It's morning, and I'm feeling . . . adventurous. Normally I don't at this hour—the topsy turvy life of a nightworker has my circadian rhythm on a backwards loop, but at this moment, with the barest light in the bedroom and a big, warm sleeping man next to me, I feel particularly aware of myself. I slide one hand across my abdomen under the nightie top, aware of a slight roundness there now; the soft swell of the little one snoozing like daddy and it makes me smile. Such a small thing, and yet, so utterly profound. A part of me, a part of Jim, and in that blend, someone entirely new as well . . .
Next to me Jim rolls over, and I shift as well, pressing to his broad bare back, slipping an arm around his waist. He sighs in his sleep, a sound that warms me since it tells me how much I'm part of his comfort now. Usually Jim pulls my arm under his and holds it, but his sleep is so deep right now that he doesn't.
I smile.
Carefully, I slide my arm down his ribs, his waist. He's so very stocky, but solid all the way through. A man of substance, my father would have said. Carefully I let my elbow drape over his hip, forearm bending down and reeeaaach . . . Oh yes.
Jim may be asleep, but parts of him are not.
Warm, firm and definitely warm. I muffle a giggle against his shoulder as I grip a little more firmly and slowly slide my fingers over him, barely able to make my middle finger and thumb ring around the thickness. Jim gives a little low sleepy growl. I stop moving my fingers and just hold him, feeling the throbs now, the stiffness growing in my hand. After a moment, I move again, stroking in a nice, slow glide, then down and once more up . . . Jim's hips rock a bit, pushing against my grip. I stop.
It's an evil game, but so much fun. I say nothing, he says nothing, yet somehow it's more fun that way. I tease him, and he pushes for more in a lovely slow play of pleasure. I slide my top leg over his, grinding myself happily against his bottom. Jim has a nice tushie, for a man. Pleasingly muscular. I think I'm going to lose the game today, because I'm definitely feeling urgent now, and plant a kiss on the back of his neck. His back vibrates as he laughs a deep laugh.
"Don't stop now . . . this is getting very interesting . . ." he tells me, and I laugh as I stroke him once more.
"I want you."
"I'm sensing this, yes. Oooh, let me tell you, Hon, that your hand is much, much nicer than MY hand . . ."
"I have other parts equally eager to get in on the action," I pout a little. My entire professional career is based on my ability to tease—so why is it that Jim Brass is driving ME nuts?
"Hmmm—well, considering you've been so affectionate . . . " he rolls onto his back and reaches for me. We tussle a moment, just giving into our mutual gentle need to touch. Jim makes me feel very feminine at times, just by being the big man that he is, and when I feel the strength of his hands it makes me purr inside. Sometimes outside too.
"I'm just in a good mood this morning," I blush a little, straddling him and looking down into sleepy smiling face. I love his stubble, his slightly tousled hair, and his long, gorgeous eyelashes. The thick fur across his chest, tangled and grey draws my fingers and I slide them through it, tickled by the soft feel.
"Hey--MY mood's getting better all the time—" he replies, reaching for my hips and gently lifting, guiding, pushing . . . . Oooh perfection! I shiver at how full I feel, how the thrill of joining with him is still enough to make me hot and anxious and hungry. Jim's hands slide up the backs of my thighs and his eyes are half-closed now, the glitter in them fierce and completely masculine. I lean forward, brace my hands on the mattress over his shoulders and deeply kiss him as we both gently rock into a very, VERY good morning wake-up call.
OOO OOO OOO
Now I remember why it was important to have a good morning.
The two plane tickets are under the Jersey Devils magnet on the refrigerator door, the pale blue of Nevada Air unmistakable against the white enamel. I see them, and suddenly it's all back in a flash. Trip to Tahoe in a few hours to see my mother. Oooh I'm not sure I'm ready for this. Jim is already seated at the breakfast bar, eating a bagel with pineapple cream cheese; another, toasted and neatly spread is waiting on a matching plate for me. I pale.
