by Loree Lough
And then one day, his wife had come to him in that coolly detached manner that was distinctly Miriam’s and told him she was going to have a child. Why wasn’t she shouting for joy? he’d wondered. Why wasn’t she leaping in jubilation? No matter, he was happy enough for the both of them. A baby, at long last!
Less than two weeks later, her agonized moans woke him in the middle of the night. He spent the next morning in the hospital’s chapel, seeking the strength he’d need to be supportive of his wife. The doctor had found him there, and sitting beside him on the hard wooden pew, he’d explained that Miriam’s IUD had caused the miscarriage.
“What IUD?” Connor had demanded. “My wife and I don’t believe in birth control.”
“I’m sure that as an attorney, you understand that doctor-patient confidentiality prevents me from discussing any details of your wife’s—”
“Do you mean to say I have no say in whether or not she used artificial means to prevent pregnancy?”
“I’m afraid that’s something you’re going to have to discuss with her.”
Connor vowed then and there, looking into the doctor’s sympathetic eyes, that Miriam had hurt and humiliated him for the last time.
He had taken her home from the hospital and helped her to bed, brought her cup after cup of Earl Grey, brewed the way she liked it and served in a Wedgwood cup. It hadn’t been easy, behaving like the devoted husband, because now he had proof that she did not see him as a man, as the head of their household. He began to understand that her secrecy had been a lie, a blatant betrayal, and it had killed their marriage just as surely as her choice of birth control had killed their child.
Miriam did not cry over the loss of the baby. In fact, it seemed not to have affected her at all, emotionally. Within days of the miscarriage, she was back on her feet, laughing, planning shopping trips and vacations, ordering a new sofa for the parlor and shoes from an exclusive New York shop.
She had lied by omission when she’d instructed her doctor to insert the IUD, just as every “I love you, honey” had been a lie. He knew that now. If she’d ever loved him, even a little, wouldn’t she have seen that he was suffering, that he was grieving over the baby’s death? If she’d loved him at all, wouldn’t she have seen how much fatherhood meant to him?
Connor had kept track of the weeks and months, and on the day that the doctor had predicted would have been the baby’s due date, he’d driven miles into the country and parked in a secluded spot beneath a willow tree, then stared for hours, dry-eyed, at the Victorian-style farmhouse he’d purchased months ago. He’d planned to bring Miriam here as a surprise after their baby was born. It was his dream house—the perfect place for his new family, where a child could run free, maybe even have a pony.
He didn’t fight Miriam a month later when she asked for a divorce. Didn’t grieve when the final papers were delivered. It surprised him, when she was gone, that he didn’t miss her, not a bit. They’d shared a home, a bed, a life of sorts for nearly ten years after all….
Instead, in the wake of her leaving, Connor experienced a solace like none he’d never known, a peace he hadn’t thought possible in this world. If yoking himself to a woman meant giving up that hard-won tranquillity, he’d gladly spend the rest of his days alone. And so, he had not been deeply involved with a woman since. The moment it began to look as if a woman was expecting him to make a commitment to the relationship, he’d ended it.
Every lawyer should be forced to live with a woman like Miriam, he often told himself, for what she’d done to him had left him callous, rigid, insensitive…characteristics that made him a ruthless, determined-to-win attorney.
Connor hadn’t shed a tear when his father died of a stroke five years after the divorce, nor when a heart attack took his mother a year after that. His parents had been cold, withholding people who hadn’t shown him or Susan a moment of warmth. They hadn’t abused their children physically, nor had they neglected them. In fact, anyone on the outside looking in would have commended Bert and Edie Buchanan for providing their son and daughter with the best of everything…everything but the knowledge that they were loved.
He hadn’t cried two years ago when he accepted the possibility that Susan did not want to be found. He’d made the decision to stop looking for her matter-of-factly, from a levelheaded, feet-on-the-ground position.
Until now, he’d convinced himself he had inherited the same gene that made his mother and father frosty, hard-hearted, unreachable. How else could he have suffered so many losses without shedding a single tear?
