own little miracle, and not a single person witnessed it.

She marveled over her realization. Love—such an ordinary event, but oh-so-extraordinary as she acknowledged it for the first time.

Tasha leaned over, the skin on her stomach stretched taut, muscles aching slightly. She slipped the box onto the clean shelf and stood, hands tight to the small of her back.

The front muscle band across her stomach, way down low, tightened again and she groaned. Damn Braxton Hicks. Talk about the ordinary and the extraordinary combining. She’d been experiencing the false contractions off and on for the past three weeks. They weren’t painful, more annoying, like a muscle that had been worked to the point of fatigue, tight and rigid. The first time they’d hit, she’d been astonished and slightly afraid. Now she took it in stride, breathing slowly until the muscles relaxed.

Again, awareness hit her. The reality was their baby would be here soon, and her body was getting ready. The practice contractions, as the books called them, were preparing her for when the real thing came along and Samantha would arrive.

Tasha had to laugh. Maybe if she considered all her waffling over the past months as practice loving for the real thing, she wouldn’t regret that it had taken so long for her to admit her true emotions. Ignoring what she felt for Max was a lie she refused to continue to tell. She wanted all of him. Every bit of his heart and soul, and she wanted to give all of herself to him as well.

Tasha snuck to the door of the office and peered in, watching him work. His fingers flew over the keyboard as he spoke into his headset. This should be forever. Them as a family—no, as a couple first—without any doubts, any fears. The poison that Lila had flung had watered down to nothing, diluted by the depth of compassion and caring Max had shown for so long.

Thinking again of Lila caused the final piece of the puzzle to click into place. There would always be someone who wouldn’t accept her unless she did what they wanted.

That wasn’t love.

Max must have seen her in his peripheral vision because he turned and smiled, asking to be excused from the person on the line. He swung the mic away from his mouth and held a hand to her. She took it and shuffled forward into his embrace.

“You need me?” he asked, smoothing a hand over her cheek.

Oh my God, yes. “Always.”

His grin widened. “I was planning on working for the afternoon to finish this up. You okay until supper?”

She nodded. Her heart was bursting to tell him what she’d realized, but even she, unromantic as she was, figured blurting out
I love you
right now wasn’t the way to do it. “I’m pretty sure I can keep myself busy. I’ll see you later.”

He kissed her quickly, squeezed her fingers, then dove back into whatever he was doing.

The anticipation of being able to share with him gave her a burst of energy. Suddenly, it wasn’t enough to wander the apartment dealing with the final packing details. Tasha checked her watch—there was more than enough time if she left immediately. She grabbed a sheet of paper and wrote him a note, left it on the table and headed out the door.

Chapter Twenty

It was hours later before he dragged himself from the computers. He’d constantly found that one more thing to complete, but the end result was a lot more productive than he’d hoped. With luck he’d be free for the next few weeks, giving him time to be there for Tasha. Settling into their new home, getting ready for the baby to arrive.

His phone rang, and he grabbed it, wandering back into the apartment to find Tasha and discuss supper plans.

“Junior, do you know where Gramma is?”

He chuckled. “Is this a trick question? Isn’t she at the house?” He glanced around for Tasha—no sign. She must be in the bathroom.

“No, and we can’t figure out where she’s gone. After Tasha took her for the tour at the seniors home—”

“What?” He checked his watch. It wasn’t just past supper, it was nearly eight, and the sun was approaching the horizon. “When did Tasha take her anywhere?”

“You didn’t know? Gramma called to tell me she didn’t need a ride because Tasha was there and would take her.”

What the hell? His anger burst out at his sister. “And you didn’t think that a eight-and-a-half-month pregnant woman might not be the best person to escort our eighty-year-old Gramma around town?”

Maxy hesitated for a second. “I’m sorry, but honestly, no. It didn’t occur to me. They’re both very self-sufficient.”

He spotted a piece of paper on the table and snatched it up. There were only two lines, nothing to indicate Tasha would be gone for a long period of time. Picking up a few things, stopping at the house site, that was all. Fear rolled over him. She should have been home long ago. Something must have happened. He raced to pull on his shoes.

