Chapter 13

"So, what do you think?" Laura wondered, critically evaluating the three females before her.

Frances wore a black, satin, sleeveless a-line gown with empire waist and a wide white belt that clipped at the center before a single sash fell down the center of the dress providing a wide slash of white down the front of the skirt. Mindy wore a strapless dress with white illusion neckline, black fitted bodice and white tea-length skirt with a black, silk trimmed hem, while Laurie Beth was dressed in a white sleeveless dress with satin bodice, tulle skirt and black sash that tied into a large bow at her back.

"I love my dress," Mindy enthused.

"Me, too," Laurie Beth chortled.

"Frances?"

"It's beautiful. It's been so long since I've dressed up, I just-" Frances finally answered, "It's beautiful."

"Mother?"

"I'm afraid I have to admit, it's a very… refined look," Abigail confessed.

"You mean elegant," Laura smiled. Bored with clothing shoe and tell, Laurie Beth meandered away from the group and plopped down into a chair, pulling her doll onto her lap.

"It's a very dramatic looked," Abigail assessed.

"Black and white never go out of style," Laura pointed out, "And the style of these dresses were as popular thirty, forty years ago, as they are today. Timeless," she smiled again.

"Aunt Laura?" Laurie asked, swinging her legs while pretending to feed her doll.

"Yes?"

"Are you and Mr. Remington going to have a baby?" Laura blinked a pair of times, and felt the room sway beneath her feet.

"Laurie Beth!" Frances gasped. "We do not ask people things like that. What are you thinking?"

"But you said when Mommies and Daddies love each other and get married, they get a baby," Laurie Beth argued, lip sticking out in a pout. Frances blushed furiously and raised a hand, fidgeting nervously with her throat and looking at Laura for help.

"I'm going to see what they have in shoes," she excused herself, giving Frances an apologetic smile. Grabbing her purse off a chair, she strode out of the room and up to the first sales associate she saw. "Would you have a ladies room I might use?"

"Go through that room to the first doorway on your right, then turn left down the hallway," the middle-aged woman directed.

"Thank you. And could we see shoes in black for my sister and nieces and in white for myself? I wear a size 6, narrow," she requested.

"Of course. I'll have your sales rep pull a selection for each of you."

Laura gave the woman another smile then made a beeline for the restroom where she quickly locked herself into a stall. Perching on the edge of the toilet, she dug in her purse for her pocket calendar and opened it. September 27, right on time. Easily remembered as they'd only had a pair of days to go wherever the mood took them before they were… inconvenienced on the last three days of Remington's birthday trip. While he'd taken it like a pro, it was easy for him, whereas those artless touches he'd always been prone towards bestowing on her had doubled in their frequency during that trip, leaving her positively itchy.

She thumbed ahead to the next month. October 25. I probably gained five pounds that week alone. Bags upon bags of Halloween chocolate heaven surrounding her had been too much too resist. November 22nd. Thanksgiving weekend. They'd spent a long, three-day weekend in a tryptophan induced fog, indulging on Thanksgiving leftovers, enjoying bubble baths together, and curling up on the couch, catnapping while movies played on the television. Then there had been their antics with the pumpkin mousse and whipped cream, she grinned.

That smile quickly faded as she turned another page ahead. She should have started six days ago.

Not possible, she pronounced in silent denial. She was nothing if not absolutely fastidious about her birth control. Her morning ritual never varied: teeth, pill, makeup, hair. Well, she might go without makeup on the weekend but it would still be teeth, pill, hair. She hadn't missed a pill. Not once. Not ever.

Her back stiffened and her eyes widened. Did he suspect? Is that what was behind this rushed wedding, fostered by some noble notion that he needed to do right by woman and child?

"Aspen? You were going to propose in Aspen?"

He'd already admitted to have been mulling marriage before their trip to Maui, and if…IF… just if… she certainly wasn't then.

The increase in his attentiveness, in those glancing touches, hadn't lessened since their return but had remained steadily present and persistent… and those touches hadn't been the only change in the last months. Around the time of her mother's call to announce the trip to New York City, the man who'd always had a healthy sexual appetite had become positively randy, reminiscent of those first months after they'd crossed 'that line' at Ashford Castle – not that she was complaining, mind you, for her appetite for him was as voracious as his for her. Still, she could only recall a handful of days when they hadn't made love in the last month or so, and two of those were the day of their arrival in New York and the day following.