Until now, he’d never known how much he needed to grieve.
Connor gave in to it. Great, racking sobs shook his body as a lifetime of unspent tears rained down his face.
He didn’t know how long he sat there, bawling like a child. He only knew that if not for Jaina, he might have spent his whole life thinking himself abnormal, uncaring, dead to such emotions.
But she had breezed into his life, blowing warmth into the pockets of cold aloneness with nothing more than her concern for his nephew.
He didn’t know why an unfettered single woman would want the responsibility of raising someone else’s child, but Jaina wanted Liam; Connor read it in her eyes, heard it in her voice. If she could love the boy that deeply after just one day with him, how much more would she love him in a month? A year? A lifetime?
He admitted that if she hadn’t contacted him, he’d never have known his niece had come looking for him in the first place, wouldn’t have known that he had blood kin on this earth at all.
Why, he asked himself, had she risked losing her only opportunity to keep Liam? Because she’s the kind of person who believes in doing the right thing, even when it costs her. That’s the kind of woman you should have married, Buchanan. The kind who puts the needs of others ahead of her own. You might have even had a kid or two by now…or half a dozen if…
If…
There it was again. One of the smallest words in the English language, yet oh, how large its implications.
Something about her called to everything manly in him. He had a feeling that Jaina had a capacity for love and caring and nurturing like no one else he’d ever known. She might be petite, but he could tell by the way she walked and talked that her strength of spirit more than compensated for whatever limitations God had placed on her body. He liked that, too, and found it far more attractive than the practiced demeanor of a woman who took her physical gifts for granted. She’d probably be the kind of woman who kept an orderly house and cooked rib-sticking meals, who’d make her man believe he’d hung the moon. He’d spent a total of perhaps forty minutes in her presence; how could he be so certain, after such a short time, that she’d be good for him, good for his life?
You’re losin’ your mind, that’s why, Buchanan, he thought, shaking his head. Finding out you’ve got family has you living in a fantasy world.
He sat up, straightened his shirt and tie, wiped his eyes with the hankie he’d used on Jaina’s palm. The tiny spot of her blood caught his attention. Remembering the way she’d pulled herself together, despite whatever trauma had put her into the tailspin to begin with, he pulled himself together now.
He shrugged. Sniffed. Knuckled his eyes.
He made himself focus on the boy and wondered what Liam would be like. Jaina had said he was big for his age. Would he be blond and blue-eyed like his mother and grandmother? Would he have Susan’s even-tempered disposition? Or might he have inherited his great-grandfather’s quick ire? His great-grandmother’s judgmentalism? Connor’s own heartlessness? If there’s any justice in this world, every one of the bad traits skipped a generation, because life is gonna be tough enough for the kid.
He took a deep, shuddering breath.
And did Liam cry quickly and easily? Or was he stoic and brave?
Connor could hardly wait to find out.
Funny, he thought, sniffing one last time, that a full-grown man can have so much in common with a baby. Except f
or the other, each of them was alone in the world.
He’d been powerless to help Susan. Hadn’t been able to help Kirstie. If he found her—another if—he doubted he could do more than make her last days comfortable.
But he could make a difference in Liam’s life.
He could, and he would.
He had a family at long last.
Family!
Connor would move mountains, fight beasts bare-handed, take on every official in the state of Maryland, if need be, to adopt this child he’d never met. He didn’t have to meet the boy to know he loved him, didn’t have to see him to know he’d protect him till his own dying breath.
And he’d do it, no matter what—or whom—it cost him.
Chapter Three
“Hi, Jaina. It’s—”
“Connor. I know.” She cut a quick glance at Liam, lying on his side in the middle of her living room, sucking his thumb and poking a stubby finger into the quilt’s colorful rainbows. Her heart lurched with love for the sleepy boy…and with fear at the sound of the voice of the man who would attempt to take him from her. “So, how’s New York?” She asked the question lightly, casually, as if she hadn’t noticed that he didn’t call last evening as he’d promised.