“Shit—I need to try her cell phone. Call the nursing home and find out when they left.” He hung up before Maxy could respond. Images of Tasha lying hurt at the house flashed through his mind, making him crazy.

Her line rang and went to message. He tried again.

Icy fear surrounded him. His heart was in his toes as he stabbed the button for the elevator repetitively, urging the damn thing to hurry up.

His cell phone rang with her tone, and he scrambled to answer it. “Are you okay?”

The line crackled, breaking up slightly. “We’re…fine. We need help. Gramma Turner and I are a little…at the moment. We went…walk, and she’s twisted… It’s okay, but I can’t…”

“Where are you?” Details later, location now.

“Cemetery. She wanted to…” The line went dead.

Screw the elevator. He was through the emergency exit and racing down the stairs before his call to Maxine even connected. “They’re at the cemetery. Don’t know why, but I’m heading over. Phone reception out there is almost impossible to get, so they could have been stuck for hours. Tasha said that Gramma’s twisted something. Call a couple of the uncles to come help me.”

Maxine’s voice quavered a bit. “I will, and, Junior, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

Shit
. “It’s not your fault. You’re right. They’re independent, and stubborn, and there’s nothing you could have done to stop them. Love you, sis. Call you when I can.”

He drove well over the speed limit as he raced toward the family plot, cursing that he was almost twenty minutes away. The Turners had a whole damn section in the Thompson Cemetery, a fact that had fascinated him when he was little, but now seemed a trifle macabre. It was like the clan was still doing things together, even now that they were dead. He skidded to a stop, leapt from the car and raced toward the rise where Grandpa Turner was buried. The steep slope of the hillside cemetery suddenly seemed to have been laid out specifically to slow him in his quest to reach them. One final burst of energy and there they were, Tasha’s dark head close to his Gramma’s white one as they sat perched on a low wall. The only lighting in this section was a small decorative imitation gas lamp a good twenty feet away, casting a tiny glowing circle along the edge where the women rested.

“There he is.” Gramma raised a hand and waved. “Over here.”

Max slowed to a walk, eyeing Gramma quickly, then taking a more thorough examination of Tasha. “Ladies. You went for a very long stroll.”

Gramma sighed. “Wasn’t supposed to be that protracted, but silly me. I was trying to be frivolous and now my ankle’s not cooperating.”

He laid a hand briefly on Tasha’s knee as he squatted, taking his Gramma’s ankle and checking it carefully.

“Ouch. Yes, that’s the part that hurts. I need someone to lean on, and Tasha and I decided she probably wasn’t the best choice to use as a crutch right now.”

Thank God. That’s all they would have needed was for Tasha to lose her balance and the two of them end up hurt. “Good thinking. Lean on me, I’ll get you back to the car.”

Gramma hopped down, and he wrapped an arm around her. He offered his other hand to Tasha.

She shook her head and waved him on. “I’ll wait. You take Gramma, then come back for me.”

He didn’t like that idea, not one bit. Before he could argue Tasha visibly winced and he stared at her, trying to figure out why—
Oh my God.
He might be exceedingly bright, but this was something he’d never experienced before. “Tasha?”

She covered her lips with a finger and tilted her head toward his Gramma. “You two go ahead. I’ll be fine for another few minutes.”

No. He was not leaving his wife in a graveyard, in the dark, when she obviously was in labor. Gramma would understand…and then he saw the dilemma.

There was no good solution.

He held out his hand to Tasha and she smiled at him, squeezing his fingers tight.

A shout in the distance made his heart leap as one of his uncles arrived, and he gratefully passed Gramma over with a whisper to his uncle to have an ambulance sent.

Tasha winked at him, then tucked her fingers under her belly and rubbed. An instant later he had her enfolded in his arms, his hands supporting her belly.

“You…martyr. What happened?” He helped her up and she let out a whoosh of air.

