Five Kids, One Christmas (The Brannigan Sisters) Read online

  When they joined—and they would, he knew, whether tonight or eventually, have each other in bed—he wanted only passion and pleasure between them, laughter and enjoyment, friendship and caring. Those were the things that would see them through the tumult of the journey they’d elected to take, the things that would not fade the way love was wont to do.

  He was as intimately familiar with the paling of love as was Helen.

  He wanted the act to be part of the whole, part of the… pledge they’d made, a natural extension of the… commitment and the… care and caring they needed to stay together for fifteen years, at least.

  Beyond that was not his to say or speculate.

  Beyond these children graduating high school was more than he had any intention of asking of anybody, including himself.

  When she put her hands to his shirt studs, he caught her fingers and held them still, drew a breath.

  "Helen."

  "I’m here."

  It was hard to remember what chivalrous and noble things he’d been thinking, with her so close he inhaled the sweetness of every breath she exhaled; nearly impossible to recall anything except her name when she brought her lips to either corner of his mouth and left butterfly kisses there, moved to feather them along his jaw, nuzzled his late–day stubble with her smile, her cheek, her nose.

  Breath hissed between his teeth and he canted his head, pressing into her mouth. This sure didn’t feel despairing or vulnerable. Instead it felt bold and brazen and—he groaned when she dipped her head to minister to the part of his throat available above his collar—and good. But not hopeless. Not defenseless.

  Ah hell, maybe he hadn’t heard what he’d thought he’d heard. Maybe his ears just needed tuning.

  She moved back to his mouth, and he found himself responding, gently at first, a little at a time, kiss upon kiss, lengthening and deepening, building toward that instant when there’d be no looking back. Found himself getting lost even as he made himself release her hands and take hold of her upper arms to ease her away. Told himself that despite the way it felt, he wouldn’t die if he didn’t have her tonight.

  He hoped.

  "Helen." Firmly.

  "Come to bed, Nat."

  "Helen, I—"

  Out in the hallway there rose a sudden clatter: a dog’s yelp, a child’s "aauugh," the thud of something—possibly a body—hitting the wall, a wet slosh and the rattle of an empty bucket.

  "Toby!" Libby’s stage whisper scolded. "Now look what you made me do."

  "What do you suppose—" Helen began.

  Nat snorted. "With this crew? You pick."

  Setting Helen aside, he strode to the door, hoping as he went that there was nothing in his path to trip over. There wasn’t. But there was water streaming under the door and puddling in the low spot in the hardwood floor just short of the rug. His socks—the same absorbent, cotton crew type that he wore everyday—cheerfully sponged up the wetness the moment he stepped into it. He swore, but at least he didn’t slip—which Helen, wearing smooth–bottomed slippers, did.

  With a startled "Oh," she skidded through the puddle, scrabbling the air for purchase, catching at Nat. He obliged by grasping her elbow and steadying her before she managed to slam into the door. Then he yanked it open. "What gives?" he asked the hallway.

  "Nothing," Libby said. Innocent to the grave.

  Being her mother, Helen didn’t believe her. "Then why am I standing in water?"

  "Oh, Mom." Her greeting was less than enthusiastic. "Are you up, too? I thought it was just Nat."

  "No," Helen said, "it’s not."

  "Trying to put something over on the sightless?" Nat queried mildly. "Because my feet are turning into prunes, soaking in this puddle."

  "Oh, um," Libby hedged. "No?"

  Nat shook his head. "Try again. ‘No’ isn’t a question I can give you an answer to."

  "Elizabeth Jane." From Helen. A warning.

  "Well…" Libby hemmed, dodging an explanation she preferred not to give—not out of fear, but simply because, like her mother, she preferred not to explain herself, period. "I was trying not to—"

  "Libby!" Cara’s stage whisper reached the hall from the doorway of their room.

  Libby made frantic no–no–no–go–back motions that Cara either didn’t see or ignored.

  "Did you fill the bucket yet? I got Jane out of her pajamas, but boy, is her bed a mess. You better bring sheets, too—"

  Helen stepped into the hall.