"Whole thing just came back to you, huh?" he observes sympathetically. I nod, and head to the sink for a glass of water. I have two, in fact, using the second one to wash down the prenatal vitamins that Doctor Phair has prescribed for me. They're regular horse pills, but for the good of the baby—down the hatch. Jim comes up behind me and nuzzles my neck. He's already showered and dressed; blue slacks and sports coat, light blue shirt but no tie, and it's unbuttoned at the throat. I can smell a hint of aftershave, and a more subtle scent of good, clean man, which relaxes me once more.
"Yeah, well it's time to gird your loins and get going, sweetheart, because with all the new security checkpoints we have about twenty minutes. I'll get the bags in the car and check in with work so they know where I'll be." As he speaks his arms encircle me and his big hands cup perfectly over the small swell of where the tadpole is. It's such an intimate gesture, and I'd bet the bank Jim doesn't actually realize he's doing it even as it's happening. I sigh.
"I'll hurry," I agree.
I make it in record time, and before I'm quite ready for it, we're at the annex to McCarran and walking into a tiny office for Nevada Air. I'm nervous. Really nervous. Jim sees how pale I am and shoots me a concerned look; I say nothing and look away, which is a mistake since I'm now gazing out the window at the small Cessnas on the field. Small, little, almost fragile looking things.
"Heather?" a world of worry in his tone. I look up at him and for a moment think about bluffing, but his gaze goes right through me and I know there's not a chance I'll be able to pull it off.
"I don't like flying."
For a moment he stares at me, perplexed.
"You see Zoë twice a year. Major trip across the country." He points out. I nod, closing my eyes.
"Yes on BIG planes, Jim. Big, big jumbo jets with stabilizers and headphones and shades you can pull down over the window so you don't need to look out and see how . . . high up . . ." I trail off, weakly. Jim's expression is torn between consternation and comedy; he's fighting not to grin even as his arm goes around me.
"And so the dominatrix goes Erica Jong on me—okay, we'll get through this together all right? It's a short trip, you can keep your eyes closed and I'll talk to you the whole time if you like. "
"Thank you. I might need it," I admit softly. This is hard, confessing to this foolish fear. I've built my career up by being strong and in my own way, powerful. After all this time I've molded myself to that standard, so admitting to this truth is hard. Everyone has a fear; I know that.
I just didn't want Jim to know mine.
He squeezes my waist and leans in to whisper to me. "Hey, you want to know something? I don't like dead bodies. Talk about a real problem, considering my job, huh? But there you have it. I'll do what needs to be done for any investigation, but I'll never sit in on any autopsy if I can possibly help it. Give me interrogations and crack houses and firefights—but 419s still creep me out."
I look askance at him; he nods solemnly.
"But Homicide—"
"—Involves a lot of dead bodies, yes. One of the ironies of life. So tell me about your mom. What's she likely to ask me?"
I grin softly.
"Are you going to marry my daughter? Are you gainfully employed? Will you beat or abuse my daughter? Do you go to church? Aren't you a little old for my daughter? Are there better looking people in your family? How much have you in savings and insurance?"
"Hmm. Yes, yes, no, yes, no, no, enough to make sure Heather, the baby and Zoë will be fine. How'm I doing?"
I laugh and lean against him. "Perfectly, darling. I'm just trying to give you a good idea of what you're facing—my mother is very . . . old fashioned about relationships. Part of it is her generation, and part of it is her personality."
"Good, then that's one more thing we have in common." He tells me softly.
Seriously.
BRASS
We are standing on the porch of a small apartment in a little gated community called Pine Rest. It's a place dedicated to retired people, and a few of them are cruising around in their pastel jogging sweats, walking arthritic terriers and eyeing Heather and me discreetly. I feel pretty good, having gotten my sweetie through the plane ride and safely back on terra firma with a minimum of terror on her part. Lots of hugs, a few distracting kisses thrown in for good measure—man it's so strange to see Heather without that confidence she normally wears all the time, like a cologne. I have to admit, it was also kind of—a turn-on, too. To be needed like that . . . very sweet.