“There was something I wanted to talk to her about, and then after we’d already visited for an hour, she asked if I’d drive her to the seniors home. There was nothing wrong with that, but the next thing I know she’d convinced me to come and visit… Oh, hang it.” Tasha bent slightly, hands on her knees, her breath escaping in rapid gasps. Far too rapid.

He rubbed her back, feeling more than a little helpless. “Hey, remember our classes. Slower, if you can. You’ve got a long time to—”

“Maxwell, I’ve been in labor for the past three hours, I think I’ve figured out the damn breathing bit. My water broke just after we got to the graveside and I sat down intending to call you. But reception sucks, and then your Gramma took a step the wrong direction and…oh my God, this baby is on the way.”

This was not at all how she’d planned her afternoon to go. It was supposed to have been a short, simple trip. She’d be back in plenty of time to drag Max from his work and slather him with kisses before making her big announcement that she loved him silly. Tasha waited out another set of contractions, staring at the greenery around her as it faded into invisibility, the bright dashes of color muted as darkness settled. The other part of her brain worked hard to ignore the fact that unless an ambulance showed up soon,
very
soon, she just might have this baby in a graveyard.

It was sure to be one of those stories that down the road the kid would love to share with everyone.

Max supported her, touching her gently, rubbing and asking how he could help.

The comfort of his presence made a world of difference. “Just hold me. I’m so glad you made it. I didn’t think your Gramma wanted to be a baby catcher.”

“Why you didn’t tell her you were in labor?”

Tasha took another slow step, his arms around her torso. “I didn’t feel anything unusual at first. It’s only gotten bad since I got hold of you. I thought it was more Braxton Hicks, and I didn’t think Gramma needed something else to worry about.”

Max swore, holding her carefully, guiding them down the rocky path. “On the relative scale of things to worry about, going into labor trumps a twisted ankle.”

Tasha shrugged. “I guess. Oh damn. Fuck, fuck,
fuck
, that one hurt.” She stopped again, trying to catch her breath, but it was a struggle. In the far distance, the siren of an ambulance cut through the air. The pain shifted, and suddenly instead of squeezing her to pieces, a sharp pressure speared between her legs. “Umm, Max?”

He ducked in front of her, staring up into her eyes. His face was white in the pale light, and he looked far older than usual. “What?”

“I need to push.” And like right now. She might want to wait, but this kid had other ideas.

“Shit, are you sure?”

She snapped at him. “No, it’s just a sudden fancy I have. Arghh, crap, this hurts. It didn’t so much…
shit
…until now, but… Oh my God.”

“Okay, okay, let me…” He looked around frantically while she bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood. Oh yes, there was something going on, and the men with the nice flashing lights and blaring siren racing toward them might not make it in time. Maxwell ripped off his shirt, laid it on the ground and carefully helped her down on top of it.

“Another one of your school shirts bites the dust,” she teased.

He lowered her pants, hands gentle on her body. “How can you joke right now?”

She wasn’t sure. “It’s joking or screaming. Which would you—?”

The pain struck the words from her mouth and Max scrambled to finish undressing her, her pants getting caught on her shoes until he tore them off her feet.

This wasn’t how they’d pictured it. There was no sterile birthing room with a shower and tub to relax in while they waited for the little one to arrive. Of course, if Tasha was honest, she’d never thought
too
hard about the messier parts of the process, skipping straight from announcing “I think it’s time” to “It’s a girl” in one smooth blend like a television-friendly soundtrack-filled sitcom.

She might have made a detailed list of what she wanted, what she didn’t want, but she’d never actually considered how much it would hurt, especially as all of her chosen cocktails were denied her. She’d briefly debated having a natural birth, but this—this was going too far.

“I can see the top of her head. She’s got fuzzy hair. Okay, this is actually very cool.” Maxwell looked up from where he knelt between her legs, his smile shaky. They had one hand joined, her fingers crushing his as she fought the pain. It wasn’t the most elegant of locations, with her head resting on the grass, the dark shapes of tombstones casting shadows around them.