Chapter 20
Even if Stan and Prissy had wanted to stay and party into the wee hours of the night—which he didn’t—fate had other plans.
Shortly after they returned to their empty table, his pager went off. When he checked the display screen and saw their home number, he felt a jolt of alarm, because he’d instructed Manning to page him in case of an emergency.
Prissy stared alertly at him. “What is it? Is it the kids?”
He nodded, rising quickly from his chair as Prissy jumped to her feet, her eyes filled with instinctive panic. Stan took her hand, and together they hurried from the ballroom to use the courtesy phone in the hotel lobby.
Although Stan was used to responding to emergencies, it was different when the emergency was your own. So he didn’t argue when Prissy insisted on being the one to call home and speak to Manning.
He stood beside her, hands jammed into his pockets as he anxiously waited to find out what was going on.
“Manny, this is Mom. Is everything okay?”
Stan stared at Prissy as she listened to their son’s response.
After several moments, he watched some of the tension ebb from her body as she exhaled a shaky breath.
“Okay,” she told Manning. “Give him some ginger ale to help calm his stomach, and make him lie down. We’re on our way home, okay, baby?”
As soon as she hung up the phone, Stan asked with concern, “Who’s sick?”
“Maddox. Manny says he threw up twice and he’s running a fever.”
Stan nodded grimly, remembering that Maddox had seemed quieter than usual before he and Prissy left home that evening. “Come on, babe, let’s go.”
They returned to the ballroom long enough to say good night to their friends and stop by the coat check before they departed.
A tense, heavy silence hung between them on the ride home.
Prissy stared out the window, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Stan told himself that she was just worried about Maddox, but he knew there was more to her silence.
And he knew that sooner, rather than later, he’d have to answer the hard questions he’d been avoiding for months.
He could thank Dr. Gilliard for that.
Damn her, he thought darkly.
What the hell had she been thinking tonight? Why had she come anywhere near him after he’d specifically told her that he didn’t want to introduce her to his wife?
Stan frowned, stealing another glance at Prissy. Her stony profile yielded no clue to her inner thoughts.
He wished like hell that he hadn’t lied to her about not knowing Dr. Gilliard, but he’d been completely blindsided when, out of the blue, she’d turned to him and asked him about the doctor. Before dinner he’d caught a glimpse of Dr. Gilliard seated at the next table, and he’d been slightly unnerved by her proximity. But he’d figured that she wouldn’t do anything to blow his cover, so he’d forgotten all about her until Prissy pointed her out to him.
He’d automatically dismissed Prissy’s assertion that Dr. Gilliard was glaring at her because he couldn’t fathom why on earth his therapist would glare at his wife. He didn’t want to speculate on the possible reasons, nor did he want to examine Dr. Gilliard’s motives for not keeping her distance tonight.
He was afraid of what he might uncover if he went digging beneath the surface.
And at the moment, he had far more pressing matters to worry about.
Three hours later, Stan stood in the doorway of the blue-and-white-striped bedroom shared by Maddox and Mason.
Prissy and Maddox had fallen asleep on the boy’s narrow, wood-framed bed. Maddox’s head was tucked beneath her chin, his wiry body curled against hers as they slept peacefully. Prissy still wore her white ball gown because Maddox had been throwing up when she and Stan arrived home, so her only concern had been tending to their sick child.
While Stan kept the others preoccupied, Prissy gave Maddox some children’s Tylenol and bathed him in lukewarm water to help bring down his high fever. After dressing him in his pajamas, she’d asked Stan to bring Maddox a popsicle. When he arrived, Prissy had tucked their son into bed and was reading The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe to him.
Stan sat at the bedside and listened, as enchanted by the sound of Prissy’s soft, animated voice as Maddox. By the time the boy finished his popsicle, he was struggling to keep his heavy eyelids open. Long after he drifted off to sleep, Stan and Prissy sat and watched him, his deep, even breaths the only sound between them.
After a while, Stan had gotten up to take Maddox’s soiled clothes downstairs to the washing machine. After sending the others to bed—Manning had graciously offered to sleep in the basement so that Mason could have his bed in case Maddox was contagious—Stan had returned to the boys’ room to find Prissy fast asleep.
As he stood in the doorway gazing at mother and child, a fierce wave of protective tenderness washed over him. His family meant the world to him. He couldn’t bear the thought of being removed from their lives. It was unimaginable.
Swallowing a hard knot of emotion, he walked over to the bed and leaned down to press a tender kiss to his son’s warm forehead.
Feel better, champ, he silently mouthed.
Then, moving carefully so as to not waken the boy, Stan lifted Prissy into his arms, switched off the bedside lamp and strode from the room.