  "—and a clean mattress cover and a rubber sheet—oh!" Cara stopped, giggled nervously. "Colonel." Gulped when her father stepped out of the room, too. "Dad. What are you doing up? Libby…" Her tone was scolding. "You were supposed to be quiet."

  "Ahh…" Libby grimaced, gesturing. "Toby—"

  The dog’s tail banged the wall, his head dropped and he watched his humans guiltily, evidently certain he was the one in trouble here.

  "—got in my way," Libby finished severely, using the presented scapegoat. "Didn’t you, dog?"

  The furry, hanging head drooped another notch and the dog’s eyes worked in the shine of the night light, begging forgiveness of anyone who’d give it.

  "What. Is. Going. On. Here?" Helen asked in her softest, most ominous, velvet–toned, superior officer, tell–me–or–die voice.

  "Well…" Libby said again, and with a huge sigh, Cara stepped in.

  "Jane’s sick. She got up crying and threw up in her bed, and we didn’t want to disturb you on your wedding night—"

  "Zach said you’d get mad if we interrupted the orgy," Libby interjected.

  "—so we—"

  There was a strangled sound from Nat. Helen coughed, trying to maintain some composure, and pinched him.

  "—decided we’d better take care of her ourselves," Cara continued, "and tell you about it in the morning—"

  "If you were available," Libby inserted. "Because Zach says sometimes people in the throes of sexual discovery stay in bed for days, which is why married people usually go on honeymoons, ’coz if they don’t they get kind of nasty if they’re interrupted in the middle of a, um, crucial moment—"

  This time it was Helen strangling so hard on discomposure and disbelief that she couldn’t stop Nat from slipping by her and stalking, soggy socks and all, toward the third floor staircase roaring, "Zachary Nathaniel Crockett, get your butt out of bed and get down here right now!" It would be funny, Helen decided, rubbing her fingers across her eyes, if it were somebody else’s seven–year–old parroting her big brother’s explanations and if she didn’t have the unquiet feeling that there was something far deeper and more disturbing to this than a simple attempt by Zach to shock the grown–ups by getting Libby to spout things he, Libby and Cara shouldn’t even be thinking about yet.

  She cleared her throat. "Elizabeth," she said, "I think we’re going to have to talk about this—"

  "What?"

  "This…" Helen shut her eyes, collected her patience and spread her hands. "All of this, but right now—"

  "Why doesn’t Cara have to have a talk, too?" Libby protested, hands on her hips. "She did as much as I did." Aggrievedly. "Whatever I did."

  "Cara does have to have a talk," Helen agreed impatiently, mentally slandering her mother for cursing her with the old I–hope–you–have–a–daughter–just–like–you–someday routine, "but right now I’m speaking with you, got that?"

  "Cara’s right there," Libby sassed, pointing. "She can hear you, too."

  "Elizabeth." It was no longer a warning, but a threat: baleful, forbidding, every letter of Libby’s name enunciated clearly.

  Libby sighed in disgust, unthreatened but put upon. "Okay, fine."

  "Now—" Helen began firmly, but was interrupted again. This time by the rattle of someone gagging and retching, then by a pitiful child’s wail.

  "Tern’l," Jane sobbed. "I want Tern’l."

  Helen headed instantly toward the sob, awash in guilt. Busy debating with Libby, she’d lost sight of
what was truly important here: Jane, sick. How could she have done it? Oh, God, she made a horrible mother.

  "I’m coming, baby," she called, even as she looked over her shoulder at Libby. "Mop, towels, Simple Green, read the instructions before you mix it up and bring me a bucket of it—hot water. Cara, start sopping up the water Libby spilled in my—your dad’s and my—room. Libby, when you’re done, help Cara, then bed, girls. Nat and I’ll take it from here."

  "But, Mom—"

  "March, Lib."

  "But your wedding night—"

  "Libby."

  "Oh, all right." Libby stamped over to pick up the tipped bucket, stomped off down the hall, muttering. "I’m going, but Zach said you’d be crabby if you guys didn’t get sex tonight, and you better not be too crabby to take us to the mall tomorrow to watch Santa Claus come ’coz it’s tradition, and every time I see you, you always tell me how important—"

  Praying for the strength not to strangle her daughter and for the guidance to find the right words to deal with a situation that was getting way beyond her experience and expertise, Helen shut her ears to Libby’s tirade and went to take care of Jane.

