Maybe This Time

chapter EIGHT



DARCY STABBED EMMA’S doorbell outside her apartment building a second time. She was taking ages to answer. Maybe she wasn’t home. Maybe she was feeling better and had gone out. But he didn’t think so.

“Hello?” she croaked over the intercom.

“It’s me. Can you buzz me through?”

“This isn’t a good time, Darcy.”

He couldn’t tell her he knew she was sick or she would deny it up and down. But if she thought he needed her—if she thought anyone needed her—Emma wouldn’t refuse.

“I’m renovating the pub. I was hoping you could give me some advice on the color scheme.”

There was a long silence. Darcy kicked a pebble off the mat, took two paces away and came back. Pressed her bell again. “Emma, are you still there?”

“Come up.” She pressed the buzzer.

Darcy didn’t know what he’d expected but the sight that met his eyes when Emma opened her door left him speechless. She had deteriorated significantly in the two days since he’d seen her. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her hair lank. Thick wool work socks protruded beneath her quilted dressing gown. She held a tissue pressed to her pink, chafed nose. Her movements were slow and stiff, as if every joint and muscle ached.

“You look like death warmed over.”

“I’ve got a spring cold.”

“I’m no doctor, but I think what you have is more than a cold.” He glanced over her shoulder into the apartment. It looked as if a bomb had exploded in a clothing factory. There was laundry everywhere, on the furniture, on the floor, not all of it clean.

Without waiting for her to ask him in, he walked into the living room. Nursing textbooks and papers covered the dining table, along with dirty dishes and used coffee mugs. He peeked into the kitchen. More dishes were piled on the counter and in the sink. The garbage was overflowing. He discreetly sniffed. Dirty diapers. Food left out on the counter.

This wasn’t like Emma. She was an immaculate housekeeper. Even when Holly had been a baby the chaos had been controlled. At times the house might have been untidy but Emma always kept things clean. He’d tried to do his share of housework but she preferred to do it herself so she knew it was done to her standards. Now, her living space looked like a homeless person’s nest under a bridge. Magnified a hundred times.

In the nursery, the baby was crying. Emma paid no attention. She blew her nose on a tattered damp tissue.

Darcy stepped out of the kitchen into the hall. “Aren’t you going to pick him up?”

“Why?” she said listlessly, shoulders slumped. “It won’t make him stop crying.”

Okay, this was truly worrying. Emma loved being a mother. She was a nurse. She would never neglect her child, especially one who was sick. He’d seen her give out bandages for a kid who scraped his knee in the park, and dispense cough drops to an elderly woman at a bus stop. Strangers in need got her attention, but she left her baby to cry piteously? Something wasn’t right.

“Does he have a cold, too?” Darcy asked.

Her eyes closed and she nodded.

Darcy could hear the tiny heart-rending cough in between wails. “Have you taken him to the doctor?”

That got a spark out of Emma. Her eyes blazed to life. “Of course I took him. Do you think I’m a bad mother?”

Was that a note of hysteria in her voice? Before this he would never have considered that possibility for a second. But now she was ill and crumbling under too great a workload.

Darcy headed for the nursery. Billy was lying on his back, red in the face and hacking between wails.

“Oh, my God, Emma. How could you leave him like this?” Darcy picked the baby out of the cot. His sleeper was damp from sweat and a leaking diaper and stained with vomited milk. Darcy had no idea where to begin with a baby in this much distress. Emma had always taken care of Holly when she was sick.

Darcy held him out to her. “You need to clean him up. Feed him. Give him medicine. Give him whatever it is he needs.”

Emma rocked the baby and patted his back but her motions were mechanical. She didn’t hold Billy close or make a real effort to comfort him. “Shh, Billy. Be quiet. Please.”

“You should have called someone if you couldn’t cope. Alana, or one of your friends.”

“I can cope,” Emma said shrilly. “Of course I can cope. As soon as I get over this cold I’ll be fine.” She started hacking, deep rattling coughs that Darcy felt in his own chest.

Or maybe that was the ache from seeing Emma and his son in such a pitiful condition. What was going on? Was she having some sort of nervous breakdown as well as being sick? Was she suffering from postnatal depression? Should he take her to the hospital?

“Where’s your phone? I’m calling Tracey.” Another nurse would at least know what to do. He should know what to do. It bothered him that he didn’t.

“Tracey’s in Bali.”

“Alana, then. Or who’s your other friend—Sasha?”

