by Beth K. Vogt
Haley wasn’t surprised that the instructor sought her out when the class was over. Lily touched her arm as Haley pulled on her gloves. Claire, who could make friends with anyone, chatted with Camilo and Feliciana, the couple expecting triplets.
“So, Haley.”
“Yes?”
“How was class for you?”
Images of trying to spell her name with her hips replayed through her head. “Interesting. Not sure I’m going to be up for that hula-hip name-spelling exercise when I’m actually in labor.”
“It’s an option.” Lily paused. “You did take my business card, right?”
Haley patted her coat pocket. “Have it right here.”
“I want you to know that I understand how you’re feeling.”
Oh. Another “I understand how you’re feeling” person.
Lily’s gentle smile hinted that Haley hadn’t hidden her reaction. “I mean, I really do. My husband died of a brain aneurysm when I was pregnant with our second child.”
Her words collided with Haley’s barricaded heart. “How . . . far along were you?”
“Not quite as far along as you are now. Five months.” Age lines bracketed her smile, and her gray eyes were clear. Haley’s heart seemed to lean toward this woman whom she’d met only two hours earlier. “I didn’t know how I was going to have a baby without Tom there with me.”
“What did you do?”
“I went from never wanting to have the baby to thinking I’d be pregnant forever.” At Haley’s soft snort of laughter, Lily’s smile broadened. “Believe me, every pregnant woman ends up thinking that.”
“Obviously you had your baby.”
“My mom was with me when our daughter was born. I held my child and bawled for half an hour. Counted her toes. Her fingers. That’s what Tom would have done.”
“Claire’s my best friend.” Haley tucked her hands into her coat pockets. “She hasn’t had any children yet, but I know she’ll stay with me.”
“Well, if you want any more support, just know that I’m available to help you during labor too. Tuck my card in your labor bag.”
“I need to pack one first.” Haley stepped away as Claire joined them. “Thank you. I’ll think about it.”
As they walked outside into the darkness illuminated by streetlights, Claire was silent for a few seconds. “So, are you going to tell me what you’re thinking about?”
“Lily told me that her husband died when she was pregnant with their second child.”
“But her husband greeted us—”
“People remarry, Claire.” Other people. Not her. “Anyway, she offered to be a backup coach for me when the baby is born.”
“She does have the practical experience.”
“But Lily is not you.” As they settled into her car, Haley turned to look at the ultrafeminine woman across from her. They’d forged a friendship that ignored Claire’s fashion sense and Haley’s preference for Sam’s flannel shirts and baseball caps. “Friendship trumps experience every time.”
“Hey, some birth instructor is not pushing me out of the way that easily. I have first dibs on holding your baby—well, right after you. But if you’d like an experienced mama in the room, I’m okay with that.”
“Sure, she’s experienced. But she’s a stranger.”
“Well, let’s leave it at you’re thinking about it.”
“Thanks for covering for me today—bringing the coach’s bag.”
Claire rubbed her hands together. “It’s my job. Now start the car, will you? And turn on the seat warmers, please. I’m freezing.”
“Will do, bossy. You interested in some French fries? Buddy’s got a craving.”
“With a chocolate milkshake?”
“Of course.”
“I’m in.”
Stephen tucked the brown paper bag of takeout from one of his favorite Fort Collins restaurants under his arm, digging in his coat pocket for his car keys. He should have stayed home, cooked dinner for himself. But he was so busy chasing down job leads, he’d forgotten to thaw and marinate the chicken he’d planned on grilling. And after sitting at the computer for six hours, submitting another group of online job applications, he was ready to get outside—if only for twenty minutes while he picked up dinner. One advantage to being back up north: he knew where all his favorite restaurants were—and Café de Bangkok’s red curry with beef sounded perfect.
He waited on the sidewalk as a blue Ford hybrid SUV pulled into a slot and both front doors opened. A man with a Roman nose and slicked-back dark hair appeared from the driver’s side, and a woman in a brilliant fuchsia coat about Elissa’s height stepped out from the other side of the car.