“Same as always…dirty, crowded, noisy.”
Jaina wondered about the feelings of protectiveness and pity that automatically rose inside her when she heard the exhaustion in his voice. You shouldn’t be feeling anything for him but mistrust. Remember what Skip said.
“Sorry I haven’t called sooner. It’s been a circus up here. I haven’t had a minute to myself since I stepped off the plane.”
Did he really expect her to believe he couldn’t have found one moment to check on Liam’s welfare? Following Skip’s instructions, Jaina jotted the time and date of his call in a spiral tablet. From now on, every moment the lawyer spent with Liam—in person or on the phone—would be logged in Jaina’s Buchanan Book. So far, he was playing right into her hands. She could only hope he’d continue behaving as though everything in his life took precedence over the baby.
Feeling a little two-faced, she put an extra lilt into her voice. “It’s a shame they’re keeping you so busy. You ought to take advantage of being in the Big Apple. See a play. Tour the museums. Stroll down Times Square. Do something touristy.”
“I have a client with business interests in New York. I’m up here once a month, minimum…”
Jaina scribbled that fact in the tablet.
“…and I wouldn’t do any of those things even if I did have the time.”
When his tone switched from exhausted to disgusted, Jaina got a mental picture of him, wrinkling his nose at the idea of doing anything fun. “So you’ve never seen The Phantom?”
“Nope.”
“Cats?”
“No.”
“Why not?” she asked, genuinely incredulous.
“I’d rather sit in my room, watch the news and order room service than watch a bunch of supposedly sane adults romp around a stage dressed up like cats,” he replied in a cutting tone.
Jaina’s brow rose a little higher. Kirstie was right. He is a mean old grouch. And she might have said so if Skip hadn’t cautioned her to treat Buchanan with kid gloves…at least until after the preliminary hearing.
“Oh, well I guess musicals aren’t your thing,” Jaina replied lightly.
“Got that right,” he grumbled.
“So, did your audience like your speech?”
He chuckled. “Nobody threw rotten tomatoes, and I didn’t hear any snoring. It went all right, I guess.”
She reminded herself what else Skip had said. “It’ll be harder for him to take Liam if he likes you.” She’d started working with the public at seventeen when, to pay her way through college, she began singing and playing guitar all around the country. Jaina’s easy manner at the mike earned her a reputation for having what was generally referred to as “stage presence.” Just pretend he’s some guy in the audience, celebrating his birthday.
“What was your speech about?” she asked. Skip’s advice had very little to do with her interest; everything about Connor Buchanan fascinated her, from the beautiful smile he so rarely exhibited to the fact that he, too, seemed to know how to “work a crowd.”
“Well, it was called ‘The Importance of Effective Closing Arguments.’” There was a long pause before he added, “I seem to have a talent for them, according to the media.”
“Why? Because when you’re at your best, you can turn a jury around, even at the last minute.”
There was another long pause. And then he said, “Been reading the papers, I see.”
Jaina thought of the case she’d read about—the surgeon who still had his license thanks to Connor Buchanan’s “talents.” Suddenly, she didn’t care what Skip had said about biding her time, about buttering up the lawyer. “Would you like to talk to Liam?”
A moment of silence ticked by as if he might be considering it. “Nah, it’s after ten, and I don’t want you to wake him.”
At the mention of his name, Liam reached for her. “Mmumm-mmumm,” he said, lifting his arms. “Mmumm-mmumm.”
Buchanan cleared his throat. “He’s still up?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you said his bedtime was eight.”
She sighed at his scolding tone, stroking Liam’s hair. “It is, usually. But tonight we went to the park after supper, had some ice cream. Between the long walk, the swings and the slide, plus the extra chocolate sprinkles, he’s a little wound up.” Worried that Buchanan might read “too permissive” into the way she was caring for Liam, she quickly added, “But it usually doesn’t take him more than ten minutes to fall asleep.” Just for good measure, she tacked on another truth. “Especially if I rock him with a lullaby.”
