by Linda Warren
“It is 99.9 percent likely.”
His muscles relaxed. This was his baby. Unlike with his uncle’s kids, there remained no risk of confusion or deception.
“You don’t have to tell me,” came Anya’s tart response. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s 100 percent. He’s the one who questioned it.”
Jack ducked his head in embarrassment. “I didn’t mean it that way. But it seemed important to eliminate any doubt.”
Adrienne maintained an air of professional detachment. “This test also reveals the gender of the baby. That’s why I suggested you delay looking at the results, in case you prefer not to know.”
Eager as he was to find out, Jack was willing to wait until he was alone if necessary. “Anya?”
She fingered the paper. “Go ahead. What is it?”
“It’s a girl.” Adrienne waited for their reactions.
“Oh.” That was all Anya said. No indication if that made any difference.
Jack hadn’t cared about the gender, but now the child in his mind came into even sharper focus: a little girl with brown hair and expressive eyes. No one would force her to hold herself back, to guard against emotional manipulation. She’d grow up with parents—a parent—who loved her and encouraged her to be herself.
It was still possible she’d be raised by strangers, but he hoped not. If only he could persuade Anya to stop distancing herself from the situation. “You’re allowed to have feelings,” he told her.
She folded the paper. “I do have feelings.”
“So do I.” Here goes. “I realize I promised to waive my parental rights—”
She gripped her purse. “Don’t you dare go back on your word!”
Jack made what he hoped was a conciliatory gesture. “I have an alternate proposal.”
Leaning against her desk, Adrienne folded her arms. She didn’t bother to hide her curiosity, but Jack was sure he could count on her impartiality.
Anya swallowed. “I’m listening.”
It was impossible to tell whether anger seethed beneath the surface. Still, having anticipated an immediate fight, Jack appreciated the opportunity to present his case. “I acknowledge that you aren’t prepared to raise a child, with or without my help.”
She cleared her throat. “That’s right.”
“So I’ll raise the baby myself.” Fingering the notes crammed in his pocket—the mere touch seemed to jog his memory—Jack outlined his plan: daycare at the hospital’s child center, a licensed private sitter during his overnight shift in labor and delivery and off-hours backup provided by Rod. “I don’t underestimate the challenges, but lots of single parents cope, and I will, too.”
“I can recommend a licensed sitter that my husband and I trust with our little boy,” Adrienne said. “However, I strongly advise counseling. This is a major decision.”
“I hate counselors,” Anya said. “They make you confront things.”
“You can have as much or as little involvement as you like, Anya,” Jack said. “If you want to make things official, you can sign a waiver of parental rights.”
“I should point out that you can’t waive your financial obligation to the child,” Adrienne warned her patient. “A lawyer can give you the whole picture.”
“Your attorney, Edmond, seems reliable,” Jack agreed. For some reason, he trusted the fellow.
Anya’s shoulders hunched. What did that mean, he wondered.
“There’s no need to decide now,” Adrienne said. “The baby isn’t due for over six months.”
“I want this settled.” Anya regarded Jack sternly. “What if something happens to you? With an adoptive family, she’d have two parents.”
“Adoptive couples aren’t immune to issues like divorce, illness and death,” he reminded her. “And I’ll appoint a guardian, just in case.”
“Your uncle?” she asked dubiously.
“He’s willing, and he has parenting experience.” Jack returned to the main issue. “Honey, I love this baby. Maybe that sounds crazy because she isn’t born yet, and I wasn’t expecting to be a father, but I love her.”
“An adoption means a clean break,” Anya said slowly. “If you raised her, you’d still see me as backup.”
“I promise I won’t.”
“What if she gets sick?” she challenged. “What if Rod isn’t around when you need him? I’d be mommy on call.”
“That’s not true.”
“How can you be sure?” She didn’t sound argumentative; she appeared almost regretful, in truth.
Jack struggled to marshal his arguments. But what if she was right?
