Royal Affair

by Laurie Paige

  Emma had been pretty down on life for a while. She’d had two miscarriages during her marriage, then she’d gone through the divorce, then she’d lost her job. Thank God Morgan had offered her a position helping him with the summer camp for older kids who hadn’t been adopted. It had given them a chance to get to know each other…and to fall in love.

  The two men, who had met when the rancher had adopted his little boy through the agency, shook hands. Emma and Hunter exchanged greetings.

  “Em, are you coming to help with the babies tomorrow morning?” Ivy asked after the foursome had chatted awhile.

  “Uh, I’m not sure,” she said, and cast her husband a worried glance.

  Morgan dropped an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “I’m trying to get her to slow down,” he said with a quiet smile. “Given her history, we think it would be better if she curtailed her activities for a few months.”

  Ivy knew the couple was trying to start a family. “I understand.”

  She had news of her own, but she refrained from saying anything since they were in company and might be overheard. She needed to ask Em’s advice on what she should do. More and more, that night with Max seemed unreal, the product of a fevered brain.

  “We only have three new babies this week,” she told Emma when her friend apologized for not helping.

  “Are you talking about the adoptive babies here at the agency?” Hunter asked.

  “No, at the hospital nursery. We’re rocking them.” Ivy shook her head sadly. “We have two more crack babies going through drug withdrawal. If we rock and cuddle them almost continuously during the early months, they stand a much better chance of being normal kids.”

  Nancy Allen, an E.R. nurse from Portland General, stopped near them. “The more rocking, the better,” she said, nodding in agreement to Ivy’s observation.

  Ivy introduced the nurse. “Nancy also volunteers at the nursery. Once we took turns rocking a crying baby for twenty hours straight. All of us, including the baby, got about two hours’ sleep during the whole ordeal.”

  “Now that child is a healthy one-year-old and already walking,” Nancy reported. “By the way, I assume everyone knows Everett Baker.”

  She took the hand of the man who stood a couple of steps behind her and urged him into the group circle. Ivy recognized him as the accountant of Children’s Connection, a shy man with dark hair and eyes, about five-ten, same age as Hunter and Morgan, in his midthirties.

  Although she’d seen him around the agency during the past six months, she couldn’t remember ever doing more than nod as they passed in the corridors.

  The men shook hands while the women smiled and murmured in welcome to the newcomer.

  “Are the crack babies hard to place?” Everett asked.

  Morgan nodded. “The hardest,” he admitted. “We have to tell the adoptive parents of the problems they may face.”

  The accountant looked interested. “Like what?”

  Everett brushed his hair off his forehead as he spoke, a nervous gesture, Ivy thought, recalling she’d seen him do it at other times.

  “Emotional instability, for one,” Morgan said.

  “Sometimes mental retardation,” Nancy added with pity in her hazel eyes.

  “Sometimes,” Morgan agreed, “but the biggest problem seems to be the attention-deficit syndrome. That gets them into trouble in school and adds to their disadvantages.”

  “So, prospective parents, knowing about the drugs, don’t want these babies?” Everett brushed the hair aside again.

  Morgan nodded. “Sadly, yes.”

  Hunter spoke up. “I can identify with that. It’s hard enough being a parent without taking on more problems. But what happens to these kids if nobody takes them?”

  Ivy felt sorry for Morgan, who as director had to make the hard decisions about these children. A fierce surge of maternal concern flooded her body, causing her to cross her arms over her waist in a protective gesture.

  Morgan shrugged. “The usual. Foster homes under the overworked guidance of the city social services unit—out on the street and on their own when they turn eighteen, unless they’re hopelessly retarded, in which case it’s institutions or group homes.”

  “That seems so heartless,” Ivy murmured.

  Emma and the nurse both nodded.

  “Sometimes people will take any child, no questions asked, just to get one,” Everett said. “Older couples. Desperate ones.”

  “Not from this agency,” Morgan declared firmly. “Nasty surprises for unsuspecting adoptive parents are not in the best interests of the children, not in the long run.”

