Shotgun Baby

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  He hadn’t heard a word from social services since Friday. If he had, he’d have had a reason to call Robbie.

  He wasn’t kidding himself. He knew why she hadn’t shown up on his doorstep all weekend. The marriage thing. It was already messing things up.

  Con looked over his list again, sure he was missing stuff. He wasn’t a stupid man. He just had no experience with babies or their needs. So how in hell did he think he could raise one by himself?

  He could learn. But was that fair to the boy? When Robbie was so willing to be there to help the two of them muddle through? But was it fair to Robbie to allow her to sacrifice so much?

  He picked up his list. Where did one go to get a crib? Back to the store where they’d bought the doll? Or was there a baby store that would have everything he needed? Was there more than one kind of crib? Were some better than others?

  And what about a stroller? He sure saw enough of those around. Everyone with a little kid seemed to have one. He added a stroller to his list.

  He needed Robbie.

  In the past he’d have picked up the phone and called her. Told her to get her ass over here and show him what to do.

  But that was then and this was now. Now Robbie thought they should get married. Shopping for stuff with a friend was one thing. Picking out cribs with his potential wife was something else entirely. And way too intimate for him and Robbie.

  They weren’t even married and he was losing her.

  He thought about calling Pete’s wife, Marie. She’d know everything he needed, as well as the best place to shop. And Pete could probably give him a few pointers, too. But they weren’t too happy with him these days. Not that they’d ever really seen things his way, but once upon a time he’d saved their lives and they’d been grateful. Of course, that was only after he’d put Marie at risk in the first place, believing she’d been involved in some pretty nasty international sabotage.

  And ever since that deal with Ramirez went sour a year ago last April, ever since it became public knowledge that an innocent woman had died, Con had been avoiding Pete and Marie Mitchell. Pete had tried to warn Con, way back when they’d been partners on Marie’s case, that he was losing it; and he accused Con of going after his man at any cost. Con didn’t need to see the condemnation in their eyes to know that Pete had been right. He hated himself enough without that.

  What the hell. As long as he was hating himself already…

  He lit a cigarette, picked up the phone and called Robbie.

  “OK, WE’LL GET MARRIED,” he said as soon as she answered.

  “Con? Glad to see you’ve come to your senses. I already told Mom and Pop.”

  The cigarette shook in his fingers. He wished she hadn’t done that. No matter what Robbie said, he knew her parents couldn’t have been happy about her announcement. He stood to lose everything in this marriage. Everything but his son.

  “You couldn’t wait to let me speak to your father?” he said a little more sharply than he intended.

  “When would that have been, Con? When Joey was twenty-one? We have a wedding to plan, and if you’re going to bring your son home anytime soon, we did need to do it now.”

  “Plan? What’s to plan? We go to the justice of the peace, say a few words and it’s done.”

  “I’m not cheating my parents out of a wedding, Con. Besides, if we want everybody to believe this is the real thing, we have to do it right.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You’re going to have to wear a tux.”

  Hell. He took another puff on his cigarette. The tuxedo wasn’t a problem. The wedding was. He couldn’t believe Robbie was willing to go through all this for him and Joey. He couldn’t believe he’d actually let her.

  “Fine.”

  “Fine?”

  “Yes, fine. Now get your ass over here. I need some help getting ready for the kid.”

  “How do you know I’m not busy?”

  “Are you?”

  “No.”

  “You’re pushing me, Robbie.”

  “You’re pushing me, Randolph. You quit smoking yet?”

  He looked at the cigarette burning in the ashtray, wishing he could tell her that at least he’d done that much right.

  “No.”

  “Good. I’m on my way.”

  HE NEEDN’T have worried. Robbie was as much a pain in the ass as ever. But she took care of the whole shebang. He followed her from store to store, observing and handing over his credit card. It was all relatively simple. Robbie argued with him about every-thing. Apparently he was a Neanderthal when it came to decorating. He just wanted stuff that worked. She wanted it all to match. He approved of the race-car pattern she picked out for the nursery, as she called the room where the boy would be sleeping, but he gave her a hard time about it, anyway. He liked matching wits with Robbie, always had.

  They went for a beer afterward, smoking half a pack of cigarettes. Con was between cases at work and didn’t have much to say, but Robbie filled him in on her plans to approach the cartoonist Cameron Blackwell, bouncing ideas off him. And by the time she drove away that night, he’d almost convinced himself that things were back to normal.

  Sex hadn’t been mentioned all evening. Not once. THE BLOOD WORK came back inconclusive. There was a seventy percent chance that Con was Joey’s biological father.

  “What the hell is a seventy percent chance?” Con asked Karen Smith the morning she called to report the results.

  “It means you could be Joey’s father, but it’s not enough to prove it. We look for a ninety-eight percent or better to determine conclusive paternity.”

  “So now what?”

  “I’m going to ask you again to reconsider your position, Mr. Randolph,” Karen said, speaking to him as his high-school teachers used to when they wanted him to admit to doing something he hadn’t done. “If you would only sign the papers, Joey would be out of foster care by the end of the week and into his new home.”

  “You have a home ready for him?”