Wait. The woman didn’t just look like Elissa. She was Elissa.
Stephen stood still as the couple approached, his almost-fiancée so focused on the man beside her that she didn’t notice Stephen until she was right in front of him.
“Stephen.” Elissa paused at the curb, her arm woven through the other man’s.
“Hello, Elissa.” His eyes stayed trained on the man with her.
“Eddie, this is Stephen Ames, a good friend of mine.”
Nice to know that six months and one rejected proposal earned him “good friend” status.
Eddie held out his hand, forcing Stephen to do the polite thing and shake it.
“Why don’t you go inside and see how long the wait is for a table?” Elissa nodded toward the Thai restaurant Stephen had just left.
The man hesitated, looking back and forth between Elissa and Stephen, his hand resting on her shoulder. “You sure?”
“Of course. I’ll be right in.”
What did the guy expect him to do? Kidnap Elissa?
Elissa watched Eddie enter the restaurant, her head held high, before looking back at him. “How are you, Stephen?”
“I’m good. Job hunting.”
“Any prospects?”
“Nothing definite.” He eased his grip on the sack of food. “And you? You’re doing well?”
“Yes.”
She obviously wasn’t going to discuss Eddie—and did he really want to know how soon they’d started dating after she rejected him?
“Things going well at the boutique?”
“A little slow after the holidays, but I’m brainstorming a Valentine’s Day sale, hoping to attract customers.”
“You always were good with marketing.”
“Thanks.” Elissa fiddled with the belt of her coat, her glance straying past him.
“I should let you go—”
“Yes . . . It was nice seeing you, Stephen.”
A few minutes later, Stephen stared at the front of the Thai restaurant, the faint aroma of curry filling his car. One thing was certain: he was going to make a strategic stop by Walrus Ice Cream for a root beer float—for an appetizer.
Elissa wasn’t waiting around for him to find what he was searching for—who he was searching for. She was starting the new year with a new man. He leaned back, his hands fisted on his thighs. Had he been off track when he proposed? Mistaken his feelings for her? How could he move on, create a family for himself, when his relationship with Sam shadowed him?
All he had to do was figure himself out—find some peace. That’s all he had to do.
But he’d ignored the one person who could help him do that for twelve years. Thought he didn’t need him. That he was better off, more complete, without him.
When Sam left for boot camp, Stephen never imagined it would be the first day of more than a decade of deafening silence. If he had known that, he would have found some way past the hurt and anger that choked him, that prevented him from saying good-bye—saying he was sorry. From telling Sam he’d miss him. That even though he didn’t understand why his brother had chosen the military, he hoped Sam was happy. That he knew Sam would graduate at the top of his class in boot camp.
He didn’t mean to destroy their relationship. In Sam’s eyes, Stephen may have thrown down the gauntle
t when he chose to stay with their dad, but Sam had retaliated by requesting his mom be granted sole parental rights.
“I can’t believe Dad’s getting remarried.” Sam lay on his back, arms folded underneath his head, staring up at the roof of the tree house, where sunshine sliced through the uneven spaces in between the boards.
“You’re kidding, right?” Stephen sat with his back up against one of the walls, a bit of a summer breeze whispering through the window. “This has been coming for a long time. Why do you think he wanted us to meet Gina when we were here for Christmas?”
“She’s like . . . what? Thirty? Dad looks stupid dating her.”
“He’s happy.”
“He and Mom were happy. They should fix their marriage instead of going off and getting married to other people. What happened to all that ‘till death do us part’ stuff they probably said at their wedding?”
“I dunno, Sam. It’s not like we can tell Dad and Mom to go to counseling or something.”
“Why should they listen to us? We just have to deal with their stupid decisions.” Sam rolled over onto to his stomach so that he could look at Stephen. “Well, I’m not going to do it this time.”
“Not going to do what?”
“Just because Dad’s getting married doesn’t mean I have to like it or that I have to come to the wedding. This is gonna upset Mom.”