“Sasha’s at home taking care of her kids, who are sick, too. Alana’s working. Anyway I don’t want to risk her catching this. She can’t afford to be sick, and she certainly wouldn’t want Tessa to get it.” Emma jiggled the baby and coughed away from his face. “Don’t call anyone. We’ll get through this, won’t we, Billy?”

She wasn’t being rational. He had to call someone. Darcy walked through the apartment, searching for her phone amid the clutter. He finally found it by calling her on his phone. The ringing came from inside an empty pizza box on the kitchen counter. He quickly scrolled through her contacts list and found Barb’s number. It rang and rang.

Emma stood in the doorway, still holding Billy awkwardly away from her. “If you’re calling Barb, she’s in meetings every day this week. It’s the end-of-year performance reviews for her staff.”

Darcy hung up before the call went to voice mail and called his mother. Please, please let her be home. She’d retired years ago from her job as an accountant, but she did a lot of volunteer work. The phone picked up. Thank God. Someone to take responsibility.

“Emma’s sick with bronchitis, or something,” Darcy said. “The baby has it, too. What should I do?”

“Have they been to the doctor?” his mother asked.

“Yes, but she’s really sick. She can’t look after herself let alone the baby. All her friends are away or sick or working.”

“Then I guess it’s up to you.”

“Um, I was hoping you could help.”

“I would love to look after the baby, but your father was discharged from the hospital this afternoon. He’s not mobile. Plus I need to change the dressings on his surgical wound every few hours.”

“Oh, well, that’s good he’s out. I saw him this morning but he didn’t mention he was going home.”

“He’s getting forgetful,” Marge said.

While they talked, Darcy gathered up dishes and took them to the sink. His shoe stuck to the floor. The whole place was unhygienic. “I’ve got a pub to run. And I don’t have a clue what to do with a two-month-old.”

“Babies aren’t that difficult. They need food, clean clothes, dry diapers and love. I’m sure you can handle that.” She paused. “Your father’s calling me. Sorry, love, I’ve got to go.” And she hung up.

Darcy went in search of Emma. She was slumped on the couch, eyes closed, mindlessly rocking the baby. She hadn’t changed him and seemed to be making no attempt to feed him. Billy had worn himself out and his cries were sporadic, punctuated by hiccups.

Darcy felt Billy’s forehead. It was hot. Fever or dehydration, he had no idea. Emma must be really sick to let the situation get this bad.

The baby wasn’t his responsibility. Emma had told him so repeatedly. She didn’t want him to be involved.

He kicked a pile of laundry out of his way. Had she thought about this scenario when she decided to have a child on her own? What if he hadn’t come by? What if someone else had found her and called Child Services? They might take Billy into custody, possibly foster him out temporarily. Emma would hate that.

Or what if no one had come by and something seriously bad had happened to Billy?

Someone had come by. Him. It was no good telling himself he wasn’t responsible when he knew full well he was. He felt ashamed of himself for calling his mother. Fine to ask for advice but to try to palm off his kid...it was wrong. He had to step up. It was only temporary, till Emma got better.

Gingerly, he reached for the baby and took him out of Emma’s slack arms. “Go have a shower while I change him.”

She blinked at him then gazed blankly at her empty arms. “You wanted to talk about decorating.”

“Shower. Now. That’s an order.” His mouth set in a grim line, Darcy held the soaking-wet baby out from his body and strode back to the nursery. From the recesses of his mind he recalled something Emma had said when Holly was sick. It’s a good sign if the diaper’s wet. It means she’s not dehydrated. So Billy being soaked through was a good thing. Yeah, right.

Darcy laid the baby on the change table and held him firmly in place with one hand on his tummy while he studied the situation. The sodden sleeper was a one-piece with snap closures. How hard could this be? It wasn’t like he’d never changed a baby’s diaper. Before that terrible day when Holly had fallen, he’d been in charge while Emma was out shopping. Back then Emma had laid out everything in the order in which he would need it. However, judging by the jumble of wipes, pins, powder and other unrecognizable stuff on Billy’s dresser, this time he was going to have to wing it.

“Don’t worry, kid. I’ll get you clean and dry in a jiffy.”

Billy started at the sound of his deep voice. Then cried louder. Darcy began to peel the wet clothing off a small squirming body. Ugh. The baby’s undershirt was soaked, too. Emma was using cloth diapers. No wonder everything was wet. Exactly how long had it been since she’d changed him? He thought of asking and rejected the idea. She probably didn’t know. Emma was a nurse and a mother, but right now she was in crazy town.