  For some reason, Ivy looked back at Everett to see how he would rebut this statement. When the accountant realized everyone was looking at him, he dropped his gaze to the floor and shrugged in an embarrassed manner.

  A thought came to Ivy and she spoke without considering the words. “Were you adopted, Everett?”

  He visibly jerked, then shook his head in vigorous denial. “No, not me. I was never adopted.”

  She wondered if he wished he had been and thought his home life might have been difficult. Perhaps he’d had alcoholic parents. Or abusive ones. More likely they were accountants or librarians or something, considering how quiet and reserved he was.

  She nodded and smiled, then glanced at Hunter. “I suppose, since we’re the hosts, we should circulate and thank everyone for coming out and buying stuff they don’t need so this event will be a success.”

  “I have this theory about charity sales and such,” Morgan said in a cheerful manner, sweeping a hand out to include the tables piled high with brownies, cakes, aprons, pot holders and other goodies on sale. “It goes along with the fruitcake theory.”

  Ivy played the straight man. “What’s that?”

  “There are at most only ten fruitcakes and they get circulated around the country at Christmas,” he explained. “The donated stuff we have here gets sold again and again at different bazaars until it’s circulated all over town, probably once every five or ten years.”

  “Yeah,” Hunter said with great seriousness, but a twinkle in his eyes, “that sounds about right. A friend and I kept up with the ugliest urn we ever saw at a church fund-raiser one time. That was the second time it had been there that we personally knew of. Sure enough, it turned up again at the same church three years later, then six or seven years after that I saw it at another charity event. I felt so bad about the poor thing, I bought it for my grandmother. It’s still at the ranch with roses growing all over it so nobody can see it.”

  Ivy laughed with the others at this happy-ending tale, then she and Hunter roamed from table to table and thanked the donors and the buyers for taking part.

  By the time they helped close the place down, it was almost midnight. Driving home through the pleasantly cool September night, she realized she was tired. It wasn’t something she usually noticed. She tended to keep going until the job was finished.

  Tomorrow she would sleep until eight, then head for the hospital to cuddle the two crack babies for three hours, then she was to meet her sister for lunch.

  A shiver slid down her back. Should she tell Katie about the pregnancy? Yes. It would become self-evident in a short time, so there was no need for secrecy, especially with her family.

  Not that her father or mother would notice until she hit them over the head with it, so to speak. Jack and his second wife, Toni, once his assistant at the office, hung out with the retired golf-and-country-club set. Sheila, Ivy’s mother, had her own crowd and spent part of the year in Palm Springs. She often returned to Portland with a new youthful look, thanks to spas and the skill of the plastic surgeons in southern California.

  When she got home, Ivy poured a glass of low-fat milk and ate a banana before heading for bed. She figured she should start eating regularly instead of forgetting herself in work. Also, she should eat healthier foods and cut back on the jalapeño peppers she loved. Probably they were bad for the baby.

/>   For a moment, she experienced a lowering of her spirits as she realized just how little she knew about babies and prenatal care.

  A baby. Oh, heavens!

  Max, where are you when I need you?

  “Max Hughes,” she said aloud. “That’s the man I mean, not the prince.”

  But, she realized, that man—Max Hughes, the wonderful companion-friend-lover—had never existed.

  No matter. She had her siblings, Katie and Trent, Danny, too, although their younger brother was mostly a recluse in Hawaii. She had friends such as Emma and her new husband. All these would provide family and role models for her child.

  Her spirits rebounded a bit.

  “I just hate for babies to be hurt,” Nancy Allen said when Ivy entered the nursery the next morning promptly at nine. The E.R. nurse held two tiny, squalling tots, one on her shoulder and the other lying prone in her lap. Her short brown hair swung out around her face as she shook her head in disgust.

  Ivy took the baby from the other woman’s lap and, crooning softly, settled in a rocking chair and cuddled it close as she rocked and hummed to it. After fifteen minutes, the baby girl settled down. When she tried to get her fist to her mouth, Ivy helped her get it in place. The child sucked contentedly and dozed off.

