Beauty from Love (Beauty 3)

I use Addison’s little nappy time to step out and see Jack Henry since it’s been hours. I’m surprised, or rather shocked, when I find him in a civil conversation with Ben. I think they’re discussing work from the little bit I hear—something about vineyards and the management of them depending upon the location. Chloe sees me before they do and shrugs, giving me a baffled look. I want to eavesdrop, just to see what they’re talking about, but Jack Henry looks over and sees me. “Hey. How’s it going in there?”

“Better now, but it was really bad for a while. She’s four centimeters, got an epidural, and is comfortable. She’s napping.”

“Are you scared now?”

Hell, yeah. I’m terrified. “I was scared before but what I just saw confirms that there’s reason to be and she hasn’t even had the baby yet. It’s going to be rough, McLachlan.”

“You’re tough as nails, L. I have faith in you.”

It takes the better part of the morning for Addison to get to ten centimeters—thirteen hours from the start—but we’re told that’s about average. Next comes the fun part: pushing this child out of her body. He’s thirty-six weeks’ gestation so technically, he’s still considered a preterm infant. Surely, he can’t be too big if he’s almost a month early, right?

“Ten centimeters is my cue to go, Addie.”

“You’re leaving me because you’re a chickenshit and don’t want to see what’s about to happen.”

Probably. “This time belongs to you and Zac.”

I lean down to hug her before I leave. “I’m scared, Laurie.”

“No fear. You’re gonna rock this.”

I join Addie’s family and Jack Henry in the waiting room and we wait for an excruciating ninety minutes before we’re allowed back.

We enter Addie’s room and the most beautiful baby boy in the world rests in her arms. He’s red and wrinkly, and screaming because he’s pissed off—how fitting for Addison’s child. Zac is leaning over kissing Addison’s face, telling her how much he loves her, and I get a glimpse of the happiness Jack Henry and I are going to feel when James Henry or Maggie James arrives. I can not wait.

Addison turns her son around for us to see and Zac announces, “Donavon Zachary Kingston arrived at eleven forty-one, weighing six pounds, two ounces, measuring nineteen inches.”

Yeah. Addison got her way on her son’s name, but I never doubted she would.

30

Mrs. Porcelli has the week off so this morning, I’m eating a lovely country breakfast my wife has cooked for me—bacon, biscuits, and gravy made just the way Nanna taught her. My wife is quite the little cook but then again, she’s good at everything she does.

It’s funny how she never used to get out of bed before I left for work, but now she’s up with me every morning. I think it’s the pregnancy playing tricks on her, or maybe preparing her body for less sleep since she’s thirty-two weeks now. Only eight more to go—if she reaches her due date. Either way, she still crashes midafternoon, so her body is still getting the rest it needs.

I’m finishing my last bite when L’s phone rings—her mom’s ringtone. They’ve spoken very little since Laurelyn was in the hospital, and I don’t have a problem with that. Jolie Prescott rarely has anything positive to say.

She looks at the phone and I think she’s debating if she’ll answer. “I wonder what it will be this time.”

“You don’t have to answer it. I certainly wouldn’t think less of you.”

“I always worry something has happened to Nanna or Pops. They’re the only reason I answer most of the time.” She picks up her phone. “Hi, Mom.”

Laurelyn motions for me to leave my dishes as I gather and take them to the sink to rinse before placing them in the dishwasher. I know she doesn’t mind doing that for me, and maybe it even makes her feel more domestic when she does. I’ve often pondered how she feels about having Mrs. Porcelli here taking care of our home—if it’s an intrusion into her role as my wife or if she’s happy she’s freed up from household demands so she may devote her days to composing, rather than laundry.

I close the dishwasher door and see Laurelyn grab the kitchen counter for support. “When?”

I reach for her, afraid her legs will give beneath her, and assume the worst—that something has happened to one of her beloved grandparents. I steer her toward a barstool and she sits, placing her elbow on the counter and propping her head in her palm, pushing her hair away from her face. She leaves it there, her hand holding her head. “That’s all the information they’re releasing?”

She ends the call with her mum and looks at me, saying nothing. “What’s happened?”

“What have you done?”

I’m baffled as to what she’s talking about. “What do you mean?”

“Blake Phillips was found dead this morning—a gunshot to the chest.”

And she assumes I had something to do with it? “Are you asking me if I had Blake killed?”

“Yes.”

I can’t believe she thinks I’m capable of something like that. I’ve had lots of thoughts about it, and maybe even insinuated I’d like to, but I’d never be able to take someone’s life. “What kind of person do you take me for?”

“One who loves his wife and would take care of the man who attacked her and got away with it. And one who asked me for a no questions asked.”

That’s what this is about. “I had some things I was working on where Blake was concerned, but I had no part in his death.”

“I want to know what you were doing.”

I guess the no questions asked is null and void now. “Jim went to Nashville when I found out the charges against Blake were being dropped. I was going out of my mind because he was going to get away with what he did to you, so I wanted to find another way to make him pay. If he didn’t do time for attacking you, I was going to ruin him any way possible.”

“What did Jim find?”

She’s going to be sick all over again when I tell her what we know. “You weren’t the only one Blake attacked. He raped a young woman last fall while you were dating. She was being represented by Blake and suddenly dropped off the grid, leaving the music industry. It seems there’s a pattern of that with his female clients so Jim took a closer look. He located a few of the women but none would talk—until Hannah Dody.”