Neither of them has owned a home before, and certainly not one of this size and grandeur. A month later, they still find themselves wandering the house or the grounds, goggling at the lush surroundings.
It's hot and humid as hell in New Orleans in late August and with no jobs to answer to for, they split their time between their air-conditioned bedroom and the poolside chairs.
It feels good to just be, and to let time heal their physical and emotional wounds. They're warned by the company psychologist that they may suffer after-effects from their ordeals, and they attend biweekly therapy sessions to counteract the possibility of what she calls post-traumatic stress disorder.
They both occasionally awake with nightmares, horrible ones their brains trick them with, waking up gasping for air, or screaming, or sometimes even crying. But as time goes on these incidents become rarer, and as Lindsay's physical scars start to disappear their psychological ones begin to diminish.
Still, he's hesitant to let her out of his sight, or, sometimes, even out of arms' reach. Thankfully she clings to him at times as well, and they find themselves closer than they'd ever been before.
The sex improves as well, although it's always been pretty damn good, and they have a great time discovering and exploring this newfound intimacy.
The stifling summer fades into a slightly less stifling fall before their comfortable routine begins to become routine, at least for Lindsay. He could spend the next year lazing around the house and yard with her after what they've been through but her nature is to work, and by mid-October he can sense her restlessness growing.
She had set to work decorating the house with their considerable budget, but now that's done to her satisfaction, the yard has been landscaped, the pool cleaned, the gardens tended to.
One day at the end of October she comes home with a particularly sour look on her face, and he watches her sullenly putting away groceries from his seat on the couch. He sighs, steeling himself, and walks into the kitchen as she places a particularly large pineapple in the fruit bowl.
"Something wrong, Lins?" she looks up at him, the scowl temporarily replaced with surprise.
"Hey," she says, with little affect, and he steps toward her, now a little concerned. She sighs, the scowl returning.
"Lindsay," he says, softly, his hand reaching for hers. She doesn't pull away but doesn't respond to his touch, either, so he tries to catch her eye, but she looks away. "Did I do something wrong?"
She sighs at this question. "You could say that," she says, glancing at him with a look that could wilt flowers.
He sighs. He's still holding her hand, so he pulls her closer to him, trying to catch her eye. She yields a little, but still stubbornly resists looking him in the eye.
"Honey, I can't apologize if I don't know what it is I've done," he tips her chin up with his free hand and looks her straight in the eye. "What is wrong?"
She breathes heavily a few times, her mouth pursed. He's about to get angry when she drops the bomb.
"I'm pregnant, Virgil."
He drops her hand and steps backward.
"That's what's wrong," she says, in a voiced strangled with anger and tears and turns and leaves him standing shell-shocked at the kitchen counter.
When the shock wears off, he realizes he should hardly be surprised. They'd been spending a great deal of time in the bedroom and they'd been careless more times than he cared to remember.
He sighs. He knows why she's angry with him, with herself, with this whole situation, but it doesn't quash that nascent feeling that leaves him trying to keep the corners of his mouth down. It's the same feeling he felt when she didn't slap his face upon being presented with the keys to this house. Hope. He allows himself a small smile and a little laugh. He's happy, he realizes, way happier than he'd thought he'd be.
And why shouldn't I be? He thinks, anger surging through him. Months ago he'd watched her die, then come back to life. He thought he would die. God, almost half his crew died. So was it so surprising that the creation of a new life filled him with hope? He sighs, thinking of her, and the anger starts to fade.
He finds her later sitting at the windowsill in their bedroom, the late-afternoon sunlight streaming in. She looks up briefly when he walks in, but can't seem to muster even a greeting. He steps toward her cautiously.
"You know what's ironic?" she says, surprising him. He steps closer, her question drawing him in.
"What?" he responds, reaching the window and gently joining her on the seat.
She turns to look at him, her scowl replaced with a rueful smile. "When I left you I wanted...I thought I—needed a man who matched my new position. I wanted to be part of higher society, I guess, I wanted to fit in with the other guys in the front office," she laughs, mirthlessly, hazarding a glance at him, "and now, here we are, living the high life and all I want to do is get back on that rig. Get my hands dirty."
At this, he smiles, reaching forward to take her hand. She yields this time, her slim fingers slipping around his hand, squeezing it gently.
"I just don't know what I'm going to do around here for eight months, Bud."
He laughs softly and is surprised when she does too, in spite of herself. He moves over to her, pulling her next to him.
"Just because you're pregnant doesn't mean your life has to stop, Lindsay, jesus," he says, trying to catch her eye, "you might not be able to dive, but you can ask Benthic if they've got a desk job for you in Houston." She shrugs beside him. An idea hits him. "You could get your Ph.D.! Then you won't have to bitch about being called Mrs. Brigman anymore. You could be Dr. Brigman. Has a nice ring to it."