  Nancy got the baby she held to sleep, laid him in the rolling bassinet and lifted a ten-month-old baby who was staring fretfully at the ceiling. Like Ivy, she cuddled the infant and hummed, then played patty-cake and other games to engage the youngster’s interest and get it to interact with people.

  “I read that there seems to be a link between autism and allergies to wheat and/or dairy products,” Nancy said in a low tone when both babies were asleep.

  Ivy nodded. “I saw the article, too. Also that some immunization shots might be a factor.”

  “I know that some people are against any genetic alterations, but if we could identify and correct these problems before the child spends a lifetime in misery, wouldn’t that be better?”

  “It would seem so,” Ivy said honestly. “It seems a shame not to help those we can. But what do you do with parents who want their child to be a genius or tall enough to be a basketball player?”

  “That’s where the problem comes in,” Nancy agreed. “Where do we draw the line?”

  The door to the nursery opened and Everett Baker came in, looking a bit sheepish. “Uh, I thought I would see if I could, uh, help.” He brushed the stubborn lock off his forehead and looked as if he might bolt at a harsh word.

  “Of course you can,” Nancy told him. “Sit right here. I’ll get you a baby.” She went into the adjacent room.

  Ivy smiled warmly as Everett took the rocking chair. He smiled back, then looked at the floor. Bashful. Poor guy.

  “Here you are.” Nancy bustled in with a sleepy baby wrapped in pink. “Isn’t she adorable?”

  Ivy saw the nurse had given Everett one of the “good” babies, one who smiled and cooed at the slightest encouragement. In for some tests, she was due to go home with her parents on Monday.

  “Yeah,” he said, staring at the child with an uncertain expression.

  Nancy grinned at Ivy, then showed him how to hold the baby on his lap so she could look into his face. “Smile at her,” she ordered.

  Everett did. The baby gave a big, drooly smile back. He looked amusingly surprised at the response. His shoulders relaxed and his smile became real.

  “See? She likes you,” Nancy said, beaming. She checked the schedule, then prepared bottles for Ivy’s and Everett’s two, then one for a third baby, whom she brought into the comforting room, as they called it.

  Together the three rocked and fed the infants. The only sound was the whisper of the filtered air from the overhead vents and the sucking noises of three little rosebud mouths. Ivy sighed contentedly.

  As soon as Everett’s little girl was finished, he rose from the chair. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Put the baby in her crib in the other room,” Nancy directed. “Thanks for coming by. That was a big help.”

  He followed directions, then hastily left.

  “What is it about teeny little babies that frightens grown men out of their wits?” she demanded.

  The two women laughed. Ivy wondered how Max would be with children. Would he be at ease with them? Would he hold their child? Talk and play silly games to socialize him or her?

  A playboy prince interested in home and hearth? She wished.

  Pain sliced right through her middle, cutting her heart in two. How could she have been so stupid?

  “Ivy! How could you have been so careless?” Katie demanded, her eyebrows rising in shock behind her glasses. She hooked a lock of thick, sun-kissed hair behind her ear.

  “I know,” Ivy said, admitting to the madness of the moment. “I don’t understand it myself.”

  The two women were sitting on Ivy’s patio, eating chicken-salad-stuffed tomatoes. Katie was on a diet—she’d already lost over thirty pounds—and Ivy didn’t want to ruin her efforts. They idly watched golfers tee off at the fifteenth hole while joggers loped along the trail next to the creek.

  “Are you thinking of abortion?”

  Ivy shook her head adamantly. “I want the baby, although I do wonder if I’m being selfish in having it and not providing a father.”

  “Do you think, if he knew, he would want marriage?”

  Ivy shook her head again.

  “It’s his child, too,” Katie reminded her, a ring of indignation in the words. “Men should take responsibility for their families.”

  To her horror, tears flooded Ivy’s eyes.