Then, in the last few weeks, those unconscious touches meant for connection set aside, she'd noticed something new – a slight air of possessiveness he hadn't exhibited before. He'd taken to greeting clients with his arm around her waist, something she'd found… odd.. given they'd never openly broadcast their personal connection before. When they took a walk together, his hand would capture hers, and should she pull away, he'd find reason to encircle her with an arm. And at home, he seemed to find one excuse after another to keep her close.

Did he suspect? Or were these new aspects of their relationship no more than his exhilaration over his planned proposal?

She frowned. Or both.

She didn't know, and she didn't have a clue how to ferret out the answer to that question without revealing she might… might… just might, if he didn't know already.

First things first, Holt, she reminded herself sternly. A whole host of anomalies other than pr-… than that… could account for a missed cycle. Her shoulders slumped. Or two. Right? Right? After all, she'd had not a single symptom she'd heard her sister and friends complain about when they'd been pregnant. She hadn't been moody or overly tired. She'd had no food cravings, no need to use the bathroom more regularly. She certainly hadn't experienced the slightest bit of nausea. But there was a change she simply couldn't deny made the possibility a very real one – one that had everything to do with her recently snug wardrobe.

She nodded her head in acknowledgement as her emotions rioted, one part of her scared to death, while the other side was, in truth, a little excited. There was only one way to know for sure, which meant another stop would be required once she shook her mother, sister and nieces…

Laura peered down into the glass display case, forcing herself to focus on the rings. She'd been distracted much of the afternoon – for good reason – and her just completed trip to the drugstore hadn't helped quell her frazzled mind. But now was not the time to think about any of that. This particular decision was too important.

Remington hadn't mentioned anything about a ring. He wouldn't mention one, leaving that decision to her alone. Yet, when they'd gone undercover as a married couple across the years, she'd seen his surreptitious glances between their hands, admiring the tangible proof that they were bound together, if only for a role and only temporarily. And for a man who'd struggled with merely the idea of making a commitment throughout most of their association, he'd slipped the Peppler wedding band on his finger as soon as they'd returned from Ashford, never questioning if his finger would be banded as hers was when they made their appearances as 'Mr. and Mrs. Steele'.

There wasn't a question in her mind that he'd want a ring. The only question was: What type of ring? A simple gold band would be too reminiscent of their sham wedding rings. A classic, elegant design would be demanded – something his fashion conscious self would view as looking as good with a pair of jeans on as it would with a tux … Nothing clunky or overly ornate for him. A circular or rectangular face, and he'd classify it more as a signet ring than wedding band. She knew, without hesitation, that he'd prefer his ring to complement hers as closely as possible, but that presupposed she knew what her wedding band would look like. In that, she could only make an educated guess. She studied her ring. Gold, but an undertoned gold, not quite as yellow as their Peppler rings. Fastidious about his belongings, he'd be adverse to risking her ring getting dinged or scratched up while on the job, so nothing less than eighteen or twenty-four carat would do. The diamond studded channel set of the band of her ring, suggested her wedding band would be similarly set, given Remington's bent towards congruity.

Light gold, elegant, diamonds. Check, check, check.

Now to find it.

Too narrow. Too thick. To angled. Too gauche. Too rose. To… crass. Too clumpy. Too…

Perfect.

She indicated the ring with a point of her finger, and shortly held it in her hand. Solid. A perfect match in color to her own. Reinforced shank. Eighteen carat gold. Two diamonds embedded vertically in the center of the ring. It was the perfect complement to her engagement ring and, she imagined, the wedding band he had tucked away somewhere waiting until the big day.

She let out a long, slow breath as she reviewed the order form and charge slip. The Rabbit better have another two more years in it, she mused, wryly, as she scrawled her name on both. For a wedding that as fully paid for, it was certainly putting her card to more use than it had seen since her house was bombed.

And there wouldn't be an insurance check to pay it off this time around.

Still, folding the small bag containing the ring in two, then sequestering the bag inside the one holding her veil, she left the store feeling accomplished.

It wasn't until the cab was halfway back to the hotel that she recalled another box hidden beneath her veil, and fervently hoped morning would come quickly so she could either put her mind at ease or find the right words to tell Remington – if he didn't already know – that role of expectant father might be arriving far sooner than he'd planned.