Another moment of silence. “How do you manage the, uh, quality mothering when you have a diner to run?”
Skip had predicted this question, too, and warned her that Buchanan would try to make the judge see her as a success-oriented businesswoman who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—make room in her busy schedule for a baby. “I’m already interviewing to hire extra staff and a full-time manager at the diner. I also have my parents to baby-sit anytime I need help. Liam is number one on my priority list. Would he be on yours?”
“I think I can make a case for that.”
“But that’s not the question, Counselor.” Lifting Liam from the quilt, she settled into the rocker with him. Immediately, he grabbed the phone cord. “No, no, sweetie,” she said, gently disentangling his fingers from the coils, “don’t put that in your mouth.”
“So, can I talk to him?”
Jaina could have sworn she heard apprehension in his otherwise sure-of-himself voice. Apprehension, and maybe a tinge of uncertainty. “I have to warn you, he doesn’t say much, but listening amazes him.”
This oughta be fun, she told herself, holding the phone to Liam’s ear. A one-way conversation between a defense attorney and a defenseless baby.
“Hey, Liam. Whatcha doin’, li’l buddy?”
The child turned his head toward the voice, scraping a fingernail over the tiny holes in the earpiece.
“You bein’ a good boy, Liam? Huh? Are ya?”
The baby furrowed his brow. “Dih-dih?” he asked Jaina, pointing at the phone. “Dih-dih-dih?”
“I’m gonna come see you tomorrow,” she heard Buchanan say. “What do you think of that? Maybe we’ll go to the zoo, see the big ol’ lions and tigers, even ride the train.”
She’d expected the lawyer to sound stiff and stern, not animated and friendly. Then Jaina remembered he’d behaved similarly when she nearly fainted dead away in his office. But was the warm, gentle demeanor genuine, or rehearsed like his jury-turning closing arguments?
Liam tried his best to stuff the entire phone into his mouth. When it wouldn’t fit, he lost interest entirely and focused on Jaina’s dangly wolf earrings, which suddenly held far more baby appeal. Then
, just as quickly, he spotted the wooden pull-toy truck her father had made him and did several deep knee bends in her lap, pointing toward the quilt. “Mmumm-mmumm. Mmumm-mmum!”
“Sorry,” she said, taking the phone. “His attention span is fairly short, especially at this time of day.”
“He sounds terrific. I can’t wait to see him.”
Her mouth went dry and her palms grew damp. He’d been away for days, had promised to call yesterday, then didn’t. Now, suddenly, after a brief conversation with Liam, he wanted to see him? I don’t like this. Not one bit.
“How’s tomorrow?”
Her heart thudded with dread. Saturday had always been The Chili Pot’s busiest day. She pictured his quiet, elegant office, comparing it to the nonstop hustle and bustle of the diner. He didn’t know a thing about the restaurant business and would likely see all the activity and noise as a chaotic mess. And as an unsuitable place to raise a traumatized, abandoned child. “It’s a lot quieter midweek, between lunch and supper,” she suggested. “If you stop by, say, on Wednesday afternoon, I can give you my undivided atten—”
“It isn’t going to be a social call, Jaina, so you needn’t worry about entertaining me. Besides, it isn’t you I’m coming to see.”
She clenched her jaws together so tightly, her gums ached.
“If the plane lands on time, I should be there by one.”
Why had he asked to see Liam tomorrow, Jaina wondered, when his attitude made it perfectly clear it had been an order, one he fully expected her to follow?
“I, uh, I bought a little something for him.”
She imagined a Statue of Liberty key chain, an Empire State Building mug, an I Love New York baseball cap, things completely inappropriate for a seven-month-old and probably purchased in his hotel’s gift shop. “How thoughtful.”
“You doing okay?”
“I’m doing just fine,” she said, her voice thick with defensiveness. “I’ve had to juggle my schedule a bit so that Liam gets my best at all times, but—”
