Right Next Door
Page 45

Carol felt frozen. The chill worked its way from her heart, the icy circles growing larger and more encompassing until the cold extended down her arms and legs and into her fingers and toes.
“I know this is abrupt, and I’m probably ruining the moment, but say something,” Alex urged. “Anything.”
Carol’s mind refused to function properly. Panic was closing in, panic and a hundred misgivings. “I…don’t know what to tell you.”
Alex threw back his head and laughed. “I don’t blame you. All right,” he said, his eyes flashing, “repeat after me. I, Carol Sommars.” He glanced expectantly at her.
“I…Carol Sommars…”
“Am crazy in love with Alex Preston.” He waited for her to echo his words.
“Am crazy in love with Alex Preston.”
“Good,” he whispered and leaned forward just enough to brush his mouth over hers. His arms slipped around her, locking at the small of her back and dragging her unresistingly toward him. “You know, the best part about those babies is going to be making them.”
A blush rose up her neck, coloring her cheeks with what she felt sure was a highly uncomplimentary shade of pink. Her eyes darted away from his.
“Now all you need to do is say yes,” Alex said.
“I can’t. I…don’t know.” To her horror, she started to sob, not with the restrained tears of a confused woman, but the harsh mournful cries of one in anguish.
Alex had apparently expected anything but tears. “Carol? What’s wrong? What did I say?” He wrapped his arms around her and brought her head to his shoulder.
Carol wanted to resist his touch, but she so desperately needed it that she buried her face in the curve of his neck and wept. Alex’s arms were warm and safe, his hands gentle. She did love him. Somewhere between his rescue the night her car broke down and the camping trip, her well-guarded heart had succumbed to his appeal. But falling in love was one thing; marriage and children were something else entirely.
“Come on,” Alex finally said. He opened the car door for her.
“Where are we going?” she asked, sniffling.
“My house. James won’t be home yet, and we can talk without being disturbed.”
Carol wasn’t sure what more he could say, but she agreed with a nod of her head and climbed inside. He closed the door for her, then paused and ran a hand over his eyes, slumping wearily.
Neither of them said much during the ten-minute drive. He helped her out of his car, then unlocked the front door to his house. His suitcases had been haphazardly dumped on the living room carpet. When he saw Carol looking at them, he said simply, “I was in a hurry to find you.” He led the way into the kitchen and started making a pot of coffee.
Carol pulled out a stool at the counter and seated herself. His kitchen—in fact, his home—wasn’t at all what she expected. A woman’s touch could be seen and felt in every room. The kitchen was yellow and cheery. What remained of the evening light shone through the window above the sink, sending warm shadows across the polished tile floor. Matching ceramic canisters lined the counter, along with a row of well-used cookbooks.
“Okay, Carol, tell me what’s on your mind,” Alex urged, facing her from behind the tile counter. Even then Carol wasn’t safe from his magnetism.
“That’s the problem,” she said, swallowing hard. “I don’t know what’s on my mind. I’m so confused….”
“I realize my proposal came out of the blue, but once you think about it, you’ll understand how perfect we are for each other. Surely you’ve thought about it yourself.”
“No,” she said quickly, and for emphasis, shook her head. “I hadn’t…not once. Marriage hadn’t occurred to me.”
“I see.” He raised his right hand to rub his eyes again.
Carol knew he must be exhausted and was immediately overcome with remorse. She did love Alex, although admitting it—to herself as much as to him—had sapped her strength.
“What do you want to do?” he asked softly.
“I’m not sure,” she whispered, staring down at her hands, which were tightly clenched in her lap.
“Would some time help?”
She nodded eagerly.
“How long?”
“A year. Several months. At the very least, three or four weeks.”
“How about two weeks?” Alex suggested.
“Two weeks,” she echoed feebly. That wasn’t nearly enough. She couldn’t possibly reach such an important decision in so little time, especially when there were other factors to consider. Before she could voice a single excuse, Alex pressed his finger to her lips.
“If you can’t decide in that length of time, then I doubt you ever will.”
A protest came and went in a single breath. There were so many concerns he hadn’t mentioned—like their sons!
She was about to bring this up when Alex said, “I don’t think we should draw the boys into this until we know our own minds. The last thing we need is pressure from them.”
Carol agreed completely.
The coffee had finished perking, and Alex poured them each a cup. “How about dinner Friday night? Just the two of us.” At her hesitation, he added, “I’ll give you the rest of this week to sort through your thoughts, and if you still have any questions or doubts by Friday, we can discuss them then.”
“But not a final decision?” Carol murmured, uneasy with the time limitation. He’d said two weeks, and she was going to need every minute to make up her mind.