Anyway, Heather's standing next to me, hand in mine and her fingers are ice-cold. I can tell she's nervous on my behalf, but I give her hand a squeeze, getting one back as the door swings open. I get a brief glimpse of a living room before focusing on a figure in the doorway, her arms reaching out to Heather, and it's all I can do not to blink as I take in my first look at Lolu Marazek, Mother of my Fiancée and Terror of all Others.
She looks like a Norfin Troll doll.
You know, tanned, little and squat, wrinkled, with wispy woolly hair that's in a bun at the nape of her thick neck, but one good upward brushing and it would be standing high in that weird 'do all those dolls had. Heather is bending a little to hug her, both of them rattling off in Hungarian about a mile a minute. I stand and wait; they'll remember me eventually. At least Heather will, I hope.
Finally both of them turn to me, and all pink-cheeked and smiling, Heather reaches for my hand and murmurs, "Mama, this is Jim, the man I'm going to marry."
She looks at me with those snapping dark eyes and I feel like I'm being sized up by a skinned badger. She glares at me, all four feet ten inches of Magyar motherhood, and I feel my testicles tighten a bit in an ancient instinctive response, but I stay relaxed, mild. I extend my hand.
"Mrs. Marazek very pleased to finally meet you."
Suspiciously she extends one small hand to grip mine, and yeah, it's as hard as she can squeeze. I barely feel it, this little monkey's paw she's got.
"Keptin Brass," she intones, formally. Great. She sounds like Bela Lugosi's aunt. I nod, hiding this thought as best I can. Heather has my other hand, and squeezes it while her mother speaks up again. "Come in, come in—it's been a long trip and I know you both can use something to drink."
In we go, and I'm instantly aware that I'm now in Old World Knickknack Central. Cuckoo clocks, figurines, carved boxes, painted dishes, cabinets full of carvings and music boxes. Every surface holds something cute or hand-blown, and I'm terrified to sneeze. Once our Tadpole gets to be a climber, Lolu is gonna have her little talons full, that's for sure. Politely I sit on a sofa covered in crocheted lace antimacassars, and find my attention caught by a familiar magazine on the carved wood coffee table. Sports Illustrated?
Heather is next to me now, smiling when she sees my gaze. Out in the kitchen, I hear puttering as Ma Marazek gets us refreshments. Probably scooping a few cupfuls straight out of the cauldron.
"She likes you," Heather tells me. I turn to look at my honey, my gaze slightly skeptical.
"Yeah, I can feel the love—" I whisper back, but my grin helps, and Heather hides a giggle as her mother comes back into the room carrying a tray. I perk up when I see the goodies, and figure what the hey, at least I'll eat well on this visit. Lolu sits opposite us and waves a claw over the spread.
"Langos and Korozott, I'm touched. Thank you."
Oh man, so this is where Heather learned to cook— on the tray are plates of soft deep fried bread puffs and paprika cream cheese spread. Yeah, I can make nice if the food's going to be THIS good. Lolu cracks a bit of a smile because I've pronounced them a little oddly, but I'm sure she appreciates the attempt. I hold back, waiting for her to have some, and she eyes me approvingly, then picks up the smallest puff on the tray.
"Pleess, help yourselves. Hajana, eat, you look pale."
I hide my chuckle as the tall, proud dominatrix at my side obediently picks up a bread puff and begins to put some of the spread on it under her mother's watchful eye. Lolu speaks again.
"I'm gled you flew instead of driving. We heve more time that way. So, why do you want to marry my Hajana, besides she is beautiful, smart and too good for any man."
"Mama!" Heather chokes. I lay a hand on her arm, amused at her indignation and look at the little woman opposite me.
"I love her. I KNOW I'm not nearly good enough for her, Lolu, but for some damned reason she loves me back, and that's more than enough for me. This is excellent. Ever thought about putting some grated black pepper in with the paprika?"