  * * *

  "Helen?" Nat’s voice in the darkness was quiet and concerned.

  "Here," Helen called softly. "Jane’s room. Keep it down, I just got her to sleep." Carefully she eased deeper into the rocker–recliner and gently pushed back to extend the foot, then shifted Jane’s uneasily sleeping body to a more comfortable position atop her and hitched Jane’s quilt over them both.

  Nat appeared in the doorway. "Talk me in."

  "Pile of dirty laundry just inside the doorway to your right. Throw rug in front of Jane’s bed, sick kid bucket on top of it near the head. Jane and I are in the chair in the middle of the room. Four paces, maybe. Come straight in and you can’t miss us. Where’s your cane?"

  Cautiously, Nat made his way into the room. "I’m not sure. It disappeared somewhere between the hellos and goodbyes, and Toby hasn’t found it yet."

  Helen made a soft tsk of exasperation. "I swear, Nat, you’re worse than the kids, losing their homework. I’m going to get you a Clapper beeper to put on that thing. If you wore glasses, you’d probably lose them, too."

  He found the chair with his knee, hunkered down beside it, grinning. "Why do you think I never wear shades to cover my eyes?"

  "Because you enjoy disconcerting people."

  "Besides that?"

  Helen refused to be baited. "Did you talk to Zach?"

  "Not yet." Nat shook his head. "When I got up there, he and Max were taking turns puking their guts out in the bathroom, so I figured the other should wait."

  "Oh, God, not the turkey, do you think?"

  "No, I feel fine, you’re okay, Cara and Libby—we all ate turkey, you didn’t stuff it, it was cooked to perfection and Sam–and–Ella left with the rest of the uninvited guests. I think it’s the flu that’s going round."

  "Aw, geez." Helen moaned. "That means it’s only a matter of time before the rest of us come down with it. If we’re very unlucky the kids’ll pass it back and forth to each other and we’ll go round in circles with it…. Damn."

  Nat nodded. "’Fraid so. I called a cab. I’m going down to the drug store for a case of anti–emetic, some Imodium–AD, 7–Up and soda crackers. Anything else?"

  "Yeah. Ask the pharmacist if they’ve got any white canes in stock and if they do, buy a gross."

  "Funny lady." He rose.

  Helen caught his hand, tugged him down again. "Just so you know," she said softly, "I’m real sorry we didn’t get to—"

  Nat touched two fingers to her mouth, caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. "We can discuss that later, too."

  There was the sound of a horn in the driveway.

  He unfolded. "There’s the cab. I better go."

  "Do you have money? My purse is—"

  "I’ve got money."

  "Take the dog."

  Nat grinned. They were Married, all right. For less than twenty–four hours to be sure, but nonetheless with a capital M. "What do you think I am, new at this?"

  "You lost your cane," Helen pointed out. "Or forgot where you put it."

  "Or you moved it and forgot to tell me," he suggested lightly. "Not to mention I had other things on my mind, and why is it women always remember the details instead of the reasons around them?"

  "Just talented, I guess," Helen said modestly, and Nat chuckled.

  Then, because it seemed like the best, most natural thing in the world to do, he bent and kissed her goodbye before he left.

  * * *

  In the cab halfway down Huron to the twenty–four–hour drugstore at the Tel–Huron corner, with Toby lying on the floor in front of him, Nat made the decision to woo his bride.

  He’d never thought about it before—who thought about things that simply existed, whether you wanted them to or not—but they had, he realized with some surprise, gone about their entire relationship backward. Out of necessity, to be certain, but backward all the same.

  Their acknowledged and strictly physical desire for each other—"the hots," as Zach might put it, without knowing whereof he spoke—had been a thunderbolt striking them both before they’d ever been properly introduced. The timing had seemed horrifying because of marriages that later failed without encouragement or infidelity from either of them. For the last month they’d been thrown together again through necessity, living in close quarters, sharing children and nonphysical intimacies before they’d had a chance to know each other at all.

  Today they’d married—this time necessity was born of convenience and vice versa, perhaps, but still the necessity remained—before they’d ever had time to date. And tonight they’d discovered that instead of dulling it, time and proximity had only served to turn their hankering for each other into an insidious, hungry thing that wouldn’t go away.

