by Liz Talley
He said nothing.
“So that night I lay in bed and a realization hit me—if I want to raise this child to be strong and ethical, I have to start with being that way myself. I have to do the right thing. Telling you about the baby seemed the first step in that process. Coming clean with my parents and pulling up my big girl panties is the next step.”
John turned off the highway, cutting through to the interstate, but remained silent, which chafed her. Here she was being totally honest, laying it all out, and he couldn’t bother himself to say a simple “thank you”?
Maybe he wasn’t thankful. After all, since she’d turned up at his doorstep with the news, she’d been nothing but a problem to him.
When John reached cruising speed on I-10, he glanced over at her again. “Stay here.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“In Louisiana. Stay here with me. For a while longer. For the pregnancy.”
Grappling with that bomb of a request, Shelby snapped her gaping mouth closed and stared out at the trees whizzing by.
Stay here?
In Podunk, Louisiana, with a man she didn’t know beyond his preference in underwear—which was boxers, by the way.
Staying with John made no sense.
“That makes no sense,” she said.
“It makes some. You have little support at home. No apartment. No job.”
“Thanks for pointing out what a loser I am,” she drawled.
“I’m not,” he said, his mouth firm, his demeanor serious as a funeral director. “But you need support, and I’m offering you some.”
“Why would you want me in Magnolia Bend bringing the shame? Lemme ask, do I get a scarlet A to wear and everything? Will I have to always use the back door?”
“So I screwed that up,” he said, a flush rising to his cheeks as he veered the truck into the lane indicating Baton Rouge. “I apologized.”
“You did,” she admitted.
“I was up half the night thinking about what to do.”
“And this was what you came up with?”
She watched uncertainty flit across his face. “Yeah.”
“What will you say when people ask you about me? There’s going to be talk.”
“Sure, I accept people will talk, but I don’t want you going back to Seattle. I want you to stay.”
“With you? Or get an apartment? Does the town have apartments?”
“You can stay with me at Breezy Hill,” he said, though he didn’t sound so certain anymore. “I’m here for you and the baby.”
Something struck inside her—a buried need for someone to want her. Inside the smart-ass with the big boobs and the bright smile was the girl who wanted to be loved. She knew herself, but it didn’t matter. This particular yearning had been the cause of many a downfall in her life. Still, John wanting her in his life enough to weather the community’s censure made her heart ache. He risked his reputation for a chance to...what? Share in the life of their baby? “I can’t. You’re still mourning your wife and...and...I can’t just move in.”
“Why not? I have four bedrooms and it’s just me and Bart. None of Rebecca’s family lives here anymore. Her mother moved to a patio home in Gonzales before Rebecca’s death.”
“What’s she going to say about her former son-in-law who runs her family business shacking up with some floozy.”
“You’re calling yourself a floozy?”
“You know what I mean. This is a crazy idea.”
“Breezy Hill is my home and Rebecca’s mother promised me after Rebecca died I would stay there. Carla holds the trust, but I run the company with the understanding it will become mine upon her death. Don’t worry about Carla—I’ll make sure she understands you and I are essentially roommates.” Again, uncertainty shaded his voice.
“You’re going to tell her we’re roommates?”
“Yes, but even if we were more to each other, she has to have foreseen the possibility I would find someone new someday. Besides, the business relationship works—the improvements I make to the land increase the value. There’s no reason to change anything.”
Shelby made a noise in the back of her throat. “I wouldn’t bet on that. You’re thinking like a businessman, but for Carla it might be more personal. So what about the baby? Making a baby isn’t something ‘roommates’ do.”
“That was a onetime mistake. I can make her see that.”
His words slapped her and she turned away, trying to remember she had no right to be hurt. What they’d done in that bathroom was a onetime thing. But in the outside world people wouldn’t see it his way. When the baby bump popped up, there would be suspicion, and Shelby doubted John’s former mother-in-law would accept a onetime screw as a valid explanation. But then again, what did she know about John’s relationship with Rebecca’s mother?
John exited at College Drive and after a few minutes pulled into a Chinese restaurant parking lot.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
Does a nun pray? “Yeah, but I’d rather finish this conversation first.”
He shifted into Park, killed the engine and turned to her. His green eyes roved her face and tugged at her heart despite her insistence the man meant nothing to her. “I get this is out of left field.”
“Or right field. Or out of the blue. Or...” She shook her head.
“When I thought about you leaving, I could hardly breathe.”
Shelby couldn’t stop her heart from aching at those words.
“I want to be there for every part of your pregnancy. Neither of us planned this, but you don’t have to go through this alone. I can’t go to Seattle, but you can stay here. We can have this baby together.” His words were like soft silk, enfolding her, brushing against the clenched resolve.
“But we’re strangers.”
“We know enough about each other to make a rational judgment call,” he said.
“You can’t possibly use rational in a sentence describing me.”
“Fine. You’re funny, pretty and haven’t told my sister Birdie’s been spying on their neighbors. So I’ll add loyal to children to the list.”
“How did you—”
“You glanced out at where my niece sat in the tree as we were leaving...and you smiled a secret smile. I caught Birdie yesterday with her sketch pad prop.”