With relief, he heard the shower running. At least she wasn’t so far gone she couldn’t clean herself. How long had she been ill and trying to cope on her own and patently not coping? He felt sick to think about it. While he’d been preoccupied with the pub she’d been floundering by herself with only the occasional delivery from the pizza place for sustenance.

With two fingers Darcy dropped the soiled sleeper directly into the garbage. “Hope that wasn’t your favorite outfit, kid.”

He could see how Emma would go batty if she had to listen to that crying night and day. Why hadn’t she called him? Yes, he’d told her he wanted nothing to do with the baby and she’d insisted over and over that Billy was her baby, her responsibility. But surely she knew she could count on him in an emergency.

He almost gagged when he tore off the sodden diaper. Oh, man, this child needed a bath. He listened. Emma was still in the shower. This was going to be tricky.

He put the diaper in the pail and wrapped Billy in a towel he found lying on the floor. When Holly had been tiny Emma had bathed her in the kitchen sink. Darcy carried the baby to the kitchen and surveyed the basin filled with dirty dishes and scraps of food. Not an option.

Now what? How had he come to be standing in this filthy apartment with a crying baby in his hands? Darcy felt a little like howling himself. All he’d wanted when he came over here was to make sure Emma was okay, get a peek at his son and go on his merry way content in the knowledge that she was happy, had what she wanted and he didn’t need to feel guilty about a thing. He’d expected her to be under the weather, not having mental problems.

This was partly his fault. By not insisting he take an active role he’d pushed her into trying to do it all herself. The stress had been too much for her.

There was no point casting blame when he had a cold, wet, hungry, naked baby literally on his hands. The kid needed a bath. He explored the rest of the apartment. No laundry room. Great. The crying was really starting to get to him. How did the baby keep that up? His throat must be so sore. Which no doubt made him cry even more.

“Your mum won’t be too much longer, kid,” Darcy muttered, pacing the short hall. “Then we can get you cleaned up.”

How long had she been in there? Must be over ten minutes. Emma didn’t waste water. Even after the drought had ended she still limited her showers to two minutes, four if she washed her hair—

Oh, no.

She wouldn’t. Would she?

Darcy banged on the door, his heart racing. “Emma! Answer me.”

All he heard was the sound of running water.

He flung open the door and stepped into the steamy room. Behind the frosted glass shower door Emma stood naked and motionless, hands at her sides and her face turned into the spray.

Thank God. Oh, thank God. Darcy’s knees crumpled. He sat on the edge of a bathtub separate from the shower. She hadn’t heard him call out or come in, wasn’t even aware of his presence in the bathroom. She was lost somewhere in her head, hiding under a waterfall. He could hear her singing to herself, faint and tuneless.

He wasn’t leaving this room until the baby was bathed. Suddenly that seemed of vital importance. Surely he could manage that, if nothing else. Billy was half-asleep, exhausted by crying and illness.

Clutching him to his chest, Darcy leaned over the bathtub and ran the water, testing the temperature with his elbow. Why the elbow? He’d always wondered that. The elbow had to be one of the least sensitive places on the human body. And a baby’s skin was ultrasensitive. But maybe he had that wrong. When Holly had been born, Emma had given him a stack of baby-rearing books which he’d never read.

Why would he read about babies when playing with Holly was so much more fun? He’d been an expert on getting her to giggle and blowing raspberries. Not so much on, say, when to start a child on solids. Emma took care of all that. He only breezed in for a couple of hours, got Holly hyped up, as Emma would say, then went to the pub. If he didn’t do anything that mattered, then he couldn’t screw up.

When the tub held a couple of inches of warm water Darcy unwrapped the baby and carefully lowered him in. Billy woke up and flung both arms out, his eyes wide and his mouth gaping. Snot hung from his nose in two yellow-green ribbons. He began to cry. Of course. What other response would a baby have to a bath?

Slippery little devil, too. He wriggled and twisted, slipping out of Darcy’s grip and flipping over with his face below the water. Crap! Darcy grabbed him and whipped him out and upside down to drain any water that might have filled his nostrils. Darcy was sweating in the humid room and he could smell his own fear.

“What are you doing?” Emma asked.

He glanced over his shoulder. The shower had stopped and he hadn’t noticed. Emma stood directly behind him, naked and dripping, watching his clumsy handling of her precious baby with a curiously detached expression. Even though she was shivering with the cold she made no move to dry herself or wrap up in a dressing gown.

