Waiting for the Wedding. Carla Cassidy
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to think twice, he picked up the receiver and dialed her number.
She answered on the third ring, her voice deeper, husky from sleep.
“Did I wake you?” he asked.
“No. The phone did,” she said dryly. “What time is it?” He heard the rustle of sheets, then a squeal of outrage. “Clint Graham, how dare you call me at seven o’clock in the morning. You know I don’t do mornings.”
“And you know I wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important,” he replied.
Again he heard the rustle of bedclothes, and, unbidden, his mind filled with a vision of her in bed. Her streaked blond hair would be tousled and flowing down her shoulders. Her cheeks would be sweetly flushed. Her vivid green eyes would be drowsy with half sleep—sexy bedroom eyes.
“Clint?” Her voice held an edge of aggravation, letting him know she’d probably called his name more than once.
He shook his head, dislodging the crazy image. Where had that come from? It had been a long time since Sherry’d had long hair, and he’d never actually seen her in bed. He’d stopped those kinds of fantasies long ago.
“I’m here,” he said.
“I asked you what’s so important it couldn’t wait until a reasonable hour?”
“Darlin’, for most people seven o’clock in the morning is a reasonable hour.”
“If you don’t tell me in the next ten seconds why you called, I’m going to hang up and go back to sleep.”
Clint could tell by her tone of voice that she wasn’t kidding. “I have a sort of situation here, and I need your help. Can you come over?”
“Clint? Are you all right?” Her irritation was gone, replaced by worry. “You haven’t caught that nasty flu again, have you?”
“I’m fine. Nothing is wrong, I’m not sick and I really hate to get into it over the phone. Come over, Sherry. You haven’t even seen my new place. I’ll make you a big breakfast—biscuits and gravy,” he said.
“I smell a rat in the house,” Sherry exclaimed. “The last time you cooked me biscuits and gravy you asked me to take care of a ‘little’ of your laundry.”
Clint laughed. “I was sick,” he protested. “I didn’t realize so much laundry had piled up. I promise this involves no heavy work.”
“Okay…give me half an hour and I’ll be there,” she agreed, then hung up.
Clint also hung up, and gave a sigh of relief. Sherry could help him decide what to do. He leaned back in his chair, his thoughts filled with the woman he’d just spoken to.
It was odd. Five years ago he’d believed she was the woman he would spend the rest of his life with, that they would marry and have a family and live happily ever after. It was odd that when their plans hadn’t worked out, they’d managed to put love behind and hang on to friendship.
There was very little left of the Sherry he’d fallen in love with years before. She’d undergone a dramatic transformation, one that had begun the day she discovered she would never have children of her own.
Clint frowned and stared at the baby. Maybe calling Sherry hadn’t been such a great idea. As if in agreement, little Kathryn’s eyes opened wide. She took one long look at him. Her lower lip trembled, her face turned red. She opened up her mouth and wailed.
Sherry Boyd took a fast shower, dressed, then jumped into her car and headed toward Clint’s new place. Two weeks before, he’d moved from an apartment into a nice three-bedroom ranch house on Main.
As she drove, she tried to think of what situation Clint had that would demand her presence, but nothing concrete came to mind.
Turning left on Main, she stifled a yawn with the back of her hand. She’d worked until three that morning, and her body felt the effects of too little sleep. Her eyes felt grainy, her feet ached from the long hours of waitressing, and a light headache pounded at her temples.
“This better be good, Sheriff Graham,” she said aloud as she spied his house in the middle of the block ahead.
She and Graham had lived in the same apartment building for the past four years, up until two weeks ago when this gem of a house had come up for sale. Within days Clint had bought the house and arranged his move.
It was a pleasant, white ranch with black shutters adorning the windows. Spring flowers were already pushing up, adding a splash of color against the white siding.
Sherry heard a baby wailing the moment she opened her car door and stepped out. Instantly she tensed and felt a wind blow through her, the desolate wind of barrenness, a mournful cry of what would never be.
The noise couldn’t be coming from Clint’s place, she reasoned. It was just a trick of the wind. Probably one of the neighbors had a small child.
She reached the front door and knocked, the baby cry louder than before. “Clint?” she yelled. When there was no immediate response, she opened the door and stepped inside.
Clint appeared in the kitchen doorway at the same instant, a sobbing baby girl in his arms. “Thank God you’re here,” he exclaimed.
For a few seconds Sherry merely stared at him, her mind working to make sense of the scene. Clint’s dark hair stood on end, and the front of his shirt was wet with what she suspected was either baby spit-up or slobber.
It was difficult to see exactly what the baby looked like. Her face was bright red at the moment, her features all scrunched up with her unhappiness.
“What’s going on?” Sherry asked. She remained standing where she was, refusing to hold her arms out for the baby, even though she knew that was probably what Clint wanted.
For the past five years, Sherry had made conscious choices that would keep her from being in the presence of children. She’d quit her third-grade teaching job and now worked as a waitress in the town’s most popular tavern. She chose her friends carefully, usually people with either no children, or older kids.
“I can’t make her stop crying,” Clint said frantically. As he talked, he jiggled the baby in his arms. Up and down, up and down, the motion made Sherry feel half-sick, and she had a feeling it wasn’t soothing the baby at all.
“Is she wet?” Sherry asked, still not moving a single step forward.
“I don’t know. I’m wet. She must be,” Clint replied, raising his voice to be heard above the sobbing child.
Sherry could stand it no longer. Despite her reluctance, she moved to where Clint stood, and took the baby from him. The little girl snuggled against Sherry’s chest, her sobs ebbing as if she was comforted by the feminine arms.
As the baby quieted, Sherry fought her impulse to scream at Clint, to vent the anger, the sense of betrayal that swirled inside her. How dare he! How dare he call her over here to help him with a baby.
He knew more than anyone the utter torment she’d gone through when she’d discovered she would never get pregnant, never carry a baby inside her, never have a child of her own. How dare he bring her here where a baby was present, knowing her own particular heartache.
“Come on in the kitchen,” he said. “I think there are diapers and stuff in there.”
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on? Who is she?” Sherry asked as she followed him into the cheerful kitchen, where the morning sunshine streamed through the windows.
“Her name is Kathryn, and that’s about all I know,” Clint replied. “If you’ll take care of her for a few minutes, I’ll start the biscuits and gravy.”
Sherry sat at the table and waved one hand, dismissing the idea. “I’m not hungry. What do you mean, that’s about all you know?”
Clint