She laughs, finally. "As promising as that idea sounds, Mr. Brigman, I think it takes a little longer than eight months to get a doctorate."
"Well, you can start it. Knowing you, and your brilliant intellect and spectacular work ethic, it won't take you very long at all,"
"If you're trying to butter me up by flattering me so I'll forget your involvement in this little situation we currently find ourselves in, I regret to inform it that it is...not working."
He mock-gasps. "My involvement? Who was the one who offered to go buy some condoms that first time you forgot a pill? Me. To which you said..." he ends, pointing at her.
She rolls her eyes. "I said, 'Ah, screw it.' And then we..."
He smiles and shakes his head. "That happened a few times, Lindsay." He sighs, caressing her arm with his hand. "I just figured you were okay with whatever happened. You know? We're married, living in a big house we own outright and have financial security for at least ten, fifteen more years if we play our cards right. I just thought, you know, you were ready."
She's quiet for a few seconds. "I...don't know. Maybe I was. I got comfortable, Bud, that's why I forgot all those times. It wasn't like after we got married, when we were scrimping and saving and spending months at a time on a ship, or in a rig. I had to remember! Otherwise I'd lose my job. I got comfortable! But, then I started to get bored here. I miss the rig, Bud, I miss diving, and I want to get back to it. That's why I was angry and disappointed."
He gives her a reassuring squeeze, turning to kiss her temple. "I know, but you can get back to all that afterwards, I promise. I'll stay home with the baby and you can go work on the rig."
She laughs, and turns to look at him. "You're serious, aren't you?"
"You're goddamn right I am, Ace," he says, eliciting a smile from the nickname.
"So you were ready—you are ready for a baby?" she asks, some surprise in her voice.
"Hell yeah! Lins, if it were up to me we'd have three kids already," he admits, and watches her eyebrows rise in surprise.
"Wow, I didn't know. I mean, we never really...talked about it—"
"We didn't get time, or there was never a right time."
"No, I guess not," she says, regretfully. She takes a deep breath beside him. "Oh, god, I'm so sorry, Virgil."
He turns to her, surprised. "Sorry for what?" he asks, incredulous.
"I'm sorry for leaving you behind. One Night told me what you said, and I just, I just had an epiphany, of sorts," she's looking straight at him, trying her best to keep the tears at bay, "I'm sorry for pretending I didn't love you all this time, for making you feel you were less than me, for Michael, for everything I ever said to you to because you didn't deserve it, any of it. You were so true, and so loving—" She sniffs, trying to hold back the tears.
"Hey, babe. Don't worry about it, okay?" he wipes the few tears that fall away with his thumb. "If it matters, Lindsay, I fell in love with you about two minutes after I met you. And I never stopped."
"Oh, Bud," she says, sniffling, "that's about two minutes before I fell in love with you." He laughs, and she follows suit, lifting her head to look at him, "it was about ten seconds after the first time you told me to keep my pantyhose on."
He laughs, pulls her close and kisses her forehead. "I forgive you, Lindsay, for all of it. God knows I wasn't the easiest person to live with—"
"You got that right—"
"Lins!"
"Sorry," she whispers.
"What I was trying to say is, it doesn't matter anymore. We're having a baby." He says the words with as much wonder as he feels at the thought. Lindsey is here with him. A couple months earlier their marriage was all but dead, and now they're going to be parents. It's hard to keep the smile off his face and she sees.
"We're having a baby," she repeats, and he hears the apprehension.
"You scared?" he asks, kissing the top of her head.
She laughs, flightily. "I'm terrified, Virgil," she says, and pulls away to look at him. "I'm not exactly mother material."
"How do you know?" he asks, affronted. How can she say something like that? "You were the best mother that rig ever had. You always knew what was wrong, where to fix it. Before any of us."
She laughs, incredulous. "Bud, that was a big hunk of metal. This," she said, her hand going to her abdomen, where it rested with a tenderness that gave him a pang in his gut, "this is going to be a tiny little person."
He's not used to Lindsay professing even a passing lack of confidence in her own abilities. Everything was a contest to her that she had to win. He expects her to approach motherhood the same way, but looking at her, her face pale and drawn, he can tell she's struggling. He won't make fun of her. She needs him now more than she ever had.
"Lindsay," he starts, his tone one that brooked no argument, "you are the most capable person I know. You designed that rig so well it kept us all alive. You make grown men fall to their knees and cry. You can take care of a baby. You're going to be great at it. And you know what? If you need help, I'll be here. Every day, every hour. I'll be here, okay?" She nods, and he can tell he's getting through to her.
"We can do this," she says, her voice a little calmer, a little more confident.