She’d completely lost it. Non compos mentis. He’d been thinking he would bathe Billy, make sure Emma fed him, clean up the apartment and leave. Now he realized there was no way he could leave her on her own.

In a detached fashion another part of his brain registered her body. Her belly was still slightly rounded from childbirth, her breasts were full and the nipples bright red. Even postpartum she was sexy. Ordinarily he would feel lust seeing her fresh from the shower without a stitch on. But with her in this state it was wrong, like lusting after someone not capable of rational thought.

He averted his gaze. Even looking at her was wrong because he was doing so without her informed consent. Instead he concentrated on Billy, holding him firmly in one hand while he cleaned him with a soapy cloth, gently getting in between the crevices and folds.

“You’d better dry off and put some clothes on,” he said. “Then get ready to feed him. He feels hot.”

“I have no milk.”

Darcy glanced over his shoulder again. She’d made no move to dress. “What have you been feeding him?”

“I have a trickle. And I’m supplementing with formula.” She cupped her breasts, wincing when she touched her cracked nipples. “He won’t latch on properly so the milk hasn’t come in the way it should.”

Darcy pulled the baby from the water and looked around for a towel. “Pass me a towel? And put something on, for heaven’s sake.”

She pulled her dressing gown on over her still-wet body. “I’ll see if I can find a clean towel in the hall.” Off she went as if everyone kept their clean linen on the hall carpet.

Meanwhile Billy was shivering and whimpering. Darcy couldn’t wrap him back up in the dirty towel. Poor little sod. He unbuttoned his shirt and tucked the wet baby inside next to his bare skin, pulling the shirt over his back as far as he could. Billy stopped wriggling. He stopped crying. He snuggled in as if he belonged there.

Oh, man. Darcy could feel a tiny heart beating next to his. He glimpsed himself in the foggy mirror, a frazzled-looking man with a huge lump in his chest. And he didn’t mean the baby.

* * *

EMMA SIFTED THROUGH the piles of clothes for a clean towel. She really ought to tidy up a little. But hey, it wasn’t like Darcy had never left a dirty mug on the coffee table. She held a towel to her nose but her sinuses were too blocked to tell if it was clean or dirty.

She picked her way across the living room and drew the curtains to hold the towel up to the window. She was surprised to see daylight. What time was it? The clock on the TV read seven o’clock. Was that morning or evening?

Had she dreamed that moment in the bathroom when she’d stepped out of the shower naked in front of Darcy? Had that really happened? Maybe she’d imagined it. The past few days had been a blur. Once, she’d woken in the dark, delirious with fever, and thought she’d seen hundreds of dwarves in medieval tunics marching off to the mines with pickaxes over their shoulders.

Maybe she’d hallucinated Darcy, too. She listened. She could hear him in the bathroom, clearing his throat. Thank God. She hadn’t gone completely off her rocker. But now she cringed to think he’d seen her postbaby flabby stomach, stretch marks and heavy breasts.

Forget about her appearance, it was her emotional state she was worried about. She had to hold it together. She couldn’t let Darcy know how close she was to losing control. There must be no repeat of her earlier outburst. Cool and calm and organized, that’s what everyone said about her. And she was, really she was. This— She glanced around the room as if seeing it for the first time, and was horrified. This wasn’t like her.

At least Billy was quiet for once. When he cried and cried and cried her brain short-circuited, and she couldn’t think. The cold/flu/bronchitis—whatever it was she had—made her head ache like it was going to explode.

“Did you find a towel?” Darcy stood in the doorway, his shirt half-open revealing olive skin flecked with dark hair. For a moment she couldn’t figure out what the bulge in his shirt was. Then she saw it move and whimper. A fleeting revulsion made her look away.

Billy was her baby, the child she’d wanted so badly she’d basically sacrificed her marriage to have. She didn’t love him. She wanted to, and Lord knows, she’d tried. Sasha, who knew all about maternity matters, had told her that sometimes it took time, that once he was nursing well, the love would fall into place.

What about women who didn’t nurse, who fed their babies formula from the beginning either because they couldn’t, or didn’t want to, nurse? They still loved their babies and bonded with them. What was wrong with her? Billy was a squalling bundle of noise who was driving her insane. Oh, she took care of him, made sure he was fed and clean—or at least she had before she got so sick—but the horrifying truth was staring her in the face—she was an unnatural mother. What kind of woman didn’t love her own child?