“This decision deserves more consideration,” Adrienne repeated. “You don’t have to resolve it now.”
Her presence, initially helpful, was beginning to chafe on Jack. “If you have a patient waiting, you can go.”
“I allowed extra time for this consult,” the doctor assured him. “I’m fine.”
Too bad. Jack could see Anya’s uncertainty, but if they delayed this conversation, her default position—just say no and run for cover—would kick in.
To him, the fact that she hadn’t immediately rejected his plan indicated that her determination to give the baby up had softened. All the same, Jack respected her right to say no.
And her objections had merit. How could he be sure he’d keep her out of the picture while raising their daughter? There was no way to try things out in advance. Or was there?
The last time they’d had a serious disagreement, Anya had put him to a test of sorts to earn the right to have her take the DNA test. Jack hadn’t minded shopping and handling other chores; he wished she’d requested more, in fact. Although he couldn’t prove that he’d keep his end of this new bargain, a good-faith attempt might reassure her. And it’d be a learning experience for him, too.
He dove in. “Let me prove that I won’t lean on you. That I can handle extra pressure at home and not give in to frustration or dump my problems on you.”
“How?”
“A few weeks ago, you gave me a challenge,” he reminded her. “Let’s agree on another one. I’ll cook for your entire household for two weeks. That includes shopping and paying for the food.”
Adrienne blinked. “That’s quite an offer.”
“I don’t see what difference it would make,” Anya said doggedly.
“Some nights I’ll be tired and cranky, and I’ll have to field the demands of a bunch of people.” As he spoke, Jack reflected that he wasn’t sure how he’d deal with the sometimes irritating group of housemates. But if he couldn’t, maybe he wasn’t cut out for single fatherhood. “It’ll be a test for my own information as well as yours.”
She seemed to be weighing his offer. “Why two weeks?”
“Two weeks from now is the earliest we can schedule an ultrasound, right?” He looked to Adrienne for confirmation.
“That’s correct, doctor,” she said.
Jack plowed onward. “At that time, maybe the best course of action will be clear to both of us.” He didn’t believe he’d change his mind. But when Jack had asked for Rod’s cooperation, his uncle had pointed out that being a parent was harder than most people expected.
The nurse knocked, then looked in. “Doctor? The next patient is prepped.”
Jack got to his feet. “Thanks, Adrienne. You’ve been great.” And she had, despite his internal carping.
“Good luck to both of you,” she said. “Since it’s after hours, Eva will have to get back to you about scheduling the ultrasound.”
“It’s okay if Zora does it,” Anya told the nurse. “If that simplifies the scheduling.”
Eva nodded. “Okay.”
Was Anya agreeing to his proposal? Jack wondered as he accompanied her out through the waiting room. Or was she saving her refusal for when they were alone?
* * *
ANYA’S HEART CONTRACTED. She was carrying a little girl like Tiffany or Amber or like Anya’s two-year-old niece, Kiki, a sensitive child who seeme
d lost among her three siblings. After Christmas dinner, Kiki had nestled in her aunt’s lap, content to watch the world go by from the safety of Anya’s arms.
What a sweetheart. But Anya hadn’t missed the exhaustion on Ruth’s face by the end of the day, when she and her husband shepherded their children home. Cuddling a toddler for a few hours shouldn’t be mistaken for a taste of motherhood.
As for Jack’s plan to embrace single fatherhood, it reeked of good intentions that would only go awry. So why hadn’t she put her foot down back there?
He promised to relinquish his rights. Keeping his word was a matter of honor.
As the elevator discharged them into the lobby, Anya admitted that there’d been an escape clause in his earlier promise. His words were engraved in her memory: If you’re still absolutely determined to seek adoption, I’ll sign.
Each day, she became more keenly aware of the baby taking shape inside her. Plus, now that Zora was planning to raise her child—although she still hadn’t broken the news to the father—Anya was troubled by the prospect of having to live with an ever-present reminder of the baby she’d given up.