"Oh, hey, Mrs.—" Mildred began to greet then corrected herself with a wink, "Miss Holt."

Laura had just walked through the door of the suite, when Mildred called the greeting from where she sat at the end of the couch in the living room. Remington, seated at the opposite end, immediately stood to take Laura's bag from her and help her with her coat.

"Mildred, I'm sorry," Laura drew out the words in sincere dismay, "I thought we weren't expecting you until this evening!" As Remington hung up her coat, she crossed the room to the older woman who stood so they could exchange hugs.

"You weren't," Mildred assured, as she took her seat. "Bernard left first thing this morning, and although my sister and I might get along when he's there, when he leaves…? Well, I thought I'd just see if there was an earlier flight, and here I am!" She threw her arms open wide, enunciating the point enthusiastically. "The Chief says you've been shoppin' til you drop."

"Yesssssssss," Laura confirmed, wearily, slumping down into an arm chair. "There's something to be said for eloping on a tuna trawler," she raised her brows, wryly, "Especially when you don't realize you're actually eloping."

"I was rather hoping you'd enjoy all the pre-wedding festivities," Remington commented as he returned to where he'd been seated on the couch.

"Have you ever gone shopping with Mother and Frances for wedding attire?" she challenged. He flashed her a crooked smile.

"So far as I know, I've never done shopping of any kind with Abigail and Frances," he retorted, unperturbed by the snippy remark. Mildred pressed a trio of fingers to her lips and gave Laura an innocent look when her snicker drew the younger woman's eyes.

"Well, if you want my advice: Don't," she told him, emphatically. "Finding my dress was a snap," she recounted, "The wedding party dresses took a while longer, which…" she held up a finger in emphasis, "I would expect given there were three people, not one, to account for. But two-and-a-half hours for shoes?" Abigail had insisted Laura, Frances, Mindy and Laurie Beth's shoes should all be similar. How exactly does one find a similar pair of shoes for a six-year-old child and thirty-two-year-old woman? It had taken an hour-and-forty-five minutes, and three dozen pairs of shoes to prove no such creature existed, and when Abigail had finally relented, Frances had become fixated on the shoes matching both dress and accessories. That gem had required them to find the right style of shoes, arrange to have Frances and Mindy's both dyed black, then a lengthy discourse on what clips for which pair of shoes. "By the time we were done, we'd missed our lunch reservations long before…" A ghost of a smile whispered over her lips "…Thank God, or we'd likely still be at the restaurant."

"You haven't eaten?" Remington asked, glancing at his watch then beginning to rise. "I'll just call down to room service, and order you up something on the light side." Laura waved him back down.

"There's no need," she refused. "I sent them off to eat, then stopped by Gray's Papaya while I was running personal errands." He wasn't sure what tidbit interested him more: Whatever a Grays Papaya was or the nature of those 'personal' errands.

"The hotdog joint?" Mildred wondered.

"Yeah, the hotdog joint," Laura laughed, as she kicked off her shoes. "How did you know?" Remington swung his head back and forth between the women as they spoke.

"Awww," Mildred waved a hand, "The limo driver was telling me where to get some of the best eats in New York City. He thinks they might have an even better dog than Coney Island."

"He may be right," Laura assessed, mentally comparing the hot dog she'd gotten on the boardwalk the last time she and Remington were in New York City.

"You gotta letta girl live vicariously, Miss Holt," Mildred insisted, "I haven't eaten since before getting on that plane. So spill. Whatcha get?"

"I couldn't decide, so I had them load it up: ketchup, mustard, chili, cheese, extra onion…"

"Mmmmm," Mildred hummed, envisioning it.

"…And sauerkraut with a cup of their papaya juice." Mildred made a face and shook her head.

"You lost me at the sauerkraut."

"What a bizarre craving," Remington mused. Laura's head snapped around to look at him with suspicious eyes. He did a double take, then shifted in his seat beneath her gaze.

"Craving," she pretended to consider, elongating the word. "Why would you say that?"

Has she realized? he wondered.

He'd been admittedly a little slow on the uptake himself, by an entire week and a half. In fact, he'd hadn't been led to the realization by some brilliant, intuitive deduction on his part, but had blundered upon it, much like he'd accidentally solve a case in their early days together.

