Darker Than Night

52

Claire borrowed Maddy’s old Volvo and drove Jubal to LaGuardia for his flight to Chicago.

“Don’t think too much about me or the baby,” she told him as they walked toward the security area leading to the concourses. “Concentrate on the play.”

“That won’t be easy.” He was holding a black carry-on, which contained his laptop and a copy of the As Thy Love Thyself script. He sneaked a peek at his wristwatch, the way people do when they’re in a hurry.

“Good luck!” Claire said. Don’t go! Don’t leave!

Damn hormones!

He slung the carry-on’s thick strap over his shoulder and smiled at her, then kissed her, letting his lips linger. “Be careful driving home. Take the tunnel.”

“I always do. You be careful yourself. Love you.”

“Me, too.”

They kissed again, and then he was gone from her, striding toward the metal detector with the shortest line. He swerved to avoid a couple carrying an infant and trailing wheeled suitcases and a portable stroller laden with wadded blankets and a stuffed animal.

Us in less than a year.

Within a few minutes he was through security. He turned and waved to her, giving her another smile. Handsome actor. Colleague, lover, husband. She loved him so fiercely at that moment she was afraid she might break into sobs.

Goddamn hormones!

It’s worth it. It’s worth it.

The drive back to the apartment alone seemed to take forever. Then she spent another twenty minutes finding a parking space within two blocks of her building. Why Maddy even owned a car in Manhattan was beyond Claire.

To lend to needy friends—like me.

She wished she were thinking more clearly these days.

When she walked into the apartment, she immediately felt better. Balanced on the sofa back, where it would be clearly visible, was a large shrink-wrapped blueberry muffin from the nearby deli, the food that had become her vice during pregnancy. This one was particularly large, perhaps six inches across the top.

Jubal must have bought it earlier and stashed it, then sneaked it onto the sofa just before they left for LaGuardia. Yes, she’d walked out of the apartment first, and he’d followed with his luggage, then keyed the dead bolt.

Or had he stepped out into the hall first?

Claire couldn’t remember and soon gave up trying to reconstruct in her mind the sequence of their departure.

It didn’t matter. There was the muffin, his gift, his thoughtfulness.

There was his love for her.

The direct flight to Chicago had taken a little less than three hours. The carry-on strap was digging into Jubal’s shoulder with every step as he strode toward the point beyond security where people waited to greet incoming passengers. It hadn’t been an easy flight. An infant two seats in front of his had begun wailing during takeoff and only stopped occasionally to catch its breath so it could maintain volume. Concentrating on As Thy Love Thyself was impossible, so Jubal had put the script back in his carry-on and, despite the din, had dozed on the plane and was still slightly groggy.

He became more alert when he saw a slight, shapely woman leaning casually against a post with her arms crossed. Her posture was one of easy grace, one leg slightly bent at the knee so her pointed toe retained balance, her body elegantly curved. A dancer’s line. She was wearing tight blue slacks and an untucked white T-shirt snug over small, pointed breasts. Her blond hair was styled close to her head in a boy cut to emphasize her gamine features.

Dalia Hart.

She spotted Jubal and came alive with a glow. Grinning widely, she pushed away from the post she’d been leaning on and ran to greet him.

He let the carry-on drop to the floor and gathered her close in his arms.

She nuzzled the base of his neck, flicking with her tongue. “Glad to see me?”

“Understatement,” he said.

“I know,” she said through her smile. “I can feel it.”

He kissed her hello as fervently as he’d kissed Claire good-bye only hours ago in New York.