  “Oh, honey, I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.” Katie patted her arm and looked concerned. “Tell the father. He should know.”

  “He might not want to know,” Ivy admitted grimly. “Why would a globe-trotting prince, soon to be king, care about the result of a one-night stand?”

  “Prince, king, playboy, whatever, he’s the father,” Katie said firmly. “If you can’t bring yourself to contact him, I certainly have no qualms about it.”

  “Oh, no, please don’t! Not yet,” Ivy added in a calmer tone. “I have a doctor’s appointment next week. Just to be sure. Then I’ll…maybe I’ll call him.”

  Hi, Max, it’s your one-night stand. Guess what?

  Maybe he wouldn’t even remember her.

  Hello, Max. It’s Ivy.

  Ivy who?

  The dreadful scenarios played out in her mind like snippets from a horror movie. “I have to think about it,” she now said to her sister. “When I’m sure.”

  “Whatever you want to do about the baby, I’m behind you a hundred percent.”

  “Thanks. I’m okay,” Ivy insisted, blinking foolish tears away. She felt young and stupid in comparison to Katie’s calm manner.

  Only a year older than Ivy, Katie was vice president of research and development at Crosby Systems. She had a degree from Stanford University. Everyone knew she was a “brain.”

  Ivy had tried to pattern herself after her older sister so that she would be seen as more than the baby of the family. So, here she was, single and pregnant. She hated to bring gossip down on her siblings.

  There was also the question of what her parents were going to say. She could imagine her mother’s fury. Sheila liked to cause all the scandal in the family—

  Ivy broke the traitorous thought. She was the one in trouble here. She’d better concentrate on that.

  “You cut your hair,” Katie suddenly said. “I just realized you don’t have it up in a ponytail the way you usually do. It’s gone!”

  “I…I was tired of it.”

  Don’t ever cut your hair, Max had said in an imperious voice, running his hands through the wavy mass and fanning it out on the pillow.

  Just before they made love for the third time.

  She managed to stifle the groan that nearly escaped her. Going in for a haircut the other day, she’d impulsively told the stylist to cut it all off.

 
“I like it short,” Katie said with a smile. “You look like a mischievous cherub with all those golden curls around your face and those big blue eyes.”

  This time Ivy did groan. “That’s exactly what I was aiming for,” she muttered sarcastically.

  Her sister yawned and stood. “I have reports to read before a meeting on Monday. Take care of yourself. Don’t worry about anything. Trent and I will be here for you. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Thanks, Katie. No wonder you’re my favorite sister.”

  “I’m your only sister,” Katie dutifully reminded her.

  This was an old joke, stemming from a time when nine-year-old Ivy had told ten-year-old Katie she was her least favorite sister. Katie had taunted her by saying, “I’m your only sister, dummy, so that makes me your favorite, too.”

  “Does not!”

  “Does so!”

  “Does not!”

  Their mother had broken up the argument by telling them to shut up, she had a headache.

  The fight had ended with the girls sticking their tongues out at each other and crossing their eyes, then dissolving into laughter, quickly stifled with pillows so their mother wouldn’t ground them for the weekend.

  Ivy walked Katie to the door and hugged her as they said their farewells. “Come have lunch with me tomorrow?” Katie invited.

  “I have some catching up on work to do, too. I’ll be writing up notes on the laptop.”

  “All work and no play,” Katie warned.

  “Huh. Everyone knows who the workaholics in the family are. Danny and I just doodle at writing programs while you and Trent keep the contracts coming in.”

  After affectionate smiles and a heartfelt goodbye, Ivy returned to the patio and settled into her chair with a loud sigh. It was hard to keep up the pretense that she had everything under control when she really felt she was on the proverbial slippery slope and rapidly gaining speed on the way down.

  She did some work, then read several business magazines before deciding she needed to get in some exercise as part of her new health-conscious program. Once in jogging shorts, matching top and jogging shoes, she headed across the lawn and down to the creek in the arroyo. The path ran along its banks under alder, maple and cottonwood trees.