I have her a little off-balance now; Mama Marazek isn't used to being called by her first name, OR by having anyone critique her puffs by the look of it. She glances down at the puff in her hand, considering it.
"That's not—traditional." She objects, but weakly, as if my suggestion is appealing to her. I shrug.
"I won't tell if you don't—but hey, these Langos are perfect. Did you use a deep fryer, or a vat?"
And we're off and running. I get the lowdown on how she made the puffs, and she gives me a tour of her tiny kitchen, which is as gleaming and spotless as an operating room. Heather holds back a little, grinning and leaning on the doorway, her arms crossed.
"—And of course tonight we'll have goulash. It's not for everyone, but I like it. You don't have a hole in your stomach, do you . . . Jim?"
"A hole—" I realize she probably means an ulcer, and shake my head. She used my first name. Big step here. "No, not for lack of opportunities though. Goulash sounds great."
She looks up at me again, and although she still hasn't completely smiled, I can tell some of the crust is softening.
"Good. Now here is the list of things I need from the store."
OOO OOO OOO
Heather's napping, and it's a good thing, because Lolu and I are sitting on the sofa looking at a photo album. The scent of baking poppy seed roll is filling the apartment, and in the background I can hear something soothing and classical playing, but my attention is focused on the Polaroid photos neatly mounted behind plastic in the book on Lolu's bony lap.
"Beautiful. Even as a baby. Eyes like topez, my Hajana. Zoë never got those, she has ember like her father. You have blue though."
"Yeah. All my family did." Ohh man, baby Hajana Marazek in the same little white lace dress she showed me only last week. Man what an elf she was; big blue eyes, little wisps of hair curling up from her head. I glance at the woman holding her in the shot, and the familiar almond shape of the eyes is there in Lolu, who's dressed in a pantsuit. Since dad's not in the shot I assume he's taking the photo. Lolu speaks again.
"And here is her first grade picture. I did her hair up—"
Another changeling shot. Long dark hair now wrapped in colored ribbons and pinned in ringlets along her head. Big grin, and one front tooth missing, but the blue-green eyes stay the same, beckoning, enticing. I grin. Lolu grins. "Such an imp! She wore those ribbons for three days after that. I finally had to take them out when she was asleep."
"She's still feisty. And likes ribbons." I tell Lolu, who nods.
"And leather, of all things. Anyway, here is Hajana with her father, camping. Squaw Velly."
"Ah." Ah indeed. The girl in this shot is on the verge of womanhood, lithe and yet unhappy with having her photo taken. She's shading her eyes and pouting a bit in the direction of the camera, shorts revealing long skinny legs, and her pink tee-shirt has a rhinestone outline of a cat on it. Off to one side I see a tall man with a bony frame, and a pretty impressive beard. He's a thinning blond by the look of him, and one hand rests on his daughter's shoulder.
"My Janos. He died many years ago, just after Hajana married. Bad heart. Your heart is good?"
"My heart is doing pretty good," I reassure her. Lolu nods and we pass the time with the rest of the photos, including a wedding shot of Heather and Glen—she looks a little like Cher with long straight hair and thick bangs, and he looks uncomfortable in his slightly too big tux. I smile—I can't be jealous of the guy. He had his time with her, and Zoë is a terrific dividend, but it's all in the past, and right now the future's all I'm concerned about.
Finally we come to the end of the book, and Lolu sets it down, then looks up at me, sharply. She takes one of my hands in hers and I feel a familiar coolness; must run in the Marazek family.
"Jim. All I want is for my daughter's heppiness. You know as well as do I that in the job she does . . ." Lolu makes a scowly little face and I try not to laugh, " . . . . meny, meny men THINK they love her, but they do not. They love the thing she plays, the role. The cruel one."
