Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A door closed, and Jasmine twisted toward the hallway, expecting Derrick and Rabie to step in. Instead, Derrick passed without glancing her direction.

His door slammed.

Was he angry with Rabie or with her? Or had Michael called?

But Michael wanted to speak to her, so that couldn't be it.

Maybe Derrick had no desire to spend time with her, and for that, she couldn't blame him.

She checked the screen, but Basma still hadn't emailed.

Restless, Jasmine stood. The game pieces were still scattered on the floor, and she itched to pick them up if for no other reason than to have something to do. But she didn't. Derrick had told her she'd done the right thing with Rabie. Why give him another reason to be disappointed in her?

She'd cleaned the kitchen thoroughly already, and the house was spotless, not a speck of dust to be found. She added a log to the fire and used one of the tools beside it to get it burning, then watched as flames licked the wood, finally catching .

She wandered to the bookshelves but found nothing she wanted to read.

A long table behind the sectional caught her eye. Photographs had been artfully arranged, all of the same people at different ages, a family. There was one man, tall and dark-haired, like Derrick, though much older. He seemed familiar, somewhat like Dr. Wright—Roger, Derrick's father. Could this be a relative? Perhaps Derrick's uncle?

That made sense. Hadn't Derrick said something about an Uncle Gavin in the conversation she'd eavesdropped on the night before? This house must belong to him.

The rest of this branch of the Wright family was very different from Derrick's, though. The only one who seemed old enough to be Gavin's wife was tall with silvery-blond hair and blue eyes. There were five others, all women. Three had varying shades of blond hair, like their mother, one had brown hair, and one had dark red hair that Jasmine thought must not be natural. She found the photo she guessed was the most recent and tried to work out their ages. The one who looked the youngest was probably in her early twenties, tall and willowy. There were a number of photos of her, some on the deck of a boat, her long blond hair flying behind her with the wind. She seemed free and full of joy.

The middle three—she assumed as much, anyway—were pictured together often. Redhead, blonde, and brunette. She couldn't tell who was older or younger, only that they seemed close, always hugging or standing shoulder to shoulder, cheek to cheek, smiling at the camera.

Jasmine lifted a photo of the one who must be the oldest. She had her mother's silvery-blond hair and the slender figure of the youngest, though nobody would call her willowy. She was slender but somehow tough, like she could defend herself. Though she smiled in a few photographs, she never wore the joyful look of abandon Jasmine saw on her younger sisters' faces.

"That's Alyssa."

Jasmine jumped, swiveling toward the voice.

Derrick's gaze flicked to her stomach, and she yanked her hand away, shifting to set the photo down.

"Sorry. I was just… Sorry."

"No need to apologize. That's my cousin. Alyssa."

"She is the oldest, no?"

"How'd you know?"

Jasmine shrugged. "She just looks it."

"She's only a year older than her sister. Irish twins, Dad always called them."

"I guess it is how she holds herself," Jasmine said. "She has that protective look of an older sibling. A little tough. A little guarded."

Derrick studied the picture. "I can see that."

"This is your uncle's cabin, then. He resembles your father."

"You think?" Derrick looked at one of the photos of Gavin. "They're so different, but I guess I see what you mean." Derrick continued into the kitchen and grabbed a glass. "You want some water or tea or something? There might be some lemonade."

"Water, I guess."

He took a second glass. "Bring the computer. Let's sit in here." He nodded toward the round kitchen table by the bay windows.

She did, choosing a chair that would give her a view of the outside. The cushion was upholstered with a pretty yellow-and-blue plaid, which matched a vase of silk flowers in the center of the table.

Outside, the forest seemed to stretch forever.

"We are far from Washington, DC, here, are we not?"

Derrick set down her drink, along with a sleeve of crackers, and sat. "Sixty, seventy miles, but it feels like a long way. We're in West Virginia."

"We were in Virginia yesterday, right?"

"Right."

"These states are very small."

"They're bigger out west. We didn't get that deep into Virginia, either. Just skimmed the border."

"I see."

He nudged the crackers toward her. "I thought you might be hungry."

Thoughtful, as always. She was a little. She hadn't finished the donuts, which had been too sweet and too heavy. She took a couple of crackers and nibbled one.

He nodded to the laptop. "I guess Basma hasn't emailed?"

She glanced at the laptop, just in case, then shook her head. "Did Michael call?"

"Nope." He checked the watch he always wore, a hefty stainless steel one that had probably been expensive, not that she knew anything about men's watches. "Weird. He almost had me wake you up last night, and here it is, almost eleven, and nothing."

