The Baby Gift. Bethany Campbell
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and help Glenda, but Larry said it was her job, she should do it.
And although Leo was proud of his big, sturdy, handsome grandsons, he fretted about their rowdiness. He could by God control them. So could Briana. Why wouldn’t their parents? Leo fumed and grumbled at Larry, but nothing changed.
Leo’s favorite grandchild was Nealie. Larry couldn’t understand this. After all, Nealie wasn’t big, strong or good-looking. Worse than that, she was only a girl.
But Leo had never been able to resist his granddaughter’s spirit or smile. He fondly nicknamed her Funnyface. He was proud of her intelligence and imagination—he adored her. To know how ill she was would destroy him.
No, Briana wouldn’t tell them. How could she? She wouldn’t say anything until another child was clearly on the way.
For two months her daughter’s sickness had been her secret. Soon Josh would be here. She would no longer be alone with it.
She lifted Zorro from her lap and set him on the floor. She shut off the lights and went upstairs to bed, Zorro waddling silently behind her.
She opened the door to Nealie’s room and peered inside. The child stirred and rose on her elbow. “Mama?”
“Hi, sweetie. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“My clothes woke me up,” Nealie said. “I want my jammies.”
Briana switched on the bedside lamp.
“How come I still have my clothes on?” Nealie squinted at the sudden brightness. Her big glasses lay beside the lamp.
“You fell asleep on the couch,” Briana said, going to the dresser. “I brought you up to bed. I didn’t want to wake you up.”
Nealie rose on both elbows, frowning. “I remember. Rupert gave me a nosebleed.”
“Yes, well, he likes to roughhouse. I scolded him for it.”
“Ha!” crowed Nealie. She knew how Rupert hated Briana’s scolding.
Briana rummaged in the drawer for pajamas. “Do you want the ones with cows or the ones with flowers?”
“Cows,” said Nealie with a yawn. Then she fell back against the pillow. “Why do I have so many nosebleeds?”
Briana’s hand tightened convulsively around the flannel. “Your allergies, I guess,” she lied.
“Rupert woke me up, too,” Nealie said in a sulky voice. “I heard him kicking on a door and yelling.”
“Those are rude things to do,” Briana said. “I don’t want you ever to do them. Here, sit up, let me get that shirt off you.”
She got the child into her pajamas and then made her settle back against the pillow. Briana pulled the quilt to Nealie’s chin and bent to kiss her.
Nealie blinked, as if truly awake for the first time. “Daddy—did he call tonight? He always tries to call on the first of the month. Did he?”
Briana hesitated. If she told Nealie the truth, it would take at least half an hour to get her back to sleep.
But she had told the child lie after lie, and this time the truth would make her happy. She kissed the soft cheek. “He called. He says he’s coming home soon.”
Nealie sat up with a start, hazel eyes widening. “Really? Honest?”
“Honest. He’s finished his assignment in Khanty-Mansiysk. He’s in Moscow, ready to start back.”
“And he’s coming here?” Nealie’s body seemed so charged with energy she looked ready to bounce. “Here? To see us?”
“Yes. To see you.”
Nealie bounced in a sitting position. “When? When?”
“As soon as he can catch a plane. He should be here by the end of the week.”
“For how long?” Nealie asked, bouncing harder.
Briana’s heart wrenched. “I don’t know. We’ll see. Don’t bounce, sweetie. You’ll make your nose bleed again.”
“Maybe he’ll stay,” Nealie said. She stopped bouncing, but she wriggled. “Stay and never go away again.”
“No. We’ve talked about that. Daddy can’t stay in one place. But this time, maybe he can stay—a longer time.”
“Till my birthday?”
Nealie’s birthday was in April, more than two months away. God willing when spring returned, the child’s strength would return with it, and she would be better, not worse.
“Could he?” Nealie asked. “Still be here for my birthday?”
“I don’t know. He’ll tell us when he gets here. Now lay down and close your eyes and go to sleep. When you wake up, it’ll be morning, and he’ll be one day closer.”
She slipped her arm around her daughter, leaned back with her against the pillow. Nealie’s little body, warm and lithe, snuggled against hers.
“Why didn’t you wake me up when he called?” Nealie demanded. She was tired. She tried to hide her yawn as she said it.
“Shh. It was late. It’s a different time in Moscow. He would have called earlier if he could. You know that.”
Nealie nestled closer. “What time is it in Moscow?”
“Moscow time,” Briana said, and they both giggled. She smoothed the child’s hair and kissed her cheek again. She stayed until Nealie was asleep.
Then, because Briana couldn’t bear to let her go, she switched off the light and slipped under the quilt with her. But she could not sleep. She lay in the darkness, holding on to her child.
ON SATURDAY, Josh watched the airport loom beneath the plane as his flight descended into St. Louis. A light snow fell, dusting the runways, but after Russia, he saw such a snow as insignificant. It was like a season of buds and bluebirds, practically springtime in Paris.
His head, however, felt nothing like the merry month of May. It felt like hurricane season in hell.
For three days he’d lived in a nightmare of bad airline connections and endless delays. He’d spent too many hours crouched in cramped plane cabins, missed too much sleep, been able to stomach too little food.
Truth be told, he’d also nursed too many Scotches and vodkas to dull the pain. The pain came not from his physical discomfort, but out of fear for his daughter.
Along his jerking, twisted journey, he’d kept in touch with Briana as best he could. He told her he’d rent a car in St. Louis and drive to Illyria, for her not to drag Nealie out into the cold.
But when he got to the gate, his heavy camera bags slung over his shoulder, he saw them both, his ex-wife and his child. It was as if the rest of the sea of waiting people parted and vanished.
They stood at the edge of the walkway. Briana looked beautiful but pale and tense. Nealie, his little, bespectacled elfin Nealie, looked radiant.
His daughter grinned at him. She had lost a tooth. For some reason, this nearly undid him. He ran toward her, and she ran to him, her arms out wide.
Then he had her in his embrace, and she seemed to be both clinging to him and climbing him like a little monkey. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” she cried, her arms tightening around his neck.
He kissed her all over her face, knocking her glasses askew. She laughed and kissed him back.
“Daddy,” she said again with such deep contentment that the words tore his heart.
She tried to wrap her skinny legs around his waist, but she was too small, and his parka made him too big. He let his camera bags fall to the floor and held her as tightly as he could. She buried her face in the harsh fur of his new parka, giggling.