  The few private make–out moments they’d purloined in the weeks before the wedding hadn’t blunted the edge of their appetite at all.

  Even so, married or not, climbing into bed simply because they were now "legal" seemed like just one more instance of hitching the cart before the horse. And Zach’s graphicly inappropriate comments, repeated by Cara and Libby, only served to illustrate the point: Nat and Helen had to do this marriage thing correctly from the start because impressionable kids were involved. Kids who had to be shown that there was more between Nat and Helen than desire. Kids who needed to know that the adults who loved them could be counted on to care for each other come hell and a hurricane, too.

  It was an odd equation, when he examined it, and no matter how he sliced it, the damned thing always came out just about as clearly as the old math story problem: if a train leaves New York for Chicago at 8:45 a.m. traveling sixty miles an hour and passes through X at 10:30, and another train leaves Chicago for New York at 9:05 a.m. traveling seventy–two miles an hour and passes through Y at 11:45, where and at what time will they meet?

  The logical, adult side of his brain said that if the Amtrak people programmed their computers properly, the two trains would never meet, because if they met on the same track they’d crash.

  The illogical side, however, the part of him that never seemed to grow up beyond age fifteen or thereabouts, had never been able to solve that particular riddle when he was eleven or fifteen or twenty–three, or indeed, now. That part of his brain told him that the meeting was coming, no way to avoid the crash without both trains being in constant communication so they could stop or switch tracks before the disaster occurred. And since they couldn’t switch tracks…

  Since they couldn’t switch tracks, what? He’d been headed somewhere with this thought when he’d commenced thinking it, but now—as had always happened back in math class—he merely had a headache.

  A bad one.

  "Meijer still have a twenty–four–hour flower shop, d’you know?" he asked the cabby.

  "My wife does the grocery shopping and I ain’t been there in a
while, but far’s I remember, they do. Got those fancy silver helium balloons, too. You need somethin’ like that?"

  Nat pursed his lips, puffed out a breath. "Yeah," he said, "I do. Listen, let’s skip the drugstore and just take me to Meijer."

  The hell with the train problem, he told himself. If you want to do it, just do it.

  Since when did a man need an excuse to court his wife?

  Chapter Eight

  ~FIRST SUNDAY OF ADVENT~

  The wooing commenced at breakfast—which Nat fixed. He put a rose on Helen’s tray and carried it to her in Jane’s room, where she’d set up the "infirmary" for the sake of convenience. She’d dosed everyone who’d needed it with the anti–emetic and had Max and Zach sleeping on a couple of the household’s fold–out mattress cubes on the floor.

  She barely noticed the flower or Nat’s infamous toasted cinnamon bagel or the English Breakfast tea sweetened the way she liked it, because at the very moment that Nat, guided by Cara, set the tray on the Fisher–Price table, Helen was busy mopping up after Libby, who’d suddenly joined the sickies. And when she finally did get to sit down opposite Nat to eat at the too–short table in its accompanying too–short chairs, it was only to notice that Nat appeared distinctly pale and feverish—a truth borne out in the next moment when he all at once excused himself and groped his way down the hall to the bathroom.

  Fortunately, Helen was faster than he and cleared the obstacles out of his path before he could trip and add injury to his nausea.

  By Sunday she was the only one of the seven of them who wasn’t recovering from the flu, and who hadn’t been sick at all.

  "Flu shots," she told Nat cheerfully when he, feeling better enough to be cranky but not well enough to hold his tongue, asked why she was still healthy.

  "And you didn’t share the preventative with the rest of us? Why?"

  "Got it in October before I knew there’d be a rest of you," she retorted tartly. "That’s why. Not my fault you didn’t pay attention to the health news and follow the experts’ advice and get your own shots before the season started."

  To which Nat responded with something unprintable but forgivable, given the aches and pains his aging body was suffering due to the flu that neither anti–emetics nor the Imodium—nor even a dose of an extra–strength analgesic—could fix. Which is exactly what Helen told him before she gave him a let’s–humor–the–poor–thing pat on the cheek and went off to fix him a turkey sandwich for lunch.