They'd been preparing for work one morning in the first days of December and, as was their habit, she'd showered before him so she could finish the rest of her morning ablutions while he took his turn beneath the spray of hot water. As he'd stepped into the bathroom and leaned down to place a peck of morning greeting against her cheek, she'd slipped a pill into her mouth. As she was snapping shut the case, he'd unconsciously registered she was on the beginning of a new pack, which had left him grinning as he'd step into the shower stall, quite for selfish reasons.

Much as she approached the rest of her life, Laura had taken the matter of birth control fully under her own control, unwilling to risk the capriciousness of life to determine her parental status. Next to abstinence – which thank the stars above was at last in the rearview mirror – in her eyes the most effective barrier to pregnancy was those little peach and green colored pills. He'd be lying if he were to say it hadn't made him nervous at first, allowing someone else full control over his own parental destiny. He made the acquaintance of enough conniving women during the course of his life who believed an accidental pregnancy was the quickest and most efficient way to either bind a man to them for life or to score a handsome, decades long payday. Even though this was Laura, he'd found himself unconsciously watching the first months they'd regularly shared a bed, and her routine never varied: Teeth brushed, pill, makeup – if she chose to wear any at all – then hair, a case of pills stowed both at the loft and his condo before she'd moved into his place quite for good. She wouldn't take a chance of missing a pill, not his Laura, he'd learned and in time he'd stopped paying attention at all.

He'd certainly reaped the benefits of her decision, though, he'd mused as he rinsed the shampoo from his hair. To feel her heat, her wetness directly; to feel every nuance of her flesh surrounding his; to pour his very essence inside her then be able to remain nestled within in her depths long afterwards with no rush to separate their joined bodies so that he might do a bit of 'clean up'… all of it had added to the already intimate act of making love with the woman who'd become the most important person in his life. His lips twitched with a smile, as the familiar jolt of longing and love that accompanied memories of their lovemaking rocketed through his body, straight to his core. Where once experiencing that 'ultimate moment' would have meant a peck on the cheek for whatever woman he was with then rolling immediately away, he cherished the aftermath with Laura as he much as he did the actual act – the feeling of their bodies pressed skin-to-skin, the way she'd draw her fingers through his hair, over his flesh… her breathy gasps of air warming shoulder, neck, chest, wherever her lips lay near. The mere thought left his blood warming, body humming…

"Laura, I was thinking…"

"Not happenin'," she called back before he could finish the thought, then added the reminder, "Work first, play later. Tracy Lord can't be late."

The rebuke left him smiling instead of properly downtrodden by the refusal. That was his Laura. Unless he caught her off-guard of a workday morning, she'd blithely reject his attempts to lure her into a compromising position, while making it known she'd welcome a bit of 'play' once business was disposed with. Mustn't be late, old sport, he mused. Laura was already in a foul enough mood that he'd contrived to send her uncover as a member of their client's secretarial pool. To be late to the loathsome job? Well, that was guaranteed to remind her who'd put her in such a position in the—

Bent over, scrubbing his legs down with the washcloth, he froze as his mind zeroed in on that packet of pills she'd held in her hand shortly ago. The packet had been nearly completely full, only three, maybe four pills missing. Now, mind you, he'd never claim to be an expert on the contraceptives used by the fairer sex, as he'd resolutely controlled his own fate as Laura was doing now, but seventeen months of observing Laura's daily routine clued him on a thing or two – such as a new pack was preceded by a week's worth of little green pills, a day of misery for the woman taking them, and a handful of days when back rubs, foot massages and snuggling before the telly were the only intimacy to be had.

And he couldn't recall any such times in recent weeks.

He stood abruptly, his head swinging in the general direction of where the blow dryer was whirring. Did she know and hadn't thought to clue him in? He dismissed the notion a split second after it came to mind. He would have known something was amiss, he was certain of it. Masticate the possibility to death before saying something to him she might do, but be off kilter she'd be: Unconsciously fidgeting, falling into long periods of introspection, eyeing him warily. There had been none of that.

That evening, under the guise of searching for a pen, he'd slipped her pocket calendar out of her purse, thumbing through until he reached November where he found a circle around the number twenty-two. Thanksgiving weekend. Mmmmm, he hummed silently. What a delightful weekend that had been with a bounty of making love and napping. He thumbed back to October, then chuckled quietly drawing her to call from the other room…

"Did you say something?"