"Ah. Yeah, I know that. I've seen the Dominion and I know the clientele, but I'm not a customer, Lolu, and never was. The woman I love—Heather, Hajana—she's the real thing. She cooks for me. She reminds me to take vitamins. She makes me take out the garbage. She was there . . . when my daughter died."
"Ah—" more hand pats and squeezes to my fingers, and on that wizened face I see a deeper, truer understanding of the pain of loss.
It dawns on me that Lolu probably does know about that.
"Good. If you see my real Hajana, then you are a better man than most. But this job of yours—it's not safe. You take risks, this is so?"
I can't lie.
"There are risks. I'm a cop, it comes with the territory. Ninety five percent of the time it's boring work and perfectly safe. But there is that part that involves some danger, yeah."
Lolu gives another frown, but somehow I can tell that this one is because of the job, not me personally. She gives a noisy sigh and nods. "Then you will be kereful from now on. Very. Kereful. And soon you will be retiring too?"
"Well," I tip my head, considering exactly how to answer. Heather and I agreed we'd tell Lolu about the baby together, and that discussion would extend into ones about the future including retirement, so for the moment I'm stuck. Then I hear Heather walking in and smile a little. I look up and there she is, looking at us both, slightly sleepy, definitely gorgeous. I rise.
"Feeling okay?"
"Rested." And absently she runs a hand over the little swell on her abdomen that we both know so well.
Intimate gesture.
"Oh my GOD—Hajana, you're going to have a baby!" Lolu rasps out, choking a little. I take a protective step next to Heather, not sure if the Wrath of Mom is about to blast us, but instead that leathery old face shifts, and she rises from the sofa and totters towards us, arms out held. I move so she can hug Heather, but that's not her plan; instead I'm caught in a three-way embrace, and I'm not ashamed to admit it feels pretty good. The two of them are babbling in Hungarian again, a mile a minute, with Lolu asking questions every other breath. Heather slides a hand into mine, squeezing it. I squeeze back.
"Ooooh now this is AMAZING, a gift from God, a MIRACLE yes? Jim, I cannot believe it, my Hajana once again . . . oh, I have to sit down!" Lolu announces, dazed, grinning, looking less like a gargoyle and more like a Jack-o-Lantern left out a little too long. We all sit, and I slip an arm around Heather, loving the warm sleepy feel of her against my side. Lolu looks from her to me and back again, all the while shaking her head.
"So," I begin in my mildest tone, "I take it I have permission to marry your daughter?"
For that I get swatted on each knee; one from Heather, one from her mom.
Now THAT'S a Marazek thing.
OOO OOO OOO
Of course there's no question now of sleeping on the couch, and as I stretch out on the guestroom bed, I sigh contentedly. What a dinner, Oy! Lolu knocked herself out with a goulash that's going into the culinary record books as far as I'm concerned, and I'm gonna have a commendation plaque made up for her that she can hang in between the cuckoo clocks and painted plates.
Heather opens the bathroom door and stands framed in it, and Hel-lo, suddenly my stomach isn't the concern anymore. She's got on a powder blue baby doll nightie that is doing seriously bad things to my imagination, particularly since the light behind her is filtering through the very filmy material. She smiles at me, half-naughty, half adoring.
Man I am one lucky bastard.
"Come here," I motion her over, enjoying the way she slinks over. It's natural grace, not artifice, and I sit up, sliding my arms around her waist. Oh so carefully I lay my ear right over where the Tadpole is probably snoozing after getting a good share of the Goulash tonight. I don't hear anything but the faint gurgle of Heather's stomach as she laughs and strokes my hair.
"I love you so much, Jim," she tells me. My arms tighten, and I turn my face, kissing her belly, rubbing my wet cheeks along her nightgown as a wave of emotion hits me right then and I know this glorious moment is a redemption for whatever sins I've left behind.
Heather shifts, coming to lie down beside me on the bed, and I curl around her as I have nearly every night we've spent together. She fits to me and I to her, and I know later we'll make love, but for this lovely moment, this blissfully secure beautiful moment—
We're already joined.