Carol woke around three with her stomach in painful knots. She lay on her side and at a breath-stopping cramp, she tucked her knees under her chin. A wave of nausea hit her hard, and she couldn’t stifle a groan. Despite her flu shot last fall, maybe she’d caught one of the new strains that emerged every year.
She lay perfectly still in the fervent hope that this would ward off her growing need to vomit. It didn’t work, and a moment later she was racing for the bathroom.
Afterward, sitting on the floor, her elbows on the edge of the toilet, she breathed deeply.
“Are you all right?” Peter asked from behind her.
“I will be. I just need a couple more minutes.”
“What’s wrong?” Peter asked. He handed her a warm washcloth, following that with a cup of water.
“The flu, I guess.”
He helped her to her feet and walked her back to her bedroom. “I appreciate the help, Peter, but it would be better if you went back to bed. I’ll be fine by morning.”
“I’ll call work for you and tell them you’re too sick to come in.”
She shook her head. “No…I’ll need to talk to them myself.” Her son dutifully arranged the blankets around her, giving her a worried look before he slipped out of her bedroom.
Peter must have turned off her alarm because the next thing Carol knew it was eight-thirty. The house was eerily silent.
Sitting up, she waited for an attack of nausea. It didn’t come. She’d slept without waking even once. She was astonished that she hadn’t heard Peter roaming about. He was usually as noisy as a herd of rampaging buffalo. Perhaps he’d overslept as well.
In case he had, she threw the sheets back, sat on the edge of the bed and shoved her feet into slippers before wandering into the kitchen. The minute she stepped inside, it was obvious that her son had been up and about. A box of cold cereal stood in the middle of the kitchen table, along with a bowl half-filled with milk and crusts from several pieces of toast.
Posted on the refrigerator door was a note from Peter, informing her that he’d phoned the hospital and talked to her supervisor, who’d said Carol didn’t need to worry about coming in. He proudly added that he’d made his own lunch and that he’d find a ride home from track practice, so she should stay in bed and drink lots of fluids. In a brief postscript he casually mentioned that he’d also called Grandma Pasquale.
Carol’s groan had little to do with the way she was feeling. All she needed was her mother, bless her heart, hovering over her and driving her slowly but surely crazy. No sooner had the thought formed in her mind than the doorbell chimed, followed by a key turning in the lock and the front door flying open. Her mother burst into the house as though Carol lay on her deathbed.
“Carol,” she cried, walking through the living room. “What are you doing out of bed?”
“I’m feeling much better, Mama.”
“You look terrible. Get back in bed before the undertaker gets wind of how you look.”
“Ma, please, I’m just a little under the weather.”
“That’s what my uncle Giuseppe said when he had the flu, God rest his soul. His wife never even got the chicken stewed, he went that fast.” She pressed her hands together, raised her eyes to the ceiling and murmured a silent prayer.
“Peter shouldn’t have phoned you,” Carol grumbled. She certainly didn’t need her mother fussing at her bedside, spooning chicken soup down her throat every time she opened her mouth.
“Peter did the right thing. He’s a good boy.”
At the moment Carol considered that point debatable.
“Now back to bed before you get a dizzy spell.” Her mother made a shooing motion with her hands.
Mumbling under her breath, Carol did as Angelina insisted. Not because she felt especially ill, but because arguing required too much energy. Carol might as well try to talk her mother into using canned spaghetti sauce as convince her she wasn’t on her deathbed.
Once Carol was lying down, Angelina dragged the rocking chair into her bedroom and sat down. Before another minute had passed, she was busy with her knitting. Several balls of yarn were lying at her feet in case she wanted to start a second or third project in the next few hours.
“According to Peter you were sick in the middle of the night,” Angelina said. Eyes narrowed, she studied Carol, as if staring would reveal the exact nature of her daughter’s illness. She shook her head, then paused to count the neat row of stitches before glancing back at Carol, clearly expecting an answer.
“It must’ve been something I ate for dinner,” she suggested lamely.
“Peter said you were looking at parts of a toilet no one should see that close up.”
Her teenage son certainly had a way with words. “I’m feeling better,” she said weakly.
“Your face is paler than bleached sheets. Uncle Giuseppe has more color than you, and he’s been in his grave for thirty years.”
Carol leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes. She might be able to fool just about anyone else, but her mother knew her too well.
Several tense minutes passed. Angelina said not a word, patient to a fault. Yes, her mother knew; Carol was sure of it. She kept her eyes closed, afraid that another searching look would reveal everything. Oh, what the heck, Angelina would find out sooner or later.
“Alex asked me to marry him last night.” Carol tried to keep her voice even, but it shook noticeably.
“Ah,” her mother said, nodding. “That explains everything. From the time you were a little girl, you got an upset stomach whenever something troubled you, although why you should be troubled when this man tells you he loves you is a whole other question.”