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The pilot waited until the pair was nearly to the house before he throttled up the engine. The roar of it once again filled the air, disturbing the stillness of the warm spring evening. Like a great lumbering dragonfly, the chopper rose slowly, made a slight sideways dip, and swooped upward.
With a hand at the controls, Max steered the wheelchair down the wide corridor, designed, as was every inch of the house, for easy wheelchair access. The door to the newly created nursery stood open, but Max brought the wheelchair to a stop within its frame. Sloan sat in a rocking chair, gazing adoringly at the infant in her arms, one finger stroking a soft cheek.
Max rapped twice on the door. “May I come in?”
“Uncle Max.” A smile spread across her face in welcome. “Of course you can. In fact, your timing couldn’t be better. Jake just finished his bottle. I was about to put him back in his crib so he could sleep.”
“He weathered the flight all right, then.” Max rolled his chair into the room.
“He fussed a lot on the plane,” Sloan admitted. “I’m sure the changes in cabin pressure hurt his ears. But he’s fine now.”
“And you, are you all right, too?” Head cocked at a considering angle, he studied her with a show of gentle concern.
“I will be,” she asserted.
“Spoken with the grit of a Davis,” Max stated, emphasizing his approval with a single nod of his head.
“Thanks.” There was something almost shy in the smile Sloan gave him, but her following comment told him it was born of uncertainty. “I just hope I’ve done the right thing.”
“You have. We all make mistakes. The weak close their eyes to them and pretend everything will be all right in time. The strong admit them and take steps to correct them—just as you have done. I’m not saying it won’t be painful,” Max added. “But a swift, clean break is the best.”
“That’s what I keep telling myself,” Sloan murmured, but a sadness stole into her expression
Harold Bennett paused in the doorway and rapped lightly to gain their attention. “I wanted to check on our little guy and see how he’s doing,” he said when they looked up. He nodded at the empty baby bottle sitting on the table next to her chair. “He drank all his formula, did he? That’s a good sign.”
“He was hungry.” Sloan looked at her son with pride and smiled. “Now he’s sleepy.”
While she was distracted, Max made eye contact with his personal nurse and signaled for him to get the baby. Harold nodded and advanced into the room.
“Let me put him to bed for you.” Halting at her chair, he stretched out his arms to take the infant, wrapped in a blue receiving blanket.
“You’re spoiling me, Harold.” Sloan surrendered her son to him.
“You’ve had a long day, too, and you need your rest as much as this one does,” Harold replied in his best professional voice.
When he turned to carry the baby to his crib, Max spoke up, “May I hold him a moment first?”
Harold managed to contain his surprise. Recovering quickly, he smiled. “Of course.” He carried the infant to his employer and placed him in his arms, careful to make sure there was support for the baby’s head, then stepped back to watch, certain Max wouldn’t want to hold the child for long.
“My, my, look at all that hair,” Max declared in a marveling voice. “Why, he’s going to need a haircut in another month.”
“He does have a lot of hair, doesn’t he?” Sloan leaned closer, smiling with pride.
Max declined to comment on its dark color, unwilling to make any reference to the Calders, indirectly or otherwise. “It’s been a long time since there was a baby in this house. I had forgotten how small they are, and how innocent. A new, young life is just what this old, tired heart of mine needed. Thank you for bringing him here, Sloan.”
A quick shake of her head dismissed his thanks. “After all you’ve done—sending the plane and having all this waiting for us—I’m the one who needs to thank you.”
“Nonsense,” Max declared without looking up from the infant, then feigned a small start of surprise. “Why, I do believe he just yawned. I guess he is sleepy.”
Quick to take the cue, Harold stepped forward to relieve him of the infant. “Newborns need their sleep.”
“Of course they do,” he agreed and looked at Sloan. “I instructed
Vargas to set out some hors d’oeuvres in the living room. We’ll go there and continue our talk so we won’t disturb your son.” As expected, he saw the beginnings of a protest in Sloan’s expression and smiled in understanding. “Don’t worry. Harold will keep an eye on him for you.”
Showing a new mother’s reluctance to be separated from her child, Sloan followed Max into the living room. Max pretended not to notice the uneasy glance she sent in the direction of the nursery before she took a seat.
He made no attempt to resume their conversation until the house servant had delivered their drinks, a lemonade for Sloan and a bourbon and water for Max. “I can’t tell you how much I wish you and baby were here under different circumstances. I had great hopes that your marriage would be a happy one.”