Shelby couldn’t stop the grin. “Poor Abigail. Her daughter’s Harriet the Spy.”
“More like poor Birdie,” he said, pulling the keys from the ignition. “Abigail will find out and be appropriately appalled. Birdie may never climb another tree.”
Shelby turned to him so they held each other’s full attention. “I don’t want to make something not so great worse.”
“Maybe it won’t be worse.”
“I can’t imagine not going back to Seattle. These whole few months have been surreal. I keep waiting to wake up.”
“I understand. Take a few more days to decide. We won’t mention the pregnancy to anyone until you figure out what you want.”
“Why do you want me to stay so badly?”
John’s eyes sparked with something she couldn’t name. He lifted his hand and laid it on her stomach, the heat searing her, making her start, before warmth curled in both her girl parts and somewhere around her heart. “Because you carry hope for a life worth living.”
Shelby swallowed, sudden emotion sticking in her throat. Christ Almighty. How could a woman argue with something like that?
She pressed her hand on his, and he turned it over so they held hands. The moment shimmered with tenderness, something neither had between them. Here they sat, virtual strangers, united by an unborn child...an unborn child who gave them each a new beginning.
Releasing his hand, Shelby redirected her gaze, afraid she might tear
up. Her emotions had been roller-coastering for the past weeks. She’d cried over a tampon commercial for cripe’s sake. “Okay. I’ll consider staying for a while. I wholly acknowledge you’re part of this baby and, therefore, have certain rights.”
“Thank you,” he said, using the hand he’d pressed into hers to remove the keys from the ignition.
“Now let’s go grab some dumplings. I’m starving,” Shelby said, scooping up her purse, tired of the tangle of her life.
“It’s rare I leave the fields during harvest so let’s do this right,” John said, his face more relaxed.
Yet his words seemed to speak of larger things in their life. Still for that moment, Shelby focused on not overthinking every word John said. He wanted her now, but she’d been in this same position several times before, her heart overruling her head. She needed to proceed carefully because now the stakes weren’t just about her.
They were about the tiny life inside her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE NEXT TWO days followed a pattern. John rose before the sun, ate oatmeal, drank black coffee and worked till the sun went down. After overseeing the loading of the cane, he showered, shaved and headed to his sister’s place, where Shelby waited.
He couldn’t flatter himself thinking Shelby looked forward to seeing him—she was bored and probably would have welcomed a zombie for company.
Of course, he pretty much fit that description after a day in the fields and a long night of tossing and turning. He’d brought her several magazines about fashion and whatever the Kardashians were up to. Glancing at those covers—at the antics of whoever those people were—made him feel not so bad about the mess he and Shelby had created. He’d also brought her some chewing gum, one clutch of flowers he’d grabbed not knowing if it would say something other than “Feel better soon” and a deck of cards so she could play solitaire. He’d tried to talk her into reading The Sound and the Fury, but she’d looked at him like he’d sprouted a horn in the center of his head.
Rebecca had always loved the classics, and the Faulkner book along with a Truman Capote collection had been a gift to Abigail when she’d opened the bed-and-breakfast. Southern authors for a Southern home.
Shelby, however, wasn’t impressed, and when John took a hard look at the books on Rebecca’s shelves in her office, he had to agree with Shelby. Dry words, old times in a glossy new cover.
Each evening he and Shelby faced the cooling darkness of his sister’s porch—her sipping tea, him a longneck. They’d talked about the weather, the Seattle Seahawks’ record and how they’d both loved visiting Cozumel. Inane conversation designed to help each of them gauge how it might work if they were to cohabitate while awaiting the birth of their child.
But today would be the true test for him—Thanksgiving Day at his parents’ house.
Ye gods.
Pulling into the drive of Laurel Woods, John checked his reflection in the rearview mirror. He’d trimmed his own hair because he hadn’t had time to go by Tammy’s in town. It looked okay, though he’d nicked a spot behind his ear. His green eyes looked tired, but they always did at harvest. Not bad but not his best. Been a long time since he was at his best.
Climbing out, he studied the females assembled on the porch. Shelby sat in a rocker, wearing the wrap dress and boots she’d worn Monday. Her hair looked shiny and she wore equally shiny lipstick. Looked like a city girl—a good-looking city girl. His sister wore a long skirt and a dark shirt, which was pretty much standard for her. At one time Abigail had been a bit more frivolous and not so grown-up. Her lousy cheating ex-husband, Calhoun Orgeron, had fixed her good. No more Abi...just serious Abigail. Birdie wore a black hoodie, skintight jeans and a sullen look. Dollar to doughnuts, she’d gotten busted spying on that California nutcase who had moved into The Haven behind Laurel Woods.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” he called, climbing the stairs.
“What’s happy about it?” Birdie asked, her tone caustic enough to blister paint.
“That’s enough, missy.” Abigail jabbed a finger at her daughter. “Straighten up. Pawpaw and Fancy don’t want to stare at your sad face all day long.”
Birdie’s narrowed eyes softened. Even if she was miffed, Birdie loved his parents and would never bring any grief to them. “Whatever.”
