Judy Duarte - Her Best Christmas Ever

Connie blew out a sigh and rubbed the small of her back, which had begun to ache all over again.

Had she done too much or pulled something? Or was this just one of the many discomforts associated with the last weeks of pregnancy?

For a moment, she wondered if she might be going into labor. After all, the books she’d read mentioned something about a backache. But it seemed as though she’d been plagued with a similar pain off and on for the past few days or so.

She had a doctor’s appointment tomorrow, so she’d have to ask about it. Especially since it seemed to be hurting worse today than before.

Maybe sleeping on the soft sofa hadn’t been good for her.

Thinking that it might be better if she moved around a bit, she headed to the kitchen where Gregwas fixing sandwiches for them.

Earlier, she’d baked a cake, but she’d put off preparing anything else to eat until after she’d taken a nap, which made her feel somewhat remiss now. She’d been hired to cook the meals, so she didn’t want anyone to think she was slacking off. Neither did she want anyone to think that her pregnancy—or the baby—would hamper her ability to work and pull her own weight. She needed this job and a safe, out-of-the-way place to live.

As she stepped into the doorway, she found Greg standing at the counter, his long, dark hair pulled back with a strip of leather and hanging past his broad shoulders.

He was loading up slices of bread in Dagwood style, with ham, turkey, cheese, sliced tomatoes and whatever else he’d been able to find by rummaging in the fridge.

It was strange to see someone of his caliber standing so close, to see a talented, sexy man engaged in a run-of-the-mill task. He appeared to be one part cowboy, one part warrior, and she found herself in awe.

But she was determined not to fawn over him like a starstruck groupie.

“How about a piece of apple-spice cake?” she asked, shrugging off any misplaced attraction as she entered the kitchen.

“Sure, I’ve got a real sweet tooth, so that sounds great.” He glanced over his shoulder and tossed her his trademark smile, which did a real number on her hormones. And not the maternal kind.

Weird, she thought. Even nine months pregnant, with her thoughts and her body focused on a new baby and upcoming childbirth, she was still flattered by his attention in a male/female sort of way. But she did her best to ignore it and went to work.

After cutting two pieces of cake—one large and one small—she placed them on dessert plates.

“Let’s eat in the living room,” Greg said. “It’s getting chilly, and I want to start a fire. Besides, you’ll probably be more comfortable in there.”

He was right about that.

Ten minutes later, as several flames licked the logs Greg had stacked in the hearth, Connie reached for the afghan, wrapping it around her and the baby that slept in her womb. She’d decided to call her daughter Amanda, after a friend she’d once had, a neighbor girl who’d moved away the same summer Connie’s daddy had died.

It had been a cruel blow, a double whammy for a ten-year-old. And, for a while, she’d wondered if she could handle the heartbreak, the loneliness.

Eventually, the incredible sadness became bearable, but the loneliness never went away.

Outside the wind howled, and the rain came down in a steady sheet. Connie never had liked the wind. Not since watching The Wizard of Oz and hearing about Texas twisters that had wreaked havoc on entire cities.

“Do you have family?” Greg asked.

She turned her head, saw him watching her from across the sofa. “Yes. A mom and a sister.”

“Do they live around here?”

“Not too far.” She didn’t particularly want to talk about them. She’d never been a good liar, and since the truth hurt, she preferred to change the subject whenever possible.

“Granny said you didn’t want to take time off for the holiday.”

“I thought it might be best to stick close to my doctor in Brighton Valley.”

“You mean Doc Graham?” Greg asked. “He’s the only one in town, as far as I know.”

“Actually, Doc retired a couple of months back, and Dr. Bramblett took over his practice.”

“Are you okay with that?” Greg asked. “I know Doc is getting on in years. And most doctors his age would have retired a decade or more ago. But he’s got a solid reputation for having a good bedside manner and being a top-notch diagnostician, at least as far as small-town physicians go.”

“I know what you mean. And, yes, I was a little disappointed when he introduced me to Dr. Bramblett. But I really like her, too. It’ll be okay.”

Both doctors had assured her that she was healthy and that they had no reason to believe she’d have any problems. In fact, during her last exam, Dr. Bramblett had said that the baby was in perfect position—head down and dropped low in the pelvis.

Still, Connie had to admit she was a little nervous and scared about actually having the baby, even if she’d read everything she could get her hands on lately.

“Is your mother going to be with you for the birth?” Greg asked.

“No, I don’t think so.” In truth, Connie hadn’t told her mom or her sister that she was expecting. Neither of them had approved of Ross, even though they hadn’t known he had a drinking problem and was abusive.

Her mother had been relieved to know that he and Connie had broken up for good, but she wouldn’t be the least bit happy to learn her youngest daughter was going to be an unwed mother.

A small part of Connie was tempted to tuck her tail between her legs and run home to Mama anyway, but she just couldn’t bring herself to do that. Her mother—Dinah Rawlings of daytime television fame—had a conservative audience and wouldn’t appreciate the bad publicity right now, even if Connie’s days of rebellion were over.

Besides, ever since her father’s death, it seemed that their mother/daughter relationship had been steadily deteriorating. Now it was more of a facade than anything.

In part, Connie blamed her mother’s obsession with work and those stupid television ratings for the rift. But she knew it went much deeper than that. She’d never been able to compete with her older sister.

Yet even if she and her mom got along great, she was afraid Ross might be able to find her through her mother. And Connie couldn’t let him do that.

Nor could she risk letting him learn they’d conceived a baby during their tumultuous time together. Ross had lost his temper more than once, making Connie the victim of domestic violence.

What might he do to a child?

The evening, as awkward as it promised to be, stretched before them like a bungee cord pulled to its limit, ready to bounce or snap at any moment. So Greg turned on the television, which seemed to help. At least, the men’s action flick he’d settled on had made the time pass. If Connie didn’t like the movie he’d chosen, she didn’t mention it.

But just before eight, when the villain was about to get his comeuppance, the power went out, causing the television to shut down with a whoosh and the house to go dark.

The only light came from the fireplace, which was still going strong.

“Uh-oh.” Connie’s voice bore the hint of a tremble.

“Don’t worry.” Greg pushed himself out of the leather recliner on which he’d been sitting and stood. Then he made his way to the hearth, where he took the candles from a grouping on the mantel and stooped to hold the wicks—one at a time—near the flame until they lit. When he was finished, he placed the candles throughout the room.

He wondered if Granny still kept the flashlights in the mudroom. Probably. He would just have to carry a candle with him when he went to look.