He drew a deep breath, got in the truck and drove back to the cabin.
Bethica was in the bathroom, throwing up. Looking around, he couldn’t blame her. He put the bags down and began putting chairs right side up. It was going to be a very, very long night.
Ten minutes later, Bethica was still in the bathroom throwing up, the most noxious part of the cleanup job was out of the way, and Sam wanted to wash his hands. He tapped on the door.
“Bethica? You okay in there?” The sound of retching made him gag in sympathy.
“Yeah,” she said in a faint and completely unconvincing voice. The toilet flushed. The door opened three inches, and she peered up at him. She didn’t look well. “I tried to clean the rug and ... I think I’m going to be sick again.”
It was essential to save her dignity. It was even more essential to let her get back to the toilet. “Don’t let me stop you,” he said hastily.
Bethica staggered back, swinging the door open, and lunged for the bowl again. Sam followed her, keeping an eye on her as he scrubbed at his hands. From the looks of it, she’d managed to get the bathroom sparkling before succumbing to nausea; he was pretty sure he’d had to shave around water streaks on the mirror that morning. The pink razor, soap, and loofah were all gone, he noticed.
Finally his hands were raw from scrubbing. Bethica was still clinging to the bowl.
“Hey, are you sure you’re okay?” He got down on one knee beside her and lifted her head, cautiously. She was pale and red eyed and her face was streaked with tears, and she looked nothing like the practical woman who had started cleaning up while he went shopping. He looked around, scrabbled one handed in a drawer underneath the sink, and found a clean washcloth, soaking it in cold water.
“Hey there.” He washed her face clean with the impersonal efficiency and expertise of a good nurse, and she burst into tears again.
If Al was going to show up, he thought, it would be right now, to see him sitting on the bathroom floor with a teenage girl in his arms, crying her heart out. He’d either make some snide crack or overflow with sympathy. Maybe both. Simultaneously. Meanwhile, the best he could do was try to soothe the girl and figure out how to get them out of the bathroom.
“Sorry,” she said at last, straightening up and making a valiant effort to pretend she’d never cried at all. “I don’t know why it got to me like that. I used to have to clean up after Davey all the time. I guess it’s just the idea anybody would do such a thing.” She sniffled, and despite herself a line of tears escaped and threaded down her cheek. “I’m
really sorry he did this, Wickie. Really. He has no right to treat you this way.”
She shook her head back and forth, blonde hair flying. She didn’t hold up well, he decided. Some women shed beautiful tears, elegant, long suffering, perfect for a follow spot in the movies. Bethica snuffled. Sam gave up.
“It’s disgusting,” he agreed, “but it’s not your fault. Are you sure you’re okay?” He scrubbed fresh tear tracks away, and she sat there and let him, like a little girl, not a teenager only a few years younger than he—Wickie—was. He took the opportunity to check her face for bruises—he still didn’t believe her claim that Kevin didn’t hit her—but found none.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she said, beginning to look around. He moved back so she could stand. “It’s such a mess. It just hit me so hard—”
“That can happen when you’re pregnant,” Sam said without thinking. “It’s normal. Your hormones are out of whack.”
Bethica’s head snapped around so fast he had an instant of worry for her neck. “What did you say?”
He opened his mouth to repeat himself and then paused, reviewing unconscious cues. “How long has it been since you had your period?”
The look on her face reminded him that Wickie Starczynski was no doctor, and the question was probably far more intimate than Wickie’s relationship with his boss’s niece warranted. Chagrined, he tried to apologize. “I mean, you are pregnant, aren’t you?”
She shook her head and blew her nose, took a deep breath, and got up without looking at him. “That’s . .. that’s none of your business.”
She didn’t know, he realized abruptly. She had no idea she was pregnant. She probably thought she was just late, or skipped a period. His eyes narrowed again: maybe two periods. Those jeans were getting tight.
But there was nothing in the information he had so far that indicated Bethica’s pregnancy had anything to do with anything. He sighed. “You’re right, it isn’t. Look, Bethica, I really appreciate your help here, but I think you’d better get home—”
It was the wrong thing to say. He followed her back into the kitchen to dig through the grocery sacks for the Kleenex, borrowing one to blow his nose while he was at it—something in the air was making his nose run and his eyes water and itch.
In the act of turning to throw the tissue away he paused. An odd, scraping sound was coming from the living room; Bethica, who was standing at the sink wringing out a sponge, didn’t appear to hear it.
If Kevin had come back—
He moved as silently as possible to the door and stuck his head around the frame.
At first the room appeared empty. He stepped into the doorway.
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
Scrape.
The sound drew his gaze downward, to a small, chubby grey tabby kitten who seemed to feel that the rug shampooer hadn’t done an adequate job. She sniffed again at the rug, curled her lip.
Scrape. Scrape.
“Achoo!”
Sam wasn’t sure who was more startled by his sneeze, but judging by the reaction, the kitten won by a long margin; she levitated straight up, came
