Tracy

063:

         

063:

He hefted the chainsaw, looking suspiciously like a work hardened, glove wearing, heavily booted lumber jack, and set it on another downed tree, as he stomped through the debris they'd created.

Her heart hammered at his approach. This was a bad time, the music was swirling, the current building. We can talk about the cabin, she thought frantically. We can discuss the filming-- nothing personal, nothing---

He plopped himself on the ground next to her rock, and leaned his elbows on his bent knees. "Prettiest place on the planet." He murmured, looking at the reflective lake, the drifting clouds, over snow-capped peaks in the distance.

She didn't-- couldn't-- say anything.

His eyes strayed briefly to hers, and then back out at the view and at Danny who had ignored his approach. "Did you see that heron?" He pointed and Tracy looked, compelled by his simple magnetism. Her mouth had gone dry as the breeze wafted his exertion her way.

She swallowed hard. Which was a mistake. The nausea rose up like a pigeon, fluttering, and pulsing and throbbing until it gagged her and she leaped up, ran a few steps away and threw up in the bumpy, tufty grass.

Richard did not follow her, thank God.

She had nothing to wipe her mouth on except her sleeve, and was about to when his white shirt came sailing into her hands. It stunk like him, but somehow, suddenly didn't bother her as much. So she wiped and then held it up to show him she'd keep it.

"Have you considered the very real possibility that you are not as sick with a virus as you keep claiming?" He asked in that resigned way he had these days, ever since she'd rebuffed his desire to keep her warm at night.

"Yes." She replied, pursing her lips as she regained the rock with relief. Her body felt heavy and cumbersome, not her own. As if she'd known from the first puking session.

He grunted, shaking his head out to the lake, that small smile playing secretly across his very sculpted lips. She could see every pore in his cheeks, every place the facial hair sprouted, trimmed enigmatically for the film.

"How is that going to fit into your plans?"

She gagged down residual foulness, and Richard hung his head.

"Yes." She breathed slowly to calm her troubled stomach, wishing he were far away and not judging her unfavorably. "It shouldn't interfere in your film."

"That's not what I was thinking." He rested his head on his crossed arms and peered at her intently. Then he slowly dug in his jeans pocket and came back with half a stick of torn chewing gum. Tracy almost gagged again, but this time, recognized the thought doing it not the smell. She gingerly accepted it, unwrapped it, and forced herself to chew thoughtfully. The relief was palpable. Her nausea dissipated as if it had a current of its own. He looked back at the lake.

"What were you thinking?"

"You, the film, the tour with Casey, the very real possibility you might inherit another child, perhaps one in need of startling medical attention. Husband gone on deployment, nobody to help. For someone as amazingly connected as you are, you seem to have a noticeable lack of family around to support you. Peppermint and red raspberry leaf might help you with that puking thing. Eat frequently, small meals, don't let your stomach get empty. Get more rest."

Tracy let her eyes slide to his.

"I know you don't sleep. It's written all over your face. I thought for a while it had to do with your decision to marry and your follow up with that. But now, I think, as I originally did that you are cold." He eyed her for possible misunderstanding.

She chose to take it the way he intended. "How do you know anything about morning sickness?"

He shrugged. "Before my druggie days, and my acting days, I fancied myself an OBGYN. Once upon a time ago." But something in the way he said it made her stare closely at his perspiring forehead. Something self-deprecating, condemning, something about himself he found repulsive.

"What happened to the girl you and your gang raped?" She asked bluntly.

*****