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“Listen, Wynn. I forgave you long ago. In fact, I forgave myself. It was a terrible time. If I’m honest, it still hurts to think about it. But we learned from our mistakes, and we’ve both gone on to have pretty great lives. Even though you lost Shandy, something came out of that tragedy. You have a daughter.”
“So taking care of her is just a humanitarian gesture on your part?” His features were carved in granite, his eyes hooded.
What did he want from her? Certainly not a do-over. It was too late for them. A teenage love affair gone wrong didn’t translate into anything meaningful a decade and a half later.
“It’s a favor,” she said quietly. “One I’m happy to do for you and Ayla in memory of Shandy. You said nine months, and the clock is ticking. I have friends and a career I’ll want to get back to sooner than later.”
She was in danger of overplaying her hand. But if she showed any chinks in her armor, Wynn might talk her into an affair. It wouldn’t be hard. The thought of being intimate with him again made heat rush through her midsection.
Wynn, the teenager, had been intense and sweet and eager to please. Wynn, the sophisticated man, would probably destroy her. She couldn’t risk it.
“Fine,” he said, the word curt. “Hide out in your room if that’s what you want. But you can’t tell me you haven’t imagined what it would be like. The two of us. In bed together.”
“It’s late,” she said, her throat tight.
“It’s not even nine.” He wasn’t giving an inch.
She straightened her spine. “Don’t push me, Wynn. You won’t like what happens.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re threatening me? Wow, Fliss. You’ve grown into a hell of a woman. I’ll give you your space, but don’t expect me to ignore you. It won’t happen.”
Saturday morning Felicity found a note under her door. Wynn’s dark scrawl sent a terse message. “I’m here. Take the whole day.”
Though it was cowardly, she dressed and sneaked out of the apartment while he was in the baby’s room.
After hailing a cab, she sat back and watched the city flash by her window. How was she going to resist him? He would never force her. That wasn’t his style, nor was it the problem.
Felicity was the weak link.
She found herself at Rockefeller Center watching crews decorate the enormous Norway spruce that would be lit up in all its glory the Wednesday after Thanksgiving. Even in daytime, the tree was impressive.
Thinking about the holidays made her stomach twist. She rarely celebrated with her father. Instead, she and a group of friends with similar situations often took turns hosting.
Without Shandy, Wynn had no family either. Why was Felicity only now thinking about the ramifications of Thanksgiving and Christmas? Taking care of Ayla was all-consuming. For a novice, the recent learning curve had been significant.
Only today—seeing the heart of the theater district begin to flaunt the holiday spirit—did Felicity understand what she had done. Unless she could think of an excuse to leave, she was going to be spending a long weekend with Wynn and the baby. The parade and the TV movies. Turkey and pie and all sorts of warm feelings.
That would only lead to more temptation.
Though it was hard, she made herself stay out until dark began to fall and the temperatures dropped. She window-shopped and did a bit of real shopping, but the day felt hollow.
Where she really wanted to be was at home with Wynn.
Because that need and want was so very strong, she forced herself to wander the streets.
At last, cold and tired, she made her way back to the apartment. After rummaging for her key, she opened the front door and let herself in. The first thing she heard was the sound of Wynn’s steady voice singing “Wheels on the Bus.”
She stopped in the foyer, her legs wobbly and her eyes damp. If she had not miscarried all those years ago, she and Wynn might have a fourteen-year-old son or daughter right now.
It was undoubtedly for the best. Everyone knew the statistics for teenage marriages—particularly ones where the couple had to get married—were dismal. While sitting at the dentist office one day, Felicity had seen a magazine article claiming high school sweethearts who got married while still teenagers had only a 54 percent chance of having a marriage that lasted a decade.
Even if she had accepted Wynn’s impulsive proposal after her miscarriage, there was a very good chance they might have divorced five years ago. Or maybe six or eight.
The subject depressed her.
She found her housemates in the large living room. The thick, lush carpet was strewn with a variety of baby toys. Wynn lay sprawled on his back on the floor. He held Ayla’s hands as she sat and bounced up and down on his stomach.
The baby’s squeals of glee were contagious.