Jack had promised she could have as much or as little involvement in raising the baby as she liked. Of course, she preferred zero, but that meant she’d have to avoid Jack because seeing him would mean seeing their daughter, too.
It was hard, struggling through a thicket of possibilities. Also, in the short term, Jack’s offer to cook for the house was tempting.
Zora’s cooking duties started on Sunday, with Anya’s the following week. They could both use a break.
Adoption. Adoption. Adoption.
But why did she have to repeat that mantra if she truly believed in it?
You only get to make this decision once. Then you’ll bear the consequences for the rest of your life.
Yet Jack’s nearness had the oddest way of calming Anya. The thought of having him around the kitchen was almost irresistible.
Surely by the date of the ultrasound, she’d have a clearer idea of what course to choose. You’re procrastinating. Well, so what?
In the parking garage, Jack accompanied Anya to her car. Even beneath the meager lighting, his earnest, vulnerable expression pierced her defenses.
“You deserve a shot,” Anya said.
“Really?”
“Better grab the chance before I rethink this.”
Joy blazed from his eyes. “Thank you.”
“That’s all it is—a shot,” she cautioned.
“I understand.”
They stood close enough for her to feel the ripple of energy he generated, a force that drew everything nearby into his aura. The first time she’d experienced it, in the operating suite before their first surgery, she’d known he was dangerous.
Too bad she’d ignored that on New Year’s Eve.
“You can start on Sunday,” she went on. “I’ll tell the others. Actually, you should come to our meeting that afternoon. They’ll want to give you their food preferences.”
“Great!” Jack grinned like a schoolboy given a new video game. “Since I won’t know what to shop for that night, how should I plan dinner?”
“You can order pizza and a salad.” Recalling Lucky’s requirements, she added, “Be sure there’s a vegetarian one. Pineapple and mushrooms are fine.”
“Done.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to repeat that she wasn’t agreeing to let him raise the baby. But he already knew that. “See you.”
Jack waited until she drove off. Watching over her. Ah, that sense of safety.
She’d better not get used to it, Anya told herself sternly. When she thwarted him again in two weeks, he might never forgive her.
* * *
THE WOMAN CONFOUNDED him. Anya seemed as stubbornly independent as ever, so Jack had no idea why she’d said yes to letting him cook.
As he took the stairs down to the doctors’ parking section on the ground level, he reflected that he’d put himself in a position to be pushed around by her housemates. Let them bring it on. It would be good training because from what he’d heard, toddlers could out-demand and out-harass anybody.
Already, menus flashed through Jack’s mind. The vegetarian dishes posed an interesting challenge. It was also an opportunity to provide healthy meals for his little girl.
His daughter. The garage lights blurred beneath a sheen of moisture. Jack could have sworn he saw rainbows from the corners of his eyes.
Sunday couldn’t arrive soon enough.
Chapter Twelve
Monday night’s menu:
Green salad with tomatoes, apples and cheddar cheese
Lentils and bulgur wheat with walnuts
and chopped apricots
Fresh-baked pita bread
Hummus
Apple pie
Jack had Mondays off after working an overnight shift, so he spent much of the afternoon planning and shopping for the week’s meals. He arrived at the house around 4:30 p.m., letting himself inside with a key that Karen had loaned him for his tenure as household chef.
After posting the menu, he cast an appreciative glance through the window at the flower-filled yard and the wetlands beyond. Yesterday had marked the start of Daylight Savings Time, bringing lingering daylight to the mid-March afternoon. The sunshine set the grays and greens aglow and picked out brilliant spots of red and yellow wildflowers. Just beyond the fence, a large raccoon paused to stare back at him, bold and unafraid.
Now, down to work. Hungry people would soon be arriving.
Yesterday, after serving pizza and interviewing the residents about their food preferences, Jack had explored the kitchen, inventorying the spices and cooking gear. Today, he assembled bowls, pots, utensils and ingredients on the counter.
