Chapter 19: Her Terms

I gave him my terms in my father's driveway, with the engine of his truck still ticking.

"One. Everything about Colette, the same day, even if it's small and even if it's ugly."

"Yes."

"Two. She does not set foot in our house unless I say so, and I won't."

"Yes."

"Three." I stopped. "Three, you stop calling it a porch. It's your bed."

He stared at me.

"Thursday," I said. "My father is keeping Trudy overnight. He has already packed her bag, and he did not ask me."

Dalton laughed, once, helplessly.

Thursday came.

The house on Birch Lane smelled of lemon polish, because he had scrubbed every surface Colette had touched.

The guest room was bare. The yellow nursery waited with the door open and the crib empty.

I stood at the bottom of the stairs in a green robe I'd bought at thirty weeks, and my hands were cold.

My doctor had cleared me on Tuesday. I had not told Dalton that.

He came out of the kitchen with a dish towel and stopped in the hall.

"I can sleep on the couch," he said. "I mean it."

"Brannigan."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Go sit on the porch."

His whole face changed.

"Is that a yes or a no?"

"It's a joke," I said. "That one's a yes."

He crossed the hall in three steps.

His hands framed my face, and he kissed me hard.

I opened my mouth for him and he made that low sound again.

I got my fingers into his hair and pulled him down to me.

He lifted me against the banister, and I wrapped my legs around his hips.

"Upstairs," I said against his mouth. "Now."

He carried me up.

In our bedroom the lamp was on, and the bed was made with the quilt my mother had stitched.

He set me on my feet at the edge of it and stood very still.

"Tell me what you want," he said hoarsely.

"Take my robe off."

He undid the tie with unsteady hands, and the robe slid down my arms.

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