“Here.” She thrust the towel at Darcy, hoping he wouldn’t expect her to take the baby.

“You need to dry off yourself.” He pushed aside the clutter on the couch and sat with the towel spread over his lap. Then he gently extricated the baby from inside his shirt and laid him on the towel.

Emma curled up in a chair by the window and watched, winding a piece of wet hair around and around her finger. This was the first time Darcy had handled Billy. Even though he was awkward, how could he not want to be a father? What chance did her poor baby have with a mother who couldn’t, and a father who wouldn’t, love him?

Darcy had found a clean diaper and was trying to put it on Billy. Not surprisingly, he was doing it wrong. She could count on one hand the number of times he’d changed Holly’s diaper.

“You’ve got it backward.” Emma covered her mouth to hide a smile. There was nothing funny about it except that Darcy looked sweet, his forehead furrowed in concentration, his big hands surprisingly gentle.

Darcy glanced up, flushed and scowling. “Maybe you’d like to do it. Make sure it’s done right.”

“No, no, you’re doing fine.” Her hands went up as if warding off the child. She noticed and dropped them back in her lap where they twisted themselves into knots. “The tabs wrap toward the front, is all.”

He eyed her narrowly for another moment then flipped the diaper around. Then he turned his attention to the clean sleeper. As he tried to stuff a foot inside, Billy snapped awake. He glanced up at Darcy and started crying.

“He’s hungry.” Emma instinctively wrapped her dressing gown tighter around her. She wanted to nurse him but her nipples were sore and bleeding. Every time he latched on, the pain made her tense up and her milk wouldn’t let down.

Darcy abandoned the sleeper and wrapped the towel around the baby. He started to rise. “I’ll bring him to you—”

“No.” Emma shrank away. Seeing the shock in Darcy’s eyes, she quickly made excuses. “I have germs. It wouldn’t be good for Billy.”

“I meant you could hold him while I get a bottle ready.” Darcy’s frown deepened as he studied her.

“Oh. Okay. I could do that.” Emma reached for Billy and laid him across her lap. She felt no desire to comfort him. She wasn’t capable of giving comfort. Once Darcy got the bottle he would probably leave again. What could she do to make him stay? She was afraid for Billy’s sake. But she couldn’t tell Darcy how she felt. He would be so angry. He’d told her having a baby was a mistake. He hadn’t wanted it and now he’d been proven right. He would hate her and resent Billy....

Tears leaked from her eyes and dripped onto her baby. His wriggling had loosened the towel and his bare legs kicked free. Suddenly she realized how cold it was in the apartment. She was shivering herself but that could just be her cold. If only she could go to bed and all this—the baby, the apartment, her solitary life—would go away and she would wake up in her old house, wrapped in Darcy’s arms and Holly sleeping down the hall....

The tears flowed faster. She was so weak. When had she become so weak?

She looked at Darcy and pleaded silently, Please don’t leave me alone with this baby. I might do something terrible. I might not do something and that could also turn out to be terrible. Darcy looked so stern, so angry, as if he was disgusted with her for screwing up their lives and being such a miserable mother.

“Emma, can you hear me?” He had a hand on her shoulder and was gently shaking her. “Do you have formula?”

“What? Oh, in the cupboard to the right of the stove.”

“Once he’s fed we’re leaving.”

“What? Who’s leaving? No! Where to?” The words came out in a squawk and she put a hand to her sore throat. Was he taking Billy away from her? She was a mess, but she wasn’t giving up on her baby. Her brain was too muddled to make sense of what was going on.

“I’m taking you and Billy to my place.” He swore under his breath. “God knows how I’m going to look after you both, but I’ll figure it out.”

“No, Darcy.” She rallied the last crumb of her strength and dignity to protest. “Thank you for bathing Billy. I can take it from here. You don’t owe me anything.”

“I’m not walking away from you when you’re this sick. Maybe you should even be in the hospital. When we get you to my apartment I’ll get Dr. Maxwell to check you out.” He cupped her cheek in his warm palm, his fingertips slightly raspy, and his voice was low and rumbling. So gentle she could weep. “Don’t worry, Em. Everything’s going to be all right.”

Emma closed her eyes. She wanted to believe him so badly. And for the moment she did. He’d saved Billy from her. Thanks to him, their baby was going to be all right.

Darcy went into the kitchen to hunt for formula. She was beyond caring whether a clean sterilized bottle was on hand. Normally she wasn’t the sort of woman who relied on a man. But just this one time she would let Darcy sort it out.