Pleased at being in control of his environment, Jack set to work. He’d considered making a splash tonight by fixing salmon—until he calculated the cost of buying enough for six people. Given the high cost of groceries, he had to be realistic, especially considering he might soon have to equip his apartment for child-rearing.
He’d hit on a less costly entrée involving lentils and a cracked whole-wheat grain. He’d bought the ingredients at the Little Persia Mart, along with fresh-baked pita bread and hummus redolent of garlic, olive oil and chickpeas.
Half an hour later, with preparations well under way, he heard a car pull into the driveway. The first to enter his new domain was Karen, who’d changed her hair from strawberry blond to black with a silver streak in front. She was wearing a black top with silver threads and a long charcoal skirt that suited her new color scheme.
“Find everything okay?” she asked.
Jack gave her a thumb’s up. “Perfect.”
She retrieved a fruit drink from the refrigerator. “The kitchen’s a bit squirrelly. I never liked having to angle around to get into the pantry, but I couldn’t change the entire floor plan.”
“Doesn’t bother me. The new appliances put our apartment to shame.” Jack particularly admired the range, with two high-intensity burners, a pair of medium burners and a simmer at the back. “Who sets the table?”
“I will tonight,” she said. “We’ll eat in the dining room while you’re here. That other table’s too small.”
“Good idea.” Jack resumed chopping an onion.
Standing by the fridge, Karen read the menu. “How do you fix the lentil dish?”
Jack indicated the recipe he’d set up in a plastic holder. “It’s all right there. I’m doubling it.”
“You might want to triple it,” she said. “We’re big eaters.”
Jack performed a fast calculation. “I should have enough ingredients.”
“That’s a good sign for the future. Parents have to be flexible.” She lifted her drink can in salute.
“Indeed they do.”
While she carried china and tableware into the dining room, Jack put the wrapped pita in the oven to warm. Next he began frying the onions, and as they cooked
he washed the romaine lettuce, drying it in a salad spinner. A few minutes later, Lucky wandered in to observe, having changed from his nurse’s uniform into a muscle T-shirt and weather-defying shorts.
Either the guy overheated easily or he was emphasizing his masculinity in the face of this male intruder into his domain. However, Jack detected no hostility as Lucky watched him dice.
“Where’d you learn to cook like that?” his companion asked.
“High school.” Thank goodness boys no longer drew sneers for taking cooking classes, at least in California.
“I appreciate the vegetarian menu.” Lucky coughed, as if it hurt to thank Jack for anything.
Quit projecting onto the guy. You two could be allies here. “My pleasure.”
From the den came the musical sound of Anya’s voice. Even without being able to distinguish the words, Jack could instantly peg her mood: a little tired but upbeat. And fairly energetic, considering her condition and that she’d worked all day.
He’d been glad to find her in his operating room on Friday, but that had been three days ago and he hadn’t caught even a glimpse of her since. Jack kept his face averted, not wanting Lucky to see how eager he was for the sight of her.
He needn’t have worried. Muttering something about a snack, Lucky darted into the pantry.
The women were moving this way. “You should tell your sister where to get off,” Zora was commenting.
“You’d think she’d notice I haven’t agreed to her plan,” Anya grumbled.
“Your cousins seem to already assume you have.” Zora stopped at the entrance to the kitchen. “Oh! Jack. I forgot you’d be here.”
Anya, shorter and rounder, steered her friend aside so she could enter. “Smells fantastic.”
“Menu’s on the fridge.” Jack chopped apples into bite-size squares.
The friends took side-by-side positions as they read the menu. “Why do you put apples in the salad?” Zora asked.
“Because tomatoes have no flavor this time of year, although I toss in a few for the lycopene,” Jack said.
“What’s that?” Zora asked.
“It’s a nutrient in red fruits and vegetables,” Anya told her.
