The Stanislaskis ( Books 1-6). Nora Roberts

the mist of tears. “I’m just glad to be home.”

      As she spoke, the kitchen door opened. Natasha held her breath when Spence stepped into the room. He didn’t speak. His hand still on the door, he stopped to stare. It was as if he’d conjured her up out of his own chaotic thoughts. There was snow melting in her hair and on the shoulders of her coat. Her eyes were bright, teary.

      “Daddy, Tash is home,” Freddie announced, running to him. “She’s going to bake cookies with us.”

      Vera briskly untied her apron. Whatever doubts she’d had about Natasha were eclipsed by the look on her face. Vera knew a woman in love when she saw her. “We need more flour. Come, Freddie, we will go buy some.”

      “But I want to—”

      “You want to bake, we need flour to bake. Come, we’ll get your coat.” Businesslike, Vera bustled Freddie out of the room.

      Alone, Spence and Natasha stood where they were; the moment stretched out. The heat in the kitchen was making her dizzy. Natasha stripped off her coat and laid it over the back of a chair. She wanted to talk to him, reasonably. That couldn’t be done if she fainted at his feet.

      “Spence.” The word seemed to echo off the walls, and she took a deep breath. “I was hoping we could talk.”

      “I see. Now you’ve decided talking’s a good idea.”

      She started to speak, then changed her mind. When the oven timer went off behind her, she turned automatically to take up the hot mitt and remove the latest batch of cookies from the oven. She took her time setting them on the cooling rack.

      “You’re right to be angry with me. I behaved very badly toward you. Now I have to ask you to listen to me, and hope you can forgive me.”

      He studied her for one long, silent moment. “You certainly know how to defuse an argument.”

      “I didn’t come to argue with you. I’ve had time to think, and I realize that I chose a very poor way to tell you about the baby, then to leave as I did.” She looked down at her hands, her tightly laced fingers. “To just run away was inexcusable. I can only tell you that I was afraid and confused and too emotional to think clearly.”

      “One question,” he interjected, then waited until she lifted her head. He needed to see her face. “Is there still a baby?”

      “Yes.” The blank puzzlement in her eyes became awareness. Awareness became regret. “Oh, Spence, I’m sorry, so sorry to have caused you to think that I might have…” She blinked away tears, knowing her emotions were still too close to the surface. “I’m sorry. I went to Mikhail’s to stay with him a few days.” She let out a shaky breath. “May I sit?”

      He only nodded, then moved to the window as she slid behind the table. Laying his palms upon the counter, he looked out at the snow. “I’ve been going out of my mind, wondering where you were, how you were. The state you were in when you left, I was terrified you’d do something rash before we could talk it through.”

      “I could never do what you thought, Spence. This is our baby.”

      “You said you didn’t want it.” He turned again. “You said you wouldn’t go through it again.”

      “I was afraid,” Natasha admitted. “And it’s true I hadn’t wanted to get pregnant, not now. Not ever. I’d like to tell you everything.”

      He wanted badly, much too badly, just to reach out to her, to hold her and tell her that nothing mattered. Because he knew it did matter, he busied himself at the stove. “Do you want some coffee?”

      “No. It makes me sick now.” She smiled a little when he fumbled with the pot. “Please, would you sit down?”

      “All right.” He sat down across from her, then spread his hands. “Go ahead.”

      “I told you that I had been in love with Anthony while I was with the corps de ballet. I was just seventeen when we became lovers. He was the first for me. There’s been no one for me until you.”

      “Why?”

      The answer was much easier than she’d believed. “I’d never loved again until you. The love I feel for you is much different from the fantasies I had for Anthony. With you it isn’t dreams and knights and princes. With you it’s real and solid. Day-to-day. Ordinary—ordinary in the most beautiful way. Can you understand?”

      He looked at her. The room was quiet, insulated by the snow. It smelled of warm cookies and cinnamon. “Yes.”

      “I was afraid to feel this strongly for you, for anyone, because what happened between Anthony and me…” She waited a moment, surprised that there was no pain now, only sadness. “I had believed him, everything he said, everything he promised me. When I discovered he made many of the same promises to other women, I was crushed. We argued, and he sent me away like a child who had displeased him. A few weeks later I discovered I was pregnant. I was thrilled. I could only think that I was carrying Anthony’s child and that when I told him, he would see that we belonged together. Then I told him.”

      Spence reached for her hand without a word.

      “It was not as I had imagined. He was angry. The things he said…. It doesn’t matter,” she went on. “He didn’t want me, he didn’t want the child. In those few moments I grew up years. He wasn’t the man I had wanted him to be, but I had the child. I wanted that baby.” Her fingers tightened on his. “I so desperately wanted that baby.”

      “What did you do?”

      “The only thing I could. There could be no dancing now. I left the company and went home. I know it was a burden for my parents, but they stood by me. I got a job in a department store. Selling toys.” She smiled at that.

      “It must have been difficult for you.” He tried to imagine her, a teenager, pregnant, deserted by the father of her child, struggling to hold it all together.

      “Yes, it was. It was also a wonderful time. My body changed. After the first month or two when I felt so fragile, I began to feel strong. So strong. I would sit in bed at night and read books on babies and birthing. I would ask Mama dozens of questions. I knit—badly,” she said with a quiet laugh. “Papa built a bassinet, and Mama sewed a white skirt with pink and blue ribbons. It was beautiful.” She felt the tears well up and shook her head. “Could I have some water?”

      He rose, and filling a glass from the tap, set it beside her. “Take your time, Natasha.” Because he knew they both needed it, he stroked her hair. “You don’t have to tell me everything at once.”

      “I need to.” She sipped slowly, waiting for him to sit down again. “I called her Lily,” she murmured. “She was so lovely, so tiny and soft. I had no idea it was possible to love anything, anyone, the way you love a child. I would watch her sleep for hours, so thrilled, so awed that she had come from me.”

      The tears were falling now, soundlessly. One fell onto the back of her hand. “It was hot that summer, and I would take her out in this little carriage to get air and sunshine. People would stop to look at her. She hardly cried, and when I nursed her, she would put a hand on my breast and watch me with those big eyes. You know what it is. You have Freddie.”

      “I know. There’s nothing like having a child.”

      “Or losing one,” Natasha said softly. “It was so quick. She was only five weeks old. I woke up in the morning, surprised that she had slept through the night. My breasts were full of milk. The bassinet was by my bed. I reached down for her, picked her up. At first I didn’t understand, didn’t believe….” She broke off to press her hands to her eyes. “I remember screaming and screaming—Rachel rushing up out of the next bed, the rest of the family running in—Mama taking her from me.” The silent tears turned to weeping. Her face now covered by her hands, she let go in a way she usually only allowed herself in private.

      There was nothing he could say, nothing to