Hide & Seek - James Patterson [38]
Let me count the ways that I was learning to love Patrick.
There was the way he reminded me, nearly every day, that I was very special, a worthwhile person. I began to believe it for the first time in my life.
There was the way Patrick set out to learn everything about the kind of music I wrote and sang, and how he came to understand and appreciate it better than most music writers for Rolling Stone and Spin.
There was the way he and Jennie could talk about anything and everything; and the way the three of us could do the same.
There was the way in which he surprised and delighted me with his stories, his wit, his insights.
In fact, during the first half year we were together, the only troubling point wasn’t about us—it was Patrick’s son. Peter was a genuine bastard—the opposite of his father. Peter tried to take over his father’s company during that period, but he failed. Patrick mourned his failure with Peter, what he called, his loss of his only son.
Which was a good segue for me, I was thinking one afternoon in Bedford. If there could be a segue for this—
This was so hard, so very difficult for me. I was absolutely petrified. I sighed, got myself as ready as I’d ever be, and then said.
“We’re going to have a baby, Patrick.”
We were sitting in the living room in Bedford. I was about ready to show. Show, I figured—and therefore tell. We had used discretion and protection, but somehow I got pregnant anyway.
Even though I was an “artist” and “music person,” I was traditional at heart and the pregnancy shook me to my roots. I told Jennie immediately. She said, “You love Patrick and he loves you. I love you both. I’m happy we’re pregnant.” That helped me a lot.
Now, Patrick’s face registered a half-dozen emotions: amazement, shock, consternation, worry, doubt—but then—joy. Fabulous, unmistakable joy. The smile that I loved so much.
“When’s the baby due? My God, tell me everything, Maggie.”
“Five months, twelve days. Doctor Gamache didn’t specify the hour.”
He was smiling very broadly now. He held both my hands. “Boy or girl?”
“A boy, according to the amniocentesis. Allie? Do you like that name?”
“It’s a lovely name.” He shook his head in wonder. “I’m very happy about it, Maggie. I couldn’t possibly be happier. Have I told you lately how much I love you?” He continued to grin.
“Yes,” I whispered, “but tell me again. I never get tired of hearing it.”
And that night, with a vividness I thought had long ago disappeared, I remembered. I remembered him.
Phillip returned to try and spoil everything.
He was drunk, as he often was. He could barely walk. He barged in the front door, yelling my name, and I cowered in the kitchen, not answering him, even when he was only a few feet away.
He had been so different when we’d first met in New-burgh. He’d been an officer and a gentleman, a scholar as well. He had swept me off my nineteen-year-old feet. I had been so needy, so alone. How could I have known that his role as professor frustrated him; that he’d joined the army to fight, but had been ordered to teach instead. He had to follow those orders, and was determined that I follow his.
“When I call you, you say, ‘Yes, Phillip,’ ” he pronounced with a superior smirk.
“Not when you’re like this. No, Phillip. Not with me. Not ever.”
The back of his hand slashed across my mouth. “Whenever I call, you say, Yes, Phillip,’ ” he repeated.
I said nothing. His wire-rimmed glasses were crooked on his nose. He looked like the effete snob that he was so afraid of being.
“Maggie,” he said softly, ominously.
I didn’t answer. His hand rose again, this time a fist. He wasn’t powerfully built, but he outweighed me by sixty pounds.
“Yes, Phillip, fuck you,” I said. I don’t swear like that, but I did then.
“What? What did you say, woman? What the hell did I just hear?”
“You heard me.”
He stood stock-still. Then he leered. “Okay,” he said, “let’s fuck”
He lunged for me, swaying drunkenly. I ran up the back stairs to the attic, and