  “We have prospective parents chosen. They won’t be told they have a baby until it’s official.”

  “By official you mean my signature.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then why will my signature not gain me access to the boy?”

  “We’ve been through all this before, Mr. Randolph,” Karen said wearily. “Won’t you please reconsider and sign the papers? Let Joey begin his new life?”

  For a split second Con considered doing as she asked. He could return all the baby things filling one of his spare rooms upstairs. Get back to his life. Let Robbie get back to hers. Smoke to his heart’s content.

  But could he send his son the same messages his biological parents had sent him? We didn’t want you. Could he risk the chance that someone might raise his son to the tune he’d always heard? You owe us. Or how about his favorite? You’re a major disappointment.

  “I will not abandon my son.”

  “You may not have any choice.”

  “Let’s leave that up to the judge,” Con said. He wasn’t about to get into it with a state employee. Especially one he might need on his side. “What happens next?”

  “We’ll need more blood work—a DNA screening this time. If you’re the boy’s father, the DNA will show a more conclusive match.”

  “Fine.”

  “Assuming you are the father, we’ll also need to send someone back out to your home to see what kind of setup you have there for the baby.” She paused. “You do know you’ll need to provide a crib and personal things for Joey, don’t you?”

  “Done.”

  “He’ll need clothes, bottles, blankets, lotions, toys—”

  “Done.”

  “All of it? What about a baby thermometer?”

  “That, too.” Con jotted it down on a piece of paper. If he didn’t have one yet, he would before the day was through. “Come see for yourself.”

  “You can be sure we will, Mr. Randolph, probably early next week.”
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  He was getting married next week.

  “Fine.”

  “Well, then, if that’s all…”

  It wasn’t all. Not by a long shot. “How soon before we hear back on the DNA?”

  “It’s hard to say, Mr. Randolph. Sometimes it takes weeks. Of course,” she added, softening, “with your connections, you could probably get the lab-work results a lot faster than the state will.”

  “Consider it done.” He told her where to send the baby’s blood sample.

  “OK, well, after the blood work comes back and all the social workers’ reports are turned in, a date will be set for you to appear before the judge. He’ll make his determination at that time.”

  “And I pick up Joey there?”

  “If you get him. And if he’s there. It’s more likely you’d be instructed to pick him up from his foster home. I’m sure his foster mother will have instructions. In the meantime,” she continued, her tone softening again, “you can rest assured he’s being very well cared for.”

  “I want to see him.”

  “Yes, I rather thought you might. Tell me, Mr. Randolph, when are you and Ms. Blair getting married?”

  “Next Wednesday. Robbie’s sending you an invitation.”

  “Oh!” she sounded impressed, pleased. “I mean, I didn’t expect it to be so soon. Are you going away for a honeymoon?”

  Honeymoon. There wasn’t going to be any honeymoon in this marriage. “Not until after we have the boy.”

  “So you’ll be home over the Fourth of July week-end?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think your people could have the DNA results to us by then?”

  “They’ll have it as soon as humanly possible once they get the sample.”

  “Oh. Good,” she said, drawing out the good. “The thing is, Mr. Randolph, Joey’s foster parents have made plans to take their children to Disneyland over the holiday weekend. They’d expected Joey to be with his adoptive parents by then, and they’ve already made all their reservations. I’m meeting with the judge this afternoon to make other arrangements for Joey that weekend.”

  Anger burned his gut. His son was in the way. Why in hell was she telling him this when he was helpless to do a damn thing about it? “So?”

  “Well, in view of the situation and since you say you’re already prepared—and of course because you’re going to be married by then—I thought maybe I’d suggest to the judge that, if the DNA comes back positive, Joey be released to you for that weekend.”

  Something that was wound tight inside him relaxed. He was being given a chance. “I’d like that,” he said, warning himself not to count on too much. They were letting him baby-sit. That was all. “I’d like that very much.”

  “HERE, SPRAY THE HOUSE.” Robbie handed Con a can of disinfectant. He was hovering. She couldn’t scrub toilets with him hovering. And they only had an hour before Karen Smith arrived for her inspection. It was Monday, the day before Con’s cleaning lady was due. And two days before their wedding.

  “You spray. I’ll clean my own bathrooms.”

  Robbie laughed. “Have you ever cleaned a bath-room, Connor Randolph?”

  “Don’t call me that. My foster mother used to call me that. And yes, Miss Priss, I have.” He grabbed the cleaning powder, sponge and toilet brush from her arms and handed her the can of disinfectant.

  “Make sure you spray the kitchen. I smoke too much in there,” he said.

  “You smoke too much everywhere." Her wedding was only forty-eight hours away, and Robbie could almost convince herself she was going to be a real wife as she sprayed the house, doing her best to kill the stale cigarette-smoke odor that permeated everything Con owned. Karen Smith’s visit was twofold. She was coming to inspect the nursery and to bring little Joey for Con’s second supervised visit with him. The DNA work had not been done yet, since Joey’s foster mother had been remiss in getting Joey in for the second blood test. So they couldn’t have him to themselves, but at least they were going to get to see him.

