Divine Design

by Mary Kay McComas

  The next few weeks passed swiftly and quietly.

  Michael didn’t bring up his proposal again, but he knew she was thinking about it. She wore the ring on her right hand at his request and often he’d catch her studying it, a look of deep concern on her face, as if she was playing “Should I or shouldn’t I?” with the diamonds that surrounded the green gem. He longed to settle the decision for her, but it was hers to make.

  Their relationship was loving and companionable, each of them enjoying their time together. They took long walks through the quiet town of New Bedford, with its quaint shops and its network of waterways that surrounded the city. The days were often rainy, but when the springtime sun shone, their love seemed to take on its glow and cheerfulness.

  With the Dobson brothers still in control of their company until after their anniversary issue in August, and Michael’s other interests in capable hands, his idleness began to become a little tedious at times. Gestation being a rather slow process, and his part in it relatively minor, he found himself looking for new projects to occupy his time.

  Always a challenge was Meghan’s reluctant, but determined ambition to become domestic. Her peanut butter-is-peanut butter attitude was enough to make a grown man cry. He taught her to read labels, choosing the brands with the least amount of sugar and the fewest preservatives.

  He gave her an ongoing lesson in picking fruits and vegetables, and he frequently had to point out the difference between those you ate and those you threw at politicians. Because he ate mostly fresh fish and lean red meat, the discussion on how to choose pork chops had been difficult, and then his explanation of the benefits of a marbled roast as opposed to one with no fat ingrained had only confused her.

  “In this case, not unlike your own,” he teased with a gentle pat on her abdomen, “the extra fat makes it more tender and tasty.” He bussed her nose with a quick kiss. “It’s the gravy you have to watch out for. It’ll clog your arteries faster than your peanut butter will.”

  However, Meghan’s idea of going shopping had nothing to do with buying groceries, and she was no slouch when it came to the art of real shopping.

  The department stores of New Bedford pushed their doors open wide to her. Since shopping for the baby had been risky in New York, and a baby shower out of the question, a whole new world of unlimited purchases opened up for Meghan.

  Shopping, as an art form, required patience and endless hours of browsing to find just the right purchases. She led Michael through aisle after aisle of diapers, six-inch T-shirts, sleepers, bottles, blankets. … It seemed to him that the list went on forever.

  Michael had a tendency to wander around the store when Meghan became engrossed in deep concentration over subjects like picking out crib sheets with ducks or cartoon characters. After a while he would return with something outrageous such as a pair of twelve-inch denim jeans, a football jersey with a blue and white star on it, or a cowboy hat ten inches in diameter from the boys’ department across the way. Meghan laughed the day he returned from the little girls’ section with basically the same articles of apparel, plus a ruffled yellow dress with a pinafore for Sundays.

  It was during the hours spent buying things for the baby that Meghan could almost imagine herself as a married woman preparing for the birth of the child she and her husband had planned to have long before they took their vows. She enjoyed these visions and refused to face the truth until after the baby’s clothes were brought home and carefully put away.

  Michael enjoyed the same dreams, only to him they were very real. In his mind, and even more in his heart, he was already totally bound and committed to Meghan. Her presence in his life had already become as much a necessity as the food he ate and the air he breathed. A marriage license with their names on it would be a mere formality, once Meghan realized the trustworthiness of his devotion and accepted his love and forgiveness.

  Halfway through her eighth month they started the prenatal and Lamaze classes. Meghan’s heart swelled with pride and joy as she watched Michael meticulously and gently bathe and diaper the soft rubber demonstration doll. And she almost choked to death on her laughter the night they discussed breast-feeding.

  “We’ve decided to breast-feed our baby,” Michael informed the instructor in a natural, presuming manner. “But there seems to be a lot of controversy over how long to nurse. What do you recommend?”

  Twice daily Michael would gather up their pillows and ease Meghan gently to the floor to practice the Lamaze breathing techniques.

  “Okay. You’ve moved into transition. The contractions are stronger and more frequent. Deep cleansing breath,” he instructed. “Now let the next deep breath out with short pants.”

  Meghan let him coach her, but her concentration faltered as she became increasingly aware of the slow, steady circular rhythm of his hand on the small of her back. Little tingles ran up and down her spine as they always did when he touched her. The now familiar feeling was exciting and welcome. Her heart pumped harder in anticipation.

  “Whoa. Your pants are too deep. You’ll hyperventilate. Let’s try it again. Deep breath, followed by shallow, rapid panting,” he encouraged.

  Again she tried, and again her mind wandered off.

  “Meghan,” an exasperated Michael called. “You’re not concentrating. Where are you?”

  She giggled. “Oh, not far from here.”

  Leaning forward to look at her face, he recognized the distinctive twinkle in her eyes and grinned delightedly. Then he shook his head and admonished, “Business before pleasure, you wanton hussy.”

  “I was only thinking it would be easier to practice my panting if we were in bed,” she defended herself, sticking out her lower lip to pout.

  “Sure you were,” he mumbled skeptically, as he bent to take her lip between his teeth. The nibble turned into a kiss, and the kiss added fuel to their ever present passion that always lay smoldering beneath the surface of their every glance and touch. “Then again, you may have a point,” Michael said in a thick voice. “We could at least try it and see.”