As he carried Prissy down the staircase, her eyes slowly opened and focused on his face above hers. His heart thudded as he met her gaze.
She didn’t speak, and neither did he.
Reaching their bedroom, he closed the door and carried Prissy over to the bed. He set her down gently, then knelt before her. He knew she was exhausted. She’d stayed late at the office nearly every night this week gearing up for the bond election, and then she’d been out past midnight helping to decorate the hotel ballroom. In all likelihood, she’d spend the rest of the weekend nursing Maddox back to health while Stan was at work.
Holding her gaze, he reached under her silk gown and began peeling off one thigh-high stocking. Prissy closed her eyes as if she were in pain.
As he slowly rolled the sheer nylon down her smooth leg, she stopped him.
“I can take it from here,” she murmured.
Stan hesitated, then nodded and reluctantly moved back.
She finished removing the stockings, then slid off the bed and started across the room.
Stan sat on the floor with his back to the bed and watched as she went through the motions of undressing by unzipping her gown from the back and dragging it down her body. After draping the dress over a chaise lounge, she reached up and painstakingly unpinned her hair, letting the thick black tresses tumble about her face and shoulders. When she stood in her strapless lace bra and panties, Stan’s groin heated, and he lamented that their evening would not end with passionate lovemaking, as he’d hoped.
He stared at Prissy as she unhooked her bra, then crossed to the cherry dresser and opened the top drawer. Instead of reaching for one of his CFD T-shirts that she’d long ago confiscated, she chose a long cotton nightshirt.
Stan hung his head, suffering the subtle sting of her rejection.
When she’d finished changing, she reached up to remove her diamond choker. But her fingers were trembling, and she fumbled with the clasp until Stan got up and walked over to help her.
He didn’t release the catch right away, stealing a few moments to inhale the sweet fragrance of her hair and her warm, silky skin.
When he lingered too long, she reached back impatiently. “I’ll do it.”
“No,” he murmured. “I got it.”
Slowly he slid the necklace off, letting his knuckles skim the nape of her neck. She shivered at his touch, then reluctantly turned to accept the choker from his hand.
They stared at each other.
“Baby—” he began.
She abruptly stepped past him, crossing the room to return the necklace to her jewelry chest.
Pushing out a deep breath, Stan unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and tugged the shirttail out of his waistband as Prissy padded into the bathroom to brush her teeth and wrap her hair in a satin scarf.
When she emerged a few minutes later, Stan was perched on the edge of the bed with his hands clasped between his legs, debating how to tell her that he’d come to believe he was going to die in a fire, and so strong was this premonition that he’d recently taken out a second life insurance policy to doubly ensure that she and their children would never want for anything long after he was gone.
Prissy walked over to the bed and sat down to perform her nightly ritual of moisturizing her feet with cocoa butter. Before she could open the jar of cream, Stan picked it up and set it down on her nightstand.
As she stared at him, he sank to his haunches in front of her, bringing himself to eye level with her.
“Pris.” His voice was low, husky with suppressed emotion. “I need to talk to you.”
She raised a weary hand. “Please,” she murmured. “Not tonight.”
He swallowed tightly. “It’s important.”
She shook her head. “I’m tired, Stanton. And you must be, too.”
“That doesn’t mat—”
“We had a wonderful time at the ball. You won a well-deserved award. So let’s just savor that for tonight, okay? Besides, you have to be up early for work, and I need to get some rest so I can take care of Maddox tomorrow.”
Her words sent a sharp jab of guilt through Stan. He knew how exhausted she was, so the last thing he wanted to do was burden her. But he couldn’t allow the chasm between them to grow any wider than it already had.
So he had to get through to her. “Pris—”
She made a strangled sound of frustration. “Damn it, Stanton! I can’t deal with anything else right now! The bond election is only a few days away, and I still have a lot of work and campaigning to do. When I come home from the polling station on Tuesday night, we can talk then. Whatever you have to say, I’ll listen. But I can’t—” Her voice broke, catching in her throat.
Fighting back tears, she eyed him almost piteously. “I can’t deal with anything else until after Tuesday. All right, baby? Please?”
Stan held her gaze for several moments, then relented with a nod. “All right.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
As she rose from the bed and sidestepped him, he slowly rubbed his hands over his face and exhaled a ragged breath.
“I’m going to sleep in the boys’ room in case Maddox wakes up in the middle of the night and needs me,” Prissy announced quietly.
Stan stood and turned to face her.
She’d paused at the door with her hand on the knob, head bent as she stared blindly at the floor. She looked like she wanted to say more.
Stan waited tensely.
After a prolonged silence, she whispered, “Good night.”
His heart twisted painfully. “Good night, sweetheart.”
Without another word, she opened the door and walked out.