“You not coming to the wedding won’t stop it.”
“I know that. But I’m sticking with Mom. She’s been hurt enough.”
“The divorce wasn’t all Dad’s fault—”
“Who had to move, huh? Mom. And she had to start working again because she said Dad doesn’t pay her enough child support. And she cries herself to sleep at night—can’t you hear her?”
Stephen heard her. And he could still hear the echoes of his parents’ fights—the screaming, the yelling, the accusations.
“Dad needs us, too, Sam. I like Gina. I want to give her a chance.”
“I don’t want a stepmother. Dad can get married if he wants—I can’t stop him. But I don’t have to like it.”
Their standoff in the tree house had been the first of many. Each showdown seemed to shove him and Sam a few feet farther apart as they spent less and less time together. Talked less. Understood each other less. And then Sam left for the army.
And now there was no way this side of eternity that Stephen could reach his brother.
nine
Nesting. What a ridiculous term for this all-consuming desire to ransack and reorganize every dresser drawer and closet shelf in her house. The urge to straighten out her kitchen cabinets pulled her out of bed at four in the morning. She should have been sleeping, not sorting through what few kitchen utensils and Tupperware she’d managed to unpack.
What had Claire said? “You’re getting ready for that little one to be born. Like a mama bird.”
Didn’t getting ready for the baby mean creating a room—a nursery—for him? Covering up the orange walls with something more appealing, like plain old white? Putting together the crib? Hanging curtains? Maybe even washing the few infant clothes Haley had purchased because, well, once again, Claire insisted the baby needed to wear something?
“Oh, Haley, look at this adorable sleeper! It has a zebra on it.” Claire held up a white sleeper with bright blue, red, and yellow stripes. “And this one has penguins. Aren’t penguins fun? You need to get these.”
For a woman who hadn’t birthed a child yet, Claire had no problem spending Haley’s money in Gymboree.
She surveyed her almost-empty cupboard, plastic containers all in a row, the lids stored in a separate container. For the first time in her life, she felt domestic . . . and ridiculously pleased that her cabinets were organized. While she’d been up, she’d tackled her linen closet, too. But if she focused only on towels and Tupperware, her son would sleep in a laundry basket beside her bed.
Of course, if the baby was going to sleep in a crib, she needed to conquer her fear of a toolbox, specifically a screwdriver, for this project. Her dad taught all her brothers how to handle the tools in his workshop—and included Haley in the instruction by the time she was old enough to follow him around asking, “Whatcha doing, Daddy? Can I help?”
But while she could take on her brothers in tackle football—and had the scars to prove it—and bested them on the shooting range, she failed completely when she picked up tools. Any and all tools.
She’d have no problem unpacking the crib from the box in the spare bedroom, where the deliverymen had hauled it when it arrived yesterday. Bless her parents for surprising her with the gift. But hauling Sam’s toolbox into the room? Reading the assembly directions? Attempting to put the thing together?
A waste of time.
She patted her tummy, which seemed to have popped out even farther overnight and stretched against the limits of Sam’s T-shirt, which doubled as a maternity top. Maybe she needed to actually walk into a maternity store. No. She’d gotten this far utilizing baggy sweatpants and loose tops and sweaters. No need to spend good money on pants with elastic panels that she’d never wear again.
She walked down the hallway and opened the door into the room next to her bedroom. A window, the blinds closed to the winter sunshine, was set in the wall across from her, with not even a basic set of curtains to soften the stark outline. The walls, marred with wear, were painted the pale autumn orange that the previous owners had selected. Maybe she should have insisted the owners repaint. Did she have the time to paint? The energy? Would her ob-gyn approve?
Haley ran a hand along the rectangular cardboard box leaning against one wall. Did she dare try her luck? Maybe Claire’s husband would help her put the crib together. Maybe she should have asked the deliverymen to assemble it—
The out-of-tune doorbell interrupted her internal litany of questions.
