Sugar Daddy (Travis Family #1)(24)

"I'll need to take her in a minute." the nurse said, smiling at my expression. "They'll have to check her out and clean her up."

I didn't want to let her go. A thrill of possessiveness went through me. She felt like my baby, part of my body, knotted to my soul. Impassioned to the verge of tears, I turned to the side and whispered to her. "You are the love of my life, Carrington. The love of my life."

Miss Marva brought a bouquet of pink roses and a box of chocolate-covered cherries for Mama, and a baby blanket she had made for Carrington. soft yellow fleece with hand-crocheted edges. After admiring and cuddling the baby for a few minutes. Miss Marva handed her back to me. She focused all her attention on Mama, fetching her a cup of ice chips when the nurse was too slow, adjusting the controls on her bed. helping her walk to the bathroom and back.

To my relief. Hardy appeared to drive us home the next day in a big sedan he had borrowed from a neighbor. While Mama signed papers and took a folder of postpartum instructions from the nurse, I dressed the baby in her going-home outfit, a little blue dress with long sleeves. Hardy stood beside the hospital bed and watched as I struggled to capture the tiny starfish hands and push them gently through the sleeves. Her fingertips kept catching and gripping the fabric, making it difficult to inch the dress over her arms.

"It's like trying to feed cooked spaghetti through a straw," Hardy observed.

Carrington grunted and complained as I managed to tug her hand through the sleeve. I

started on the other arm. and the first hand pulled right out of the dress again. I let out an exasperated puff. Hardy snickered.

"Maybe she doesn't like the dress," he said.

"Would you like to give it a try?" I asked.

"Hell, no. I'm good at getting girls out of their clothes, not putting them on."

He had never made that kind of remark around me before, and I didn't like it.

"Don't swear in front of the baby," I said sternly.

"Yes, ma'am."

The touch of vexation made me less tentative with the baby, and I managed to finish dressing her. Gathering the curls at the top of her head, I fastened a Velcro bow around them. Tactfully Hardy turned his back while I changed her diapers, which were the size of a cocktail napkin.

"I'm ready," came Mama's voice behind me, and I picked Carrington up.

Mama was in a wheelchair, dressed in a new blue robe and matching slippers. She held the flowers from Marva in her lap.

"Do you want to take the baby and I'll carry the flowers?" I asked reluctantly.

She shook her head. "You carry her, sweetheart."

The baby car seat was webbed with enough buckled straps to restrain a fighter pilot in an F-15. Gingerly I settled the squirming baby into the seat. She began to squall as I tried to fasten the straps around her. "It's a five-point safety system." I told her. "Consumer Reports said it was the best one available."

"I guess the baby didn't read that issue," Hardy said, climbing in on the other side of the car seat to help.

I was tempted to tell him not to be such a smart-ass, but remembering my rule about no swearing in front of Carrington, I kept silent. Hardy grinned at me.

"Here we go," he said, deftly untwisting a strap. "Put this buckle over there and cross the other one over."

Together we managed to fasten Carrington securely in the seat. She was revving up. shrieking in objection to the indignity of being strapped in. I put my hand on her, my fingers curving over her heaving chest. "It's okay," I murmured. "It's okay, Carrington. Don't cry."

"Try singing to her," Hardy suggested.

"I can't sing," I said, rubbing circles on her chest. "You do it."

He shook his head. "Not a chance. My singing sounds like a cat being run over by a steamroller."

I tried a rendition of the opening song from Mister Rogers' Neighborhood, which I had watched every day as a child. By the time I reached the last "won't you be my neighbor?" Carrington had stopped crying and was staring at me in myopic wonder.

Hardy laughed softly. His fingers slid over mine, and for a moment we stayed like that, our hands resting lightly on the baby. Staring at his hand, I reflected that you could never mistake it for someone else's. His work-roughened fingers dotted with tiny star-shaped scars from encounters with hammers, nails, and barbed wire. There was enough strength in those fingers to bend a sixteen-penny nail with ease.

I raised my head and saw that Hardy's lashes had lowered to conceal his thoughts. He seemed to be absorbing the feel of my fingers beneath his.

Suddenly he withdrew and pulled out of the car, going to help Mama into the passenger seat. Leaving me to grapple with the eternal fascination that seemed to have become a part of me as surely as a hand or foot. But if Hardy didn't want me, or wouldn't allow himself to. I now had someone else to lavish with all my affection. I kept my hand on the baby all the way home, learning the rhythm of her breathing.

CHAPTER 7

During the first six weeks of Carrington's life, we developed habits that later proved impossible to break. Some would last a lifetime.

Mama was slow to heal, both spiritually and physically. The baby's birth had depleted her in ways I didn't understand. She still laughed and smiled, still hugged me and asked how my day at school was. Her weight receded until she looked almost the same as she had before. But something was wrong. I couldn't put my finger on it; it was a subtle erasure of something that had been there before.