Нора Робертс - Midnight Bayou

He'd had a baby. He'd gone through childbirth.

Good God.

"Cher? Declan? You come on outside." Gently, Odette guided him off the floor. "You need some air.”

"Yeah. Southern ladies are big on swooning, right?”

"What's that?"

"Never mind." He was mortified, he was awed, at what had happened to him inside his own dream. Inside, he supposed, his own memories.

"Go on back in," he told her. "I'm just going to take a walk, clear my head.”

"What did you remember?”

"A miracle," he murmured. "Remind me to buy my mother a really great present. I don't know how the hell you women get through it once. She did it four times. Amazing," he mumbled, and headed down the steps. "Fucking amazing.”

He walked all the way around the house, then slipped back in for a tall glass of icy water. He used it to wash down three extra-strength aspirin in hopes of cutting back on the vicious headache that had come on the moment he'd remembered the dream.

He could hear the music spilling down the steps from the ballroom. He could feel the vibrations on the ceiling from where dozens of feet danced.

He had to get back up, perform his duties as best man and host. All he wanted to do was fall facedown on the bed, close his eyes, and slide into oblivion.

"Declan." Lena came in through the gallery doors, then shut them behind her. "What's the matter?”

"Nothing. Just a headache.”

"You've been gone nearly an hour. People are asking about you.”

"I'm coming up." But he sat on the side of the bed. "In a minute.”

She crossed to him. "Is it bad?”

"I've had worse.”

"Why don't you just lie down a few minutes?”

"I'm not crawling into bed on my best friend's wedding day-unless you want to keep me company.”

"It's tempting. Seeing a man in a tux always makes me want to peel him out of it.”

"Mamtre d's must just love you.”

"There now, you made a stupid joke, so you must be feeling better.”

"Considering I gave birth less than twenty-four hours ago, I'd say I'm doing great.”

Lena pursed her lips. "Cher, just how much have you had to drink this evening?”

"Not nearly as much as I plan on having. You know how you had this theory that I was Abigail Manet? Well, I'm starting to think you're onto something seeing as I dreamed I was in that room down the hall, in the bed I've seen in there-that one that isn't there. I wasn't seeing Abigail on that bed, in the last stages of labor. I experienced it, and let me tell you, it ain't no walk on the beach. Any woman who doesn't go for the serious drugs is a lunatic. It beats anything they dreamed up for that entertaining era known as the Spanish Inquisition.”

"You dreamed you were Abigail, and you-was "It wasn't like a dream, Lena, and I think I m/'ve been in that room when I had the-flash or hallucination, or whatever we call it. I can remember the storm– the sound of it, and how scared I was, how focused I was on bringing that baby out.”

He paused, replayed his own words. "Boy, that sounded weird.”

"Yes. Yes, it did." She sat beside him.

"I heard the voices. Other women helping me. I can see their faces-especially the young one. The one close to my age-Abigail's age. I can feel the sweat running down my face, and the unbelievable fatigue. Then that sensation, that peak of it all when it was like coming to the point of being ripped open. Bearing down, then the relief, the numbness, the fucking wonder of pushing life into the world. Then the flood of pride and love when they put that miracle in my arms.”

He looked down at his hands while Lena stared at him. "I can see the baby, Lena, clear as life, I can see her. All red and wrinkled and pissed off. Dark blue eyes, dark hair. A rosebud mouth. Tiny, slender fingers, and I thought: There are ten, and she is perfect. My perfect Rose.”

He looked at Lena now. "Marie Rose, your great-great-grandmother. Marie Rose," he repeated, "our daughter.”

Their daughter. She couldn't dismiss it, and something deep inside her grieved. But she couldn't speak of it, wouldn't speak of it, not when her head and heart were so heavy.

Lena threw herself back into the crowds, the music, the laughter. This was now, she thought. Now was what counted.

She was alive, with the warm evening air on her skin, under the pure, white moonlight with the fragrance of the flowers and gardens rioting around her.

Roses and verbena, heliotrope, jasmine.

Lilies. Her favorite had been the lily. She kept them, always, in her room. First in the servants' quarters, then in their bedroom. Clipped in secret from the garden or the hothouse.

And for the nursery, there were roses. Tiny pink buds for their precious Marie Rose.

Frightened, she pushed those thoughts, those images, aside. Grabbing a partner, she flirted him into a dance.

She didn't want the past. It was dead and done. She didn't want the future. It was capricious and often cruel. It was the moment that was to be lived, enjoyed. Even controlled.

So when Declan's father took her hand, she smiled at him, brilliantly.

"This one here's a Cajun two-step. Can you handle it?”

"Let's find out.”

They swung among the circling couples with quick, stylish moves that had her laughing up at him. "Why, Patrick, you're a natural. You sure you're a Yankee?”

"Blood and bone. Then again, you have to factor in the Irish. My mother was a hell of a step-dancer, and can still pull it off after a couple of pints.”

"How old's your mama?”

"Eighty-six." He twirled her out and back. "Fitzgeralds tend to be long-lived and vigorous. Something's upset you.”

She kept her cheerful expression in place. "Now what could upset me at such a lovely time and place?”

"That's the puzzle. Why don't we get a glass of champagne, and you can tell me?”

He didn't give her a chance to refuse. Like father, like son, she thought as he kept her hand firmly in his. He drew her to the bar, ordered two flutes, then led her outside.

"A perfect night," she said, and breathed it in. "Look at those gardens. It's hard to believe what they were like just a few months back. Did Declan tell you about the Franks?”

"About the Franks, Tibald. About Effie and Miss Odette. About the ghosts, about you.”

"He bit off a lot here." She sipped champagne, wandered to the baluster. Below, people were still dancing on the lawn. A group of women sat at one of the white tables under a white moon, some with babies sleeping on their shoulders, some with children drooping in their laps.

"He was bored in Boston.”

Intrigued, Lena looked away from the people, the charm of the fairy lights, and looked at Patrick. "Bored?”

"Unhappy, restless, but in a large part bored. With his work, his fiancie, his life. The only thing that put any excitement in his face was the old house he was redoing. I worried he'd go along, end up married to the wrong woman, working in a field he disliked, living a life that only half satisfied him. I shouldn't have worried.”

He leaned back on the baluster and looked through the open doors into the ballroom. "His mind, his heart, was never set on the path we-his mother and I– cleared for him. We didn't want to see that, so for a long time, we didn't.”

"You only wanted the best for him. People tend to think what's best for them is best for the people they love.”

"Yes, and Declan's nature is to do whatever he can to make those he loves happy. He loves you.”

When she said nothing, Patrick turned to her. "You said he was stubborn. It's more than that. Once Declan sets his mind on a goal, on a vision, he's got a head like granite. He won't be turned away by obstacles or excuses or lukewarm protests. If you don't love him, Lena, if you don't want a life with him, hurt him. Hurt him quick and make it deep. Then walk away.”