Page 8 of A Perfect Holiday
Boone exhaled heavily and took my hands, squeezing them. “But you didn’t deliver him easily. You said it was touch and go.” His dark eyes were so intently focused on me, filled with fear and worry. “That terrifies me, Verity.”
“You’re worrying about a process that’s perfectly natural. We should stop creating drama about it and just move forward with planning. I could—”
“No! You’re not getting it. I’mnothaving any more children with you if there’s even a minute chance that you could haveanycomplications. Duel needs his mother, and I need you.”
I reached out to touch him, to beg if need be. “I’m not barren, Boone! I’m not!”
He jerked his arm away; his face scored with barely-concealed anger. “You are as far as I’m concerned,” he said coldly.
My knees turned to water, and I leaned back against the cushions, my insides trembling as I met his hostile eyes. “You can’t be serious. I just want to talk—”
“No more talking,” he growled. “It’snevergoing to happen.”
My mind refused to function, and I stared up at him, groping for something to say that would cut through his fury and fear. But nothing came, no answers, no explanations—nothing but a sickening, progressive pain that started low in my gut and drove me like a steamroller. The pain set off my fear of failing him, my stomach churning with a mix of guilt, alarm, and helplessness. I reached toward him, desperation making my voice harsh. “You can’t make this decision without me. That’s not fair.”
He jerked away, his eyes blazing now as he shot me a look of finality before turning away. “I’m making the decision because you’re too emotional about it.”
I shot to my feet. “Don’t you do that! Don’t you dare make me out to be hysterical.”
“I’m not discussing this anymore, Verity.” He turned and strode toward the door.
“Boone!”
He ignored me, the loud bang of the door to the garage echoing through the brittle silence as he slammed out of the house, and I sat back down on the sofa, a sick feeling swamping me. Drawing up my legs, I locked my arms around my knees and pressed my forehead against them. God, what had I done? What kind of damage had I caused? I had only wanted to protect him, but I hurt him instead.
I got the feeling that there was something else eating at Boone, something that was connected to this, but separate. I couldn’t quite figure out what it was, but there was no mistaking the fear and disappointment in him.
How could I get my overprotective husband to listen to me?
***
Later that night, in the solitary darkness of my room, I thought about our terrible fight. The worst of our marriage. It was Boone’s fear—and, judging by his reaction, it was profound—that was making him react this way, but it also felt like the foundations of my marriage were cracking.
Shifting my pillow, I rolled to my side, the numbers displayed on the digital clock on my bedside table mocking me: 1:17 a.m. I had called my momma and asked her to keep Duel the next day. I didn’t think I could be effective in either of my roles tomorrow.
I tried to call Boone several times, but he hadn’t answered.
I closed my eyes, aware of the empty stretch of bed behind me, aware of the empty feeling around my heart. I didn’t want to think about the damage I had done by concealing the delivery problems with Duel, not thinking the information was important to reveal, especially since I may not be able to have children.
Opening my eyes, I glanced at the clock again: 2:25 a.m.
Boone wasn’t coming home.
The emptiness expanded until it seemed like I was floating, untethered and lost. I was shocked that my tried and true husband, who had stood by me through every kind of crisis, and good times, was suddenly absent when we needed each other most.
When I woke up, the morning was dull and grim. Driven by a fearful kind of desperation, I yanked on my robe, my heart pounding when I tried to reach his cell. Still no answer. I called his office, and his receptionist said he wasn’t in, but she’d give him the message.
When I went into the bathroom, my fear escalated when I saw his razor on the sink, smelled his aftershave, and the body wash that was a combination of fruit and sandalwood, rich and earthy.
Every sound I made seemed hollow, puncturing the brittle stillness, a stillness that silently underscored Boone’s absence.
That awful, hollow feeling never left me for an instant. I tried to wade through my morning chores, but the slightest sound from outside would distract me, and my heart would stall, then lurch into my throat. And I’d freeze, praying that it was Boone.
I was sitting in my office working on a garment I truly loved, a bohemian-inspired blouse, when I finally heard the sound of a vehicle outside, the crunch of gravel on the driveway. My gut knotted with a frantic rush of adrenaline, and I ran to the window, lashed with stupid hope that it was Boone…but it wasn’t.
My vision blurred while I watched River Pearl’s Mercedes come to a stop, and she and Aubree got out of the car. In my misery, I had forgotten they were going to stop by. Putting on a brave face, I opened the door for them when they knocked.
“Hey, sugar,” River Pearl said, breezing in with a plastic container in hand. Aubree, who had managed to make time for the drive down from New Orleans, smiled at me, her green eyes searching my face, as if I had it written there that Boone and I were having problems. But she was married to one of the trips, and they shared an amazingly sensitive radar and knew when one of them was out of sorts. Our fight yesterday must have blown up the Richter scale. Maybe Booker said something to her.