  Their loving was leisurely and pleasurable. Relaxing in the aftermath of their passion, their satiated bodies pressed tightly together like a pair of identical spoons, they murmured their happiness and exchanged words of love.

  Meghan cuddled her back closer to Michael’s chest and moaned with contentment. Michael, his hands splayed across her abdomen and under her breasts, pressed an agreeing kiss to her temple.

  “Good Lord,” Michael said in wonder. “Did you feel that?”

  The baby’s kicking and jabbing had become more and more frequent over the weeks. Meghan always relished the sense of awe that accompanied the movements of her child. Several times before, she had beckoned for Michael to come feel the baby, but this was the first time he’d actually experienced it, and Meghan could sense his amazement.

  “Yes, I did.” She laughed indulgently.

  “He’s so strong,” he said.

  “He?”

  “Slip of the tongue,” he replied, a smile on his face. “How’s ‘She’s got an amazon’s punch?’”

  Meghan chuckled softly.

  “The baby will probably be tall when it grows up, don’t you think?” he inquired, his tone casual.

  “Well, all the Shays are tall, so maybe,” Meghan said drowsily.

  “There aren’t many dwarfs in my line either,” Michael reminded her.

  Meghan laughed. “You mean you aren’t a genetic accident? I thought everything from Texas was bigger and better than from anywhere else,” she teased.

  “It’s a fact, darlin’,” he stated into her hair, and then hoping to make another point in favor of marriage, he said, “You know, our baby is only half Shay. I’ll grant you it’s probably the best half, but even when they breed horses, the sire’s name is as important as the mare’s.”

  It was several seconds before Michael’s words came back to him. Meghan had tensed in his arms and seemed to be holding her breath. His eyes snapp
ed shut, and he clenched his teeth at his stupid choice of words.

  Meghan’s breath had indeed caught in her throat. Could he know what he’d just said? Had he guessed that the baby hadn’t been part of the divine design but had actually been planned by her, like one would contrive the mating of a good brood mare?

  “You mean like Enoch of Ramsey out of Shay,” she tentatively offered, hoping that if she appeared unaffected by his words, he wouldn’t know he’d guessed the truth.

  “Well, he’d have a terrible time on the S.A.T. exams, writing his name in those little squares. I was thinking of something a bit shorter. I’ll take you to court if you name him Enoch, but I think you got my drift,” he said, wishing they didn’t have to pussyfoot around the circumstances of the baby’s conception anymore. Sick of waiting for her to tell him her one last secret, he was still determined that it was important enough to wait.

  “I promise I won’t name her Enoch, okay?” she said, indicating she still couldn’t discuss what was foremost in her mind.

  Michael sighed dejectedly. How could he get her to tell him? What did he have to do to win her over completely?

  In the final weeks of her pregnancy, a strained tension developed between Meghan and Michael.

  Michael’s frustration forced him to remind Meghan that he loved her and wanted to marry her, with little comments like, “What a gorgeous, sunny day … Make a great wedding day, don’t you think?” or “When we move back to New York, shall we set up house in your apartment or mine? Mine has more room.” His not-so-gentle nudges would bring Meghan up short. Irritation and anxiety riddled her voice as she reminded him that he had promised not to push her into a decision.

  He racked his brain to create opportunities for her to tell him. He knew in his heart she’d never marry him unless she told him how she came to be pregnant. He also knew she’d rather cut out her tongue first. Whether she made her final decision before or after the baby was born, she was going to refuse him unless he could somehow force her to ’fess up, and time was growing short.

  Meghan’s strain was twofold. There was, of course, Michael. Always loving and gentle, always understanding and solicitous of her needs, and always there to unintentionally play on her guilt. She fought to keep her shame suppressed as much as possible, but whole days passed when she could think of nothing else.

  With her aunt still nursing her friend Freddy in Bristol, Meghan found her need for Michael increasing daily. The baby’s imminent arrival was making itself known.

  Meghan’s ponderous size made her feel clumsy and awkward; even her maternity clothes were becoming too small. She faithfully propped her feet up and took a nap in the afternoon, but by evening her ankles and feet were swollen to twice their size. She found sleeping at night nearly impossible. She’d sleep fitfully for short periods, then toss and turn, trying to find a comfortable position. Inevitably, Michael would wake in the middle of the night to find Meghan in the living room looking for something to pass the time with, or crying in exhausted frustration.

  The thrill of being pregnant had definitely worn off, leaving in its place a constant ache in her back and a desire to have it over with.

  Michael, darn him, was always wonderful. Even when she’d whine and snap at him, he’d take it in stride. He’d gently massage her back and feet sympathetically, trying to relieve her of some of the discomfort, and he would make valiant attempts to find things to do that would keep her busy and distracted.

  He did all this as well as most of the cooking and cleaning. He was more of a mother than a lover nowadays, and Meghan found herself very dependent on him, trusting him implicitly with her welfare. That rankled her also. She took so much from him and could only withhold the truth in return.

  Two weeks before her due date, Michael suggested they take a ride along the coastline. “If you get tired, you can lie down in the backseat or we can get out and walk a little. How about it?” he encouraged.