He'd assure her he'd not, then returned his attention to the small book in his hand. She'd fueled herself with the Halloween candy he purchased for the trick-or-treaters they might receive. Luckily for them, they hadn't received many visitors Halloween night, as she'd consumed a considerable amount of the treats.

Thumbing ahead to December he noted the next circled date, the twentieth. Perhaps she hadn't said anything because there was nothing to say. He'd heard more than one man thank the saints above that some woman or another had merely 'been late' or had just 'skipped a month.' Frankly, he hadn't been sure what to think.

But as the days had turned into a week, then weeks into nearly a month, he'd taken notice of… other things… that might lend credence to his initial belief that Laura was with child: She'd taken to dozing off while he prepared dinner and napped with him more often on the weekends; her breasts had distinctly enlarged and the areolas had darkened a shade; those same breasts had always been exquisitely sensitive, but for a spell they'd turned tender, then, in the week past, even more responsive to his touch than they'd been before; and, over the course of the last two weeks he'd felt the subtle thickening of her waist.

Abigail had noticed the difference right off, although she'd attributed it Remington's cooking. It had given him the opportunity to plant a seed in Laura's head…

"You might be surprised by the number of fantasies I've enjoyed of you, rotund...Although not due to any activities in the kitchen."

He'd grown weary of waiting for her to figure it out. The start date of her cycle had come and gone for a second time three days before they'd arrived in New York, and she'd yet to bat an eye. Still, his rather audacious statement had only earned him a queer look a time or two. Then, he'd tried again the night they'd become affianced…

"Expectant fa—"

But she'd promptly silenced him.

His eyes flickered to her and then away again. Well, if she had finally realized, why not have a bit of fun with it? Hadn't he, after all, spent weeks in silence wondering if she'd figured things out yet?

"Need I remind you how many times I've watched you consume those nitrate filled, meat byproducts… and with relish at that," he flashed her a quick smile at his pun. "Can't abide by the things myself, yet when we get within fifty feet of a street vendor or the pier you begin positively salivating. Isn't that the very definition of craving?" She frowned.

"Well, yes…" she hedged, fidgeting with the collar of her shirt.

"But sauerkraut with chili, Mrs.-, Miss Holt?" Mildred asked with dismay, addressing what she felt was far more important than word choice, while Laura peered at her nails and Remington studied her. Did he know? She wasn't sure that he did, but if he didn't she needed to divert his attention until she had some answers of her own.

"Don't forget the papaya juice, Mildred," Remington offered half-heartedly, still assessing Laura. "Yeesh!" Laura turned and gave him a beatific smile. He sat up a spot straighter, recognizing that particular smile, the one that said she was about to throw him to the wolves for her own amusement.

"Have you asked her yet?" The question seemed innocent enough on the surface but Remington recognized the diversion for what it was.

"Asked me what?" Mildred peeped up.

"No, as a matter of fact I haven't," he answered Laura, in an accusatory tone. "I'd intended to take us all out for a decent meal and ask her then."

"Ask me what?" Mildred repeated, looking to Laura for an answer. Laura fingered her throat and widened her eyes.

"Oh… well… It's not my place to say," she answered, coyly. Remington's jaw twitched, a sign she'd annoyed him right properly. Forcing a smile on his face, he turned to Mildred.

"I was hoping you'd do me the honor of standing for me at our wedding as my… best woman… so to speak," he announced, with a tug of his ear. Mildred's hands flew up and she pressed them against her cheeks. He squirmed where he sat as he watched the older woman's eyes moisten with emotion.

"Me? You want me to stand for you?" she asked in disbelief.

"This wedding of ours is a family affair," Remington replied with a quick smile, hoping to ward off the woman's tears, "And what are you, if not family, eh?" Seeing his discomfort, Mildred visibly collected herself then gave him a sharp, efficient nod.

"Try and keep me away," she accepted.

"Excellent," he grinned, then slid his eyes towards Laura, giving her a look that put her on high alert. "And I'm sure Laura know exactly where to take you tomorrow to find the right attire."

With that, Laura slumped back in her chair. He'd returned fire and had hit his target dead on.

More shopping tomorrow…