Shelby watched their interaction, her blue eyes amused at what unfolded. Shifting her gaze to his, she mouthed “busted.”
And just like that, the doubt, the feeling he’d been too rash in asking her to stay, lifted. “Now that’s settled, you gals ready to roll?” he asked.
“We can take the wagon,” Abigail said, with a wave at the staid Volvo station wagon listed in the dictionary as an antonym for sexy. “More room and much safer than your old truck. Let me grab the sweet potatoes and the caramel pie first.”
“Why don’t I drive Shelby? She may not want to stay for football and the annual Christmas cookie bake.”
Shelby opened her mouth, likely to disagree, but Abigail beat her to it. “Good idea. I told Mom I’d help her decorate the tree, too, and you know how long that takes. Story behind every flippin’ ornament.” Abigail disappeared into the house. Birdie kicked the railing of the porch and glanced over at Shelby. She wanted to say something, but wasn’t the kind of kid who piped up on her own.
“Birdie, everything cool?” he asked.
“Sure. Punished until the cows come home, and Mom is making me go apologize to Mr. Lively for spying on him. I mean, what did he expect? He swims naked.”
“Mr. Lively? Is he the—”
“Yeah. New art department head at the high school. He’s totally hot and I have to note worth the effort...if you know what I mean,” Birdie said, almost too matter-of-factly.
John tried not to react to the obvious implication about Mr. Lively. Birdie didn’t even manage a blush, just stuck her little chin out like she dared him to say something.
“Okay, I’ll spread the word,” John said, and it made Shelby laugh. Her laugh was nice. Not a tinkling sound like Rebecca’s. More low and velvety.
Shelby smiled at Birdie. “Maybe your mother needs to go with you to apologize. Maybe she needs some Mr. Lively.”
Abigail came out holding two dishes. “Birdie, get the door. Jeez, I would appreciate your helping me sometime. Do you ever think about how much I have to do? Do you ever wonder if I might need some help?”
Birdie took the pie from her mother. “Mom, will you come with me when I apologize to Mr. Lively? Please.” The girl looked over at Shelby and John with a spark in her eye.
“Of course, I’m going with you. Do you think I would allow you to go to that weirdo’s house alone?”
Birdie mouthed “wow” before saying, “It’s not nice to call people who are different names, or so you told me when I went to preschool.”
“Oh, well, I should have said ‘odd’ and not ‘weird.’ Better?” Abigail clipped down the porch steps, balancing the casserole, and turned to wait on them with a crooked eyebrow.
John waited for Shelby to pass. “You look nice, Shelby.”
“Thanks, John.”
“Speaking of weird,” Birdie muttered under her breath, following her mother to the navy Volvo that could dissuade a sex addict from approaching Abigail.
Silently he followed Shelby to the truck he’d left idling in the drive. In the formfitting dress, her backside swayed, and he couldn’t help admire the view. Her pregnancy hadn’t seemed to change her smoking body one iota. He’d have to keep his eye on Jake today...if his brother showed up.
Halfway on the ride into town, Shelby looked over at him. “I’m nervous.”
“Don’t be. They’re going to stare a little and wonder a lot, but my family, annoying as they can be, is welcoming. Plus, you already know Abigail and Birdie. My brother Matt and his wife, Mary Jane, will be there, along wit
h their two boys—Wyatt and William. Hopefully, my younger brother, Jake, will show up. And then there’s Aunt Lucy and Uncle Carney, Gram and Mr. Jenkins. That’s probably it.”
“Sounds horrifying,” Shelby said.
“Relax,” he said, turning out of the drive. “So what happened with Birdie?”
“Your sister was dusting the rocker at the end of the hall. Something about the Christmas tree. And she saw what I saw that first morning. Um, Mr. Lively in the buff...and Birdie watching him.”
He tried not to smile. “Interesting. And what about you? Feeling better?”
“Yes, and I appreciate your distracting me from being so nervous that I might hurl.”
John rolled through the Magnolia Bend city limits sign, coming face-to-face with the fact today wasn’t a regular workday. No one sprawled on the porch of his uncle’s store, no cars cluttering lots, even the square where the crumbling courthouse stood had only Mrs. Dryden walking her ancient Italian greyhound. The wind blew at a nice clip, the sun played hide-and-seek with the clouds, and John Beauchamp, the son of the pastor of the First Presbyterian Church of Magnolia Bend was bringing the girl he knocked up at an infamous roadside bar home to holiday dinner.
“You want to bail on the turkey and dressing?” John asked.
“No. I just wish I had a better answer every time someone, aka your sister, corners me on our relationship. You know everyone is going to sit there eating pie, trying to figure out what’s going on between us.”
“And what would they think?”
“That I’m some bloodsucking parasite trying to get my claws into you.”
He glanced sharply over. “You think that’s what they’ll think?”
Her shoulders sank. “I don’t know what they’ll think. Only that they will.”
“Okay, so maybe that’s the worst thing,” he said, pulling onto Second Street where his parents’ 1800 French Revival sat in the middle of the street surrounded by graceful oaks, looking postcard pretty and very much at home on the street strewn with old homes. “Or maybe they’ll be happy to see me with someone who makes me happier.”