But first she’d answer the door. And it better not be Stephen Ames showing up with another unwanted, unneeded, unasked-for baby gift. True, he hadn’t been around in three days. But she found herself wondering where he was—and if he would show up on her doorstep again. She wasn’t waiting for him . . . just on her guard.
Dusting her hands off, she walked to the front door, giving a quick glance out the front window. Why were cars parked in front of her house? Somebody in the cul-de-sac must have been expecting company.
As she opened the door, Claire’s jubilant “Surprise!” caused her to stumble backward.
“What? Who are you surprising? It’s not my birthday.”
A stream of women, all carrying gift bags or boxes and dishes of food, followed Claire into the house.
Claire blew her an air kiss as she passed. “Surprise for you—and that little guy we get to meet here pretty soon.”
Haley watched as Emily, the wife of one of Sam’s friends, breezed by with a cheery “Good morning!” and a wicker picnic basket dangling from her arm. The woman moved the laptop to the breakfast bar, depositing the pile of homeowners’ association letters into the wire basket. Then she unpacked the hamper lined with red-and-white checked material, covering the table with a white lace tablecloth. Within seconds, Emily pulled coordinated pale blue plates, napkins, cups, and plastic ware out of the basket and began arranging everything on the table.
Hugging her, Claire nudged Haley toward the kitchen. “Happy baby shower.”
Haley tried to process the cacophony of women’s voices filling her house, drowning out the sound of the movie playing on her TV. “We didn’t talk about a baby shower.”
“I know we didn’t.” Claire squeezed her hands. “I also know how you feel about parties and all that ‘fuss,’ as you call it. But every mom deserves a shower.”
They both sidestepped Sara, who carried a round cake decorated with pastel-colored polka dots and the word Baby. Cheryl, Faith, and Sandy, three other wives of men in Sam’s battalion, stood at the kitchen counter, arranging croissant sandwiches on a platter and unwrapping fruit and veggie trays. Whoa. Talk about movi
ng fast.
“What do you want me to do?” Haley stood in the steady stream of women flowing from the kitchen to the living room and back again, all stopping to hug her as they set up for her party.
“You are the guest of honor—you and baby-to-be.” Claire, perfectly put together in a coordinated pair of leather boots, skinny jeans, and a white cardigan sweater set with a gold scarf, turned her around and pushed her toward the living room. “Sit. Relax.”
“I can’t let you do this.”
“As if you have a choice.”
Haley lowered her voice, standing close to her friend, who was emptying ice into a fancy silver bucket. She must have brought that with her—Haley didn’t own anything silver. “Claire, I’ve never had a baby shower, but I do know it’s usually not a ‘show up on the mom-to-be’s doorstep’ affair. Besides, I wasn’t expecting you to—anybody to—”
Claire wove her arm through Haley’s and tugged her down the hall. She raised her voice so that it echoed back into the living room. “Yes, I’d love to see what you’ve done with the baby’s room.”
“But I haven’t done anything.”
“Show me the room.”
“Fine. I’ll show you the room—and everything I’ve done.” She opened the door, stepped inside, and did a quick turn around. “Which is nothing, besides being surprised by the delivery of a crib from my parents.”
Dancing a brief jig, Claire clapped her hands like a toddler. “Happy baby shower from your mom and dad!”
Haley would have sat down—if there’d been anything to collapse onto besides the floor. “My parents knew about the baby shower?”
“Of course they knew. I invited your mom, but she said she’s coming out once the baby’s born. She did want to send a gift, though.” Claire gave the room a quick once-over. “You don’t want to bring your son home to this room. There are no curtains—”
“I know that. I just haven’t gotten around to painting yet. Or choosing curtains. Or a dresser.”
All the things she needed to do—and hadn’t—rose up and accused her. Please, don’t let Claire ask what I do all day. She couldn’t tell her. Dodged Shelton’s letters. Napped. Filled the silence with nonstop DVDs. Went to the bathroom too many times. Avoidance took up a lot of time.
