Marriage, Interrupted. Karen Templeton

doesn’t mean I have more free time. If anything, I have less. And this year was a killer in terms of expansion—”

      “Dad, please. You make ice cream.”

      Blake’s hand squeezed the steering wheel, hard. Anger hissed through his veins, at Shaun for his insolence, at himself for creating the situation that created the insolence to begin with. “Yeah. I make ice cream. By myself, in my kitchen, one gallon at a time.”

      Again, no response.

      “Maybe this doesn’t seem like a big deal to you, but in ten years Troy and I have set up three processing plants around the country and sold more than a 150 franchises in thirty-seven states. That didn’t happen by working nine-to-five.”

      He could feel duplicates of his own deep-brown eyes scrutinizing the side of his face. “And was it worth it?”

      “What do you mean?”

      “I mean, you’re rich, right?”

      Wondering where this was heading, Blake carefully replied, “Let’s just say it’s been a long time since I’ve worried about meeting the monthly bills.”

      “And, like, what has all that gotten you, exactly?”

      Ah. They’d pulled into the wide driveway fronting the three-car garage at the side of Cass’s house. Blake cut the engine, then leaned back, one hand on the steering wheel. Typically for this time of year, the wind had picked up, hazing the air with dust and pollen. But the clog in his throat, he guessed, had little to do with the sudden jump in the pollen count. “I’ve been able to provide jobs for a lot of people, Shaun. You won’t have to worry about college—”

      “Dammit, Dad! Can’t you give a single straight answer?”

      His heart pounding, Blake met his son’s angry gaze. “Give me a straight question, and I’ll see what I can do.”

      “Fine,” Shaun retorted. “Are you happy?”

      Blake squinted out the windshield, jabbing a hand through his hair in a gesture that echoed his son’s. “No. Not really.”

      “So what’s the freakin’ point?” Shaun said with such vehemence Blake whipped his head back around. “What is it with grown-ups and their fixation with success? So you’ve, like, buried yourself in this business. And now you’ve got all this money, right? But, what else do you have?”

      An early season lizard darted up the adobe wall as Blake stared out the windshield, trying to figure out what to say. “Are you talking about us, Shaun?” He turned to face his son. The lowermost earring in Shaun’s lobe glinted dully. “About my not being here for you?”

      “Man, you just don’t get it, do you? Dude—I’m not talking about you and me! I’m talking about—”

      “Oh! Oh! Come quick!”

      They both looked up to see Lucille frantically waving from the second-story deck, the fringed ends of a gold-and-purple scarf she’d tied around her head plastering to her face in the wind. “It’s Cassie!” she yelled, clawing at the scarf. “She fell, now she’s having contractions, and she won’t let me call anyone—”

      Blake was out of the car like a shot, aware of Shaun’s car door slamming a split second behind his as he bounded across the driveway and up the stairs into the house.

      Her mouth set in a grimace, Cass adjusted the pillows behind her back, then leaned up against the black lacquer headboard. “They’re just Braxton-Hicks. They’ll pass.”

      No sooner were the words out of her mouth than Blake saw her lips thin even more in an attempt to mask the contraction. He instantly leaned over, placing his hand on her abdomen. Obeying an instinct for which he’d long since had no need, he sneaked a glance at his watch, breathing out a small sigh of relief when he felt her muscles relax after barely twenty seconds. He caught her glower, the bright-blue eyes faded to almost the same gray as her sweater and maternity pants. In that outfit, she was practically invisible against the muted-plaid bedspread covering the enormous bed. She swatted at his hand, which he posthaste removed.

      “If I’d needed my midwife, I’d’ve called her.”

      “I doubt it.”

      She shot him a look, then levered herself higher up, lacing her hands together over her middle. “I’m not having this baby, Blake. Not today, at any rate.”

      He gave her thigh a friendly pat. “That’s my girl. As much of a pain as ever.”

      Her eyes flitted briefly to his, then away. But he saw the smile twitching her lips. “A gal’s gotta maintain her reputation, after all.”

      Blake sat on the edge of the bed, carefully palming the knot her hands made over her tummy. “What happened?”

      He could see her struggle to remain aloof as she contemplated their layered hands. “I can’t see underneath me,” she said softly, like a child trying to downplay an errant deed. “I was on my way into the living room and misjudged where the step was, that’s all. And my sandal twisted out from under me.” One shoulder hitched. “So Mommy went boom.”

      “And then the contractions started—”

      That got a sigh of pure exasperation. “I told you. They’re not contractions. Not real ones, anyway. I’ve been having these for the last month.” A fierceness out of all proportion to the situation blazed in her eyes. “They do seem to come on when I’m particularly stressed. And I think the last few days would qualify, wouldn’t you?”

      He gently squeezed her hand, then removed it, tamping down the irrational, absurd surge of jealousy. He’d left her, for God’s sake—what did he expect? That she’d stay alone for the rest of her life?

      “Yes,” he finally said. “I imagine they would.”

      “You okay, Mom?”

      They both looked over at Shaun, who’d come a few feet into the room, wearing that hopeful, frightened look of a kid desperately seeking reassurance.

      “Yes, honey, I’m fine,” Cass replied with a tired smile. “Lucille just went a little nuts, that’s all.”

      “A pregnant woman lands flat on her tuchus four feet in front of me, I’m going to go nuts,” came from the doorway. “It’s an old lady’s prerogative.” Lucille stomped into the bedroom—or she would have stomped if she’d weighed more than a feather and the room hadn’t been so thickly carpeted—sweeping the scarf’s tails over her shoulders with a gesture worthy of Greta Garbo.

      “Well?” she directed at Blake, though her eyes remained pinned on her quarry. “Did you talk some sense into her?”

      Reluctantly, Blake stood. “I…” He caught Cass’s warning glare. “Actually, I think she’s probably fine. The contractions seem mild and short and she’s not in any pain.” He frowned at her. “Are you?”

      She shook her head. Blake lowered his voice, although he decided against wagging his finger at her. Since he wasn’t really keen on the idea of having it bitten off.

      “But she will stay in bed. Won’t she?”

      On another sigh, she nodded, then said, “Only if everyone will quit obsessing about me.”

      A brief tremor of familiarity swept through him. At about the same point in Shaun’s pregnancy, Cass had slipped off a ladder while hanging curtains in the nursery. She’d started contractions that time, too. And she’d refused to get herself checked, just like now. And Blake had bullied her into staying in bed, just like now.

      That time, though, she had accepted his railroading with good humor, love shining in her eyes. Now her acceptance seemed tainted with bitter resignation. She clearly didn’t want him here. Yet her very resistance had set off a faint, persistent alarm—illogical though it was—way at the back of his brain that her not wanting