  There were moments over the past week, dangerous moments, when Robbie had almost let herself believe that her dreams were coming true. In two days she was going to be Con’s wife, the mother of his child. She looked around the unusually spotless kitchen and pictured herself there in the early hours of the morning, wearing nothing but a robe she’d pulled on hastily when she’d had to leave Con’s bed because their baby had cried. She was heating a bottle of soy milk for Joey and thinking about the glorious hours she’d just spent in Con’s arms…

  “That should be it,” Con said, coming up behind her with his cleaning supplies.

  She jumped guiltily, her heart pounding, afraid he’d know what she’d been thinking. Stooping down to hide the flush she could feel rising up her throat and into her cheeks, she swiped at the baseboard.

  “Did you get the safety corners on the tables in the living room?” she blurted.

  “Done.”

  “How about the trash?” She berated herself for being a fool. She was going to have more out of life than she’d ever dared hope, and if she allowed her stupid hormones to blow her friendship with Con, she’d never forgive herself.

  “Emptied.” He put the supplies on a shelf in the laundry room. He was wearing jean shorts and a polo shirt today, looking far more casual than she was used to. His long muscled legs seemed to go on forever.

  “You taking the whole day off?” she asked.

  “The whole week. I’m between cases.”

  “Good, you need a break.”

  “I do not need a break.”

  Robbie knew better than to argue with that tone. “Whatever,” she said.

  He reached into the drawer for his pack of cigarettes. “Not now, Randolph,” she admonished him. He was the one who’d forbidden smoking in the house at all that day.

  He nodded, but when he began pacing like a caged animal, instead, Robbie almost wished she’d let him have his cigarette. He moved about the house, in-specting every spotless room, stopping to look out the living-room window and then beginning his tour again.

  She didn’t know who was more relieved when the doorbell finally rang.

  Con took the baby’s carrier from Karen before he even let her in the door. He carried his son into the living room and set him carefully down on the newly polished coffee table. Joey was sleeping.

  “Why does he sleep so much?” he asked Karen.

  It was only one of many questions Con asked that morning. By the time the social worker left, Robbie had fallen in love with him all over again. He was so determined to learn everything he could to care for this child. A child he’d taken into a heart he didn’t believe he had.

  And Robbie had fallen in love with Joey all over again, too. She’d held his tiny body against her breast and known she’d made the right decision. The only decision. Unrequited love for Con was a small price to pay for the right to call this baby her son.

  THE DNA RESULTS still weren’t in by his wedding day. Con was glad he hadn’t told Robbie about the possibility of having the boy for the weekend. She’d have been hugely disappointed. And one of them with dashed hopes was enough.

  Con thought about canceling the wedding. There was no reason to put Robbie through this mess until he knew for sure Joey was his. Except that he did know. The boy had his chin.

  And Robbie knew, too. Aside from the other reasons she’d listed for wanting to get married, she had her heart set on being Joey’s mother. And he couldn’t think of anyone he’d rather have help raise his son.

  She was already at the church when he arrived. He knew she was there because he heard her swearing when he walked by the room she was using to change. Her colorful tirade was followed by a soft admonition from Susan. A half grin cracked Con’s usually austere features as he continued on his way to the vestibule. Robbie was still Robbie. Even on her wedding day. He found something very reassuring about that.

  He made it through the half hour before the wedding with relative
ease. When he’d donned his rented tux that afternoon, he’d cloaked himself with the same numbing control he wore to work every day, and it stood him in good stead. This whole affair was merely a formality. Another undercover operation. He was confident he’d get through the day just like he did any other.

  Until he was standing alone with the minister at the front of the church, that is, and saw Robbie and Stan coming up the aisle toward him. He didn’t know which threw him more—Robbie looking radiant in her stunning white suit, or Stan, dressed in a black tux similar to Con’s, smiling at him encouragingly. Robbie was going undercover with him—he could almost overlook her disguise—but Stan didn’t know they were only playing a game. The older man’s consummate acting could only be attributed to the great wealth of love he had for his daughter.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today…” The ceremony began.

  Con answered the right questions in all the appropriate places, holding himself apart, an outside observer. Other than one glance at Susan, he didn’t look at the audience—comprising, he knew, a few colleagues and friends—and he didn’t look at Robbie again. He couldn’t stand the pretense between them.

  But he did make a vow during those moments that he intended to keep till death did they part. He was going to protect his friend; he was going to make damn sure that this marriage didn’t hurt her, that she’d have whatever freedoms her heart desired. And he was going to ensure that the marriage ceremony his drunken one-night stand had forced on them was not going to ruin the only good relationship he’d ever had.

  “You may kiss the bride.”

  Con froze. He couldn’t kiss Robbie. He couldn’t even look at her.

  Why hadn’t they thought of this, prepared for it? Scratched it from the ceremony?

  “Go ahead, Mr. Randolph,” the minister whispered, accompanied by a few snickers from behind them.

  He turned his gaze to Robbie and was thrown by the vulnerable look in her eyes. For some reason this mattered to her. And then it hit him. Her friends and loved ones were all watching. They thought this marriage was for real. And he needed everyone to believe it was for real.

  Keeping his mental distance, his professional impartiality, Con lowered his head to hers.