Aside from a quick burst of fury after Dawn and Nick had left, she had yet to say anything to him, but that was hardly reassuring. Another explosion was just a matter of time. Her white face, thinned mouth and determined pacing told him so. And he could hardly blame her.
What in heaven’s name had impelled him to do such a stupid thing? To even suggest there was a possibility of reconciliation had been crazy. It was wrong. Hell, it was unfair. Dawn, falsely convinced she’d had her miracle, had gone off with hope in her heart...
But at least she’d gone. That was what he’d wanted, after all, to give his daughter time to be alone with her husband, time to realize that the future of her marriage was not linked to the failure of his and Annie’s.
Just because one generation screwed things up didn’t mean the next one would, too.
Chase felt the weight lifting from his shoulders. What he’d done had been impetuous, perhaps even outrageous. But if it gave Dawn time to find her own way through the minefield of life and marriage, it was worth it. Who had he hurt, really? When the kids got back from their honeymoon—happy, he was certain, and concentrating on their future instead of his and Annie’s—he’d explain that he’d misled them, just a little bit.
“And just how do you think she’s going to feel, when you tell her you lied?”
Chase looked up. Annie had come to a stop in front of him. Her sweatshirt inexplicably but appropriately featured a picture of Sesame Street’s Oscar the Grouch. Her face was white, her eyes shiny and she was so angry she was trembling.
Angry—and incredibly beautiful.
A lifetime ago, she used to tremble that way when she lay in his arms. When he touched her. When he stroked her breasts, and her belly. When he moved between her silken thighs...
“Do you hear me, Chase Cooper? How do you think our daughter will feel, when she finds out her miracle is a bucket of hogwash?”
Chase frowned. “It isn’t as bad as that.”
“You’re right. It’s worse.”
“Look, I was just trying to help her.”
“Hah!”
“Okay, okay. Maybe I made a mistake, but—”
“Maybe?” Her voice shot up the scale, her eyebrows to her hairline. “Maybe you made a mistake?”
“The words just came out. I didn’t mean—”
“Can’t you even admit you were wrong?”
“I already did. I said maybe I made a mistake.”
Annie snorted. “You still don’t see it, do you! A ‘mistake’ is when a person forgets an appointment. Or dials a wrong number.”
“Or says something, in the heat of the moment, that he thinks might—”
“You lied, Chase. There’s a big difference. But I’m not surprised.”
Chase rose to his feet. “And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” Annie said coldly, and turned away.
“Dammit!” He grabbed her shoulder and swung her around to face him. “If there’s one thing I never could stand, it was that word. ‘Nothing,’ you always say, but even an idiot can tell you really mean ‘something.”
Annie smiled sweetly. “I’m happy to hear it.”
Dark color swept into his face. He clutched her tighter and leaned toward her.
“You’re pushing your luck, babe.”
“Why?” Her chin lifted. “What are you going to do, huh? Slug me?”
Annie saw Chase’s eyes narrow. What had made her say such a thing? They had quarreled, yes. Fought furiously with words. By the time they’d agreed to divorce, they’d hurled every possible bit of invective at each other.
But he’d never hit her. He’d never raised his hand to her. She’d never been afraid of him physically and she wasn’t now.
It was just that she was so angry. So enraged. He was, too. And just a little while ago, when he’d been mad and she’d been mad, he’d ended up hauling her into his arms and kissing her until her toes had tingled.
For Pete’s sake, woman, are you insane? Are you trying to tick him off so he’ll kiss you again?
She stiffened, then twisted out of his grasp.
“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” she said. She walked to the sofa and sat down. “I just wish I knew what to do next.”
“Why should we have to ‘do’ anything?” Chase said, sitting down in the chair.
“Dawn’s going to have such expectations...”
Chase sighed and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He put his head in his hands.
“year.”
“How could you? How could you tell her that?”
“I don’t know.” He straightened up and passed his hand over his face. “Exhaustion, maybe. I haven’t slept in—what year is this, anyway?”