  Meghan was feeling testy and tired. It irritated her that he ignored her scathing remarks and would respond only with patience and kindness.

  “I’ve seen it. Why don’t you go and get out of my hair for a while?” she answered sourly.

  “It would be more fun if you came along. Besides, I think about half your problem is claustrophobia. You haven’t left the house in three days.”

  “Being shut up in this house doesn’t bother me half as much as being cooped up with a happy, cheerful person. Just once I’d like to get up in the morning to a person as grouchy as I am,” she snapped.

  “In that case, why don’t we plan to sit under a bridge and eat kids tomorrow?” he returned humorously.

  She grimaced at him.

  “Come on, you old troll,” he cajoled. “Let’s go for that drive. If it’s too much, we’ll come straight back and you can blow smoke out your ears all afternoon.”

  “All right,” she shouted, slamming her hand down on the breakfast table. “I’ll go on the stupid drive, if you’ll stop trying to be so damned nice. It’s driving me crazy.”

  “Okay, my bad-tempered, but beautiful witch,” he bellowed back.

  His staged anger elicited a growl from Meghan as she flounced out of the room to get dressed. Michael simply shook his head and thanked heaven that she had only a couple of weeks to go, because he, too, was running low on patience.

  The April sunshine beat down on the car and even though it was still chilly outside, the inside of the car grew warm and cozy.

  When Meghan failed to break Michael’s good spirits, she finally relented, and, although she was far from happy, her remarks were less caustic. Long periods of silence, the warmth of the car, and its soft vibrations lulled her, and eventually her eyes drooped and closed.

  Michael reached out a long arm and gathered her to him. With her head on his shoulder as she slept, he drove miles farther than he’d planned, just so she could get some rest.

  When at last she finally woke, it was nearly time for lunch. They stopped at a small, isolated restaurant to eat. Her humor somewhat improved, Meghan agreed to a short walk along the beach before starting back.

  The day had become increasingly overcast, although it hadn’t begun to rain yet. The beach was deserted. It was as if they were alone on earth as they walked hand in hand in the sand.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been such a bear to live with lately,” Meghan said, sighing heavily.

  “Don’t worry about it, darlin’. I can’t even imagine how I’d feel if I ached all over, couldn’t sleep, and had to deal with a belly five times its normal size. It’ll be over soon, and in the meantime I’m a big guy. I can take it.”

  “That’s just the point. You shouldn’t have to,” she said contritely. “You’ve been nothing but kind to me and all you get in return is my sharp tongue. You don’t deserve it.”

  “Well, let’s say you owe me one. Sometime when things aren’t going real well for me and I snap at you, you love me a little extra and be patient with me, and we’ll call it even. Okay?” His gray eyes twinkled with his great love for her, and Meghan again blamed herself for all she’d done to him. How could she love him so much and treat him so badly?

  “I love you, Michael,” she said softly, but loud enough to be heard over the surf.

  “And I love you, darlin’.” He pressed a kiss to her temple and left his arm around her shoulder as they ambled along a short stretch of beach.

  In no hurry to return, they perched themselves on one of the large boulders that cluttered the deserted sands. They talked of kings and fairy wings and other equally insignificant, but fascinating things.

  “Will you be all right if I leave you alone tomorrow?” Michael asked casually, as they sat wrapped in each other’s arms watching wave after wave roll onto the beach. “I talked to the Dobsons yesterday, and they’d like me to come in for a staff meeting even though I won’t actually be taking over for a few more months.”

  “I’ll be fine. I’ll even try and work on an attitude adjustment while you�
�re gone. Maybe the time apart will make me appreciate you more when you get back.” She smiled up at him. “When will you leave?”

  “Early in the morning and I’ll be back in the late afternoon. And please, don’t go into labor while I’m gone,” he pleaded, as he pressed a kiss into the hollow of her neck.

  On the ride back they stopped for a light supper, which brought them home late. Meghan was bone weary, but experience told her that the ache in her back would only keep her awake if she went to bed.

  “You go ahead,” she told Michael, after he offered to massage her back for her. “I’ll do the exercises—they usually help, and a soak in the tub will fix me up as good as new. You’re exhausted. Go to bed.”

  “The offer stands. If you change your mind, just yell,” he mumbled, sleepily, as he grazed her lips with his and headed for bed.

  “If you hear me yelling, it’s because I’m stuck in the tub,” she said.

  The long day and the hot bubble bath did much to repair Meghan’s taut nerves, if not the pressure in her lower back. Propped with pillows on the couch, she suddenly realized her thoughts and emotions seemed clearer to her than they had in months. There was no inner debate, only a calm tranquility in which her questions seemed easily answered.

  Did she love Michael? Yes. Did she want to marry him and spend the rest of her life with him? Yes. She’d already decided she was ready to have and take on the responsibilities of a baby, but a husband too? Definitely. Was there any way she could get out of telling him the truth? None. She loved him. He deserved to know … and there was always that one-in-a-million chance he might understand and forgive her. If he didn’t? At least she’d have the comfort of knowing that she loved him enough to tell him the truth.