"He must be busy."

"I left him another message."

She took a cracker, broke it, and ate half.

"Are you pregnant?"

His question brought a gasp that had her inhaling cracker crumbs. She spluttered and coughed.

"Dang. Sorry. I shouldn't have…" He jumped up and hovered over her, his hand on her back. "What can I do? Are you okay?"

She sipped her water, coughed again. Trying to breathe. Trying to think. Because…

How in the world had Derrick guessed her secret ?

"What can I do?" he asked again. "Do you need?—?"

"I'm all right." Her voice was croaky and rough. She cleared her throat, sipped more water. It took a few moments, but when she thought she could talk, she tried again. "Really."

Derrick moved back to his seat. She was afraid to look at him, but when she did, his expression surprised her almost as much as his question had. In his eyes she saw not condemnation but kindness.

She felt the most amazing…tenderness. Gentleness and patience.

She couldn't bear it.

She turned away, staring out the window at the stark trees, bent by the wind. How lovely the sight would be in the summertime, all green and lush, the skeletal branches hidden by the foliage.

Even a layer of snow would add a hint of beauty. Not the ugly nakedness displayed there now.

"Jazz?"

"I was going to tell you." She forced herself to meet his eyes. "I decided last night I would tell you today."

Derrick's expression didn't waver. He held very still. Only his Adam's apple moved as he swallowed. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

She shrugged. "What is to tell? Your father says the baby is healthy."

Derrick's eyes squeezed shut. "Dad knows."

It wasn't a question, so she didn't say anything.

A moment passed, and then he said, "Michael knows."

Also not a question, but now Derrick opened his eyes and watched her.

She dipped her head.

By the way he winced, the acknowledgment had inflicted a wound.

"I did not tell him," she hurried to say. "He guessed, on your plane, on the way from Greece because I had been so sick. Even Leila hadn't realized."

Derrick rubbed his lips together, took a long breath. "That makes sense."

"And your father… I needed a doctor. I couldn't keep food down. Michael arranged for me to see him right after we arrived."

"You don't owe me an explanation."

"But you are my friend."

"I thought I was."

Tears stung, and she turned, ashamed of them. Ashamed of herself. Just…ashamed. She covered her face with her hands, wishing for a better hiding place.

The chair scraped, and she was sure Derrick was going to walk away.

But he brushed his hand over her hair. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I shouldn't have said that." He scooted the chair closer and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "Forgive me. Please."

"You did nothing wrong." She wiped her tears and forced her hands to her lap. He was so close that his breath warmed her cheek. "You are always kind."

He gazed beyond her, out the windows. "You can talk to me about…whatever. I'm happy to listen. If you want to talk about how it happened, or…" He seemed to struggle, then forced out, "the…father, I can?—"

"I do not." She ducked out from under his arm and leaned away.

"Um… Okay. I was just wondering if maybe…" Derrick looked stricken—as if she'd slapped him. And knocked him over. And then kicked him. "Is he the reason you don't… You're not…?" Derrick took a breath. "Did you love him very much? Do you?—?"

"Stop." She stood and backed up. "I do not wish to talk about him. Or this. I cannot."

"I'm sorry." He shoved his fingers through his hair, and she felt terrible.

She should tell him everything. It was only shame that kept her quiet, but not telling him would make this worse.

She was a coward.

Courage, Lord. I need courage to speak. And the words to say, please. And…

"Yasamin?"

She spun at the sound of her Iraqi name.

Rabie stood in the middle of the kitchen, gaze flicking between her and Derrick. "I'm sorry I was mean." He spoke in English, adding, "I'm supposed to ask you if it's okay that I'm sorry or something." He turned to Derrick. "I forget what you said."

Derrick cleared his throat. "Yeah, uh. You say, ‘Will you forgive me?' Basically, you're giving her the option to accept your apology or not."

Rabie focused on Jasmine again and spoke with great solemnity. "If I clean up the mess, will you forgive me?"

"Yes." She forced a smile, dropping to her knees. "Yes, of course I will. Can I have a hug?"

He moved into her arms, and she held on tight.

She had done this right. This one thing, with this one child who didn't belong to her. Maybe it meant she wouldn't mess up her own child too badly, the way she'd messed up her friendship with Derrick.

If she could be a good mother, maybe her child could be more like him and Leila and the rest of the Wrights. Perhaps, if she could be very, very smart and very, very wise, her child could be worthy of love.