33 The Return of Bowie Bravo Read Online Free PDF Page A

closet. All so damn tasteful, wallpapered in blue- and-white stripes, with sheer curtains and antique furniture that had probably been in the Rossi family—in that very house—for generations. He thought of Glory and Matteo sharing the big four-poster mahogany bed and then decided not to think about that.
    She’d been happy with him, that was what mattered. He’d made her happy and he’d been good to Johnny. And he’d left her well set up when that sudden rock slide hit his car last summer and rolled him right off the road into the river gorge way below.
    “There are going to be fluids,” Glory said.
    He didn’t know whether to laugh—or run down the stairs and out the front door and never again let himself even consider coming back to the Flat and trying to make things right. “Good to know.”
    “We need a sheet of something plastic to protect the mattress.”
    “A shower curtain?”
    “Good. The curtain liner in Johnny’s bathroom is plastic.” She pointed. “It’s across the hall.”
    He ran in there and started ripping the inner curtain liner off the hooks, aware in a distant sort of way of the clothes hamper by the door with the leg of a pair of boy’s jeans hanging out of it, of the bright plastic toys in the corner bin, of the jungle mural on the wall across from the old-fashioned claw-foot tub.
    The task should have been simple, but the curtain hooks didn’t seem to want to let go.
    “Bowie?” Glory called from across the landing.
    “I’m coming!” After forever, he had the damn thing free. He dragged it out of the bathroom and across the hall.
    “About time,” said Glory. She was kneeling in the sitting area, her head on a chair, a hand under the giant curve of her belly. “I was starting to wonder if you’d decided to have a shower while you were in there.…”
    “Sorry, I…”
    She put up a hand. He knew from her expression that another one was starting. He dropped the curtain liner, checked the time on the watch and went to kneel beside her.
    One hour later, the phone was still out and the snow was still coming down. No one had come to their rescue—not Brett and Angie, not Rose, not Chastity. Bowie had already volunteered to go down the block knocking on doors to see if anyone was around who might be able to help.
    Glory had grabbed his hand. “If you leave right now, I will curse you until the day you die.”
    So he’d stayed. He’d found the place in one of her pregnancy books that told what to do in an emergency delivery.
    He’d followed the instructions to the letter, stripping the bed and covering it with the plastic, and then covering the plastic with an old sheet. Between contractions, he’d coaxed Glory into the bathroom for a quick shower and then had her put on a T-shirt with nothing on under it.
    She hadn’t put up any argument about being pretty much naked in front of him. It wasn’t like that, not in the least. It was just about doing the job of getting her baby born. Getting through it with both her and the baby safe and well.
    He’d washed his hands thoroughly. And more than once, too.
    He had two stacks of towels ready and another of clean, ironed receiving blankets from the baby’s room. And ice chips. Between contractions, he’d bolted downstairs to the kitchen and gotten them for her, like the book said, so she could keep hydrated.
    Every contraction had been timed and recorded—just in case a miracle happened and Brett showed up before the actual delivery and wanted the numbers on how far her labor had progressed. The contractions kept getting longer and closer together. And while they were happening, Bowie spoke soothingly to her, just like the book said. He comforted her and reassured her, per the instructions.
    She continued to swear a blue streak and scream like it was the end of the world. She also clutched his hand so hard that she almost cut off the circulation to his fingers.
    Now and then, when she wasn’t screaming, when things settled