Pregnant and Incognito

by Pamela Browning

  If she weren’t going to have a baby, she wouldn’t have come here in the first place. She never would have met Connor McTavish to begin with. There was that.

  But this baby was a wanted child. Dana had given up her whole life so that she could bear the child in peace, away from the glare of the media spotlight. Away from Philip and his maneuverings and manipulations. And away from Myrtis, his mother.

  Except now she wanted more. She wanted something. Oh, maybe not what she’d had before, the hoopla and fame, but it was hard to exist on her rare trips to town, Esther’s attempts at friendship and counted cross-stitch. She needed more.

  She needed Conn.

  The words as they materialized in her head fairly took her breath away. She hadn’t expected to need anyone, and she’d thought she was getting along fine. Yet the past few days of Conn’s companionship had taught her how much she was missing by sequestering herself away from people.

  She and Conn had learned much about each other in the past few days while he was nursing her back to health. She had found out that he didn’t like raisins and that during his childhood he’d read most of the same books that she had.

  And as for what he had learned about her, he knew that she worked counted cross-stitch to pass the time but hated it, that she’d grown up reading the same books he had, that she was a lost cause as far as learning to play poker, and that she was allergic to shellfish.

  She made herself pick up the book on falconry. Conn had insisted on reading a chapter to her every night, and she had learned a lot. Leafing through the pages, she saw that it had pictures, lots of them, of birds of prey looking fierce with their hooked beaks and outstretched talons. That was, she supposed, the way raptors were perceived by most people, but definitely not by her. Not anymore. She well remembered Aliah’s golden eyes as the peregrine swooped toward the lure and the softness of the falcon’s wing when her feathers had inadvertently brushed Dana’s cheek. It had felt like the wing of an angel, she had thought at the time.

  It was a totally new experience, this flying of the hawks, and a way of expressing herself that she had never known before. Suddenly jittery with her inactivity, Dana got up and went to the phone. She would call Noelle, that’s what she’d do. Maybe she’d tell her about the hawks.

  On second thought, that would be foolish. She might slip and give away her location. But she wanted to call Noelle anyway.

  She picked up the phone and carried it back to the couch, then drew a blank when she couldn’t recall Noelle’s phone number. And it was a number that she used to call several times a day. That showed her how far removed she felt from her past life.

  It took only a minute to retrieve her address book from the back of the desk drawer and to enter the numbers on the keypad of the phone. When she heard Noelle pick up on the other end of the line, she said, “Surprise, Noelle! It’s me.”

  “Day! What’s the matter? You sound terrible.”

  “Oh, just the flu. I’m better now.”

  “I hope so,” Noelle said doubtfully. “Have you seen a doctor?”

  “Yes, and don’t worry. He says I’ll be fine. I don’t want to talk about me. How are you?”

  “Okay, but Timmy had the flu, too. He’s finally back at school, and I worry that Katie might get it. I’ve been wondering, Day—are we going skiing this year the way we always do?”

  This caught Dana by surprise. She regarded her swollen belly and smothered a wry chuckle. “Not likely. Maybe next year.” How young could a child be and learn to ski? Could she take the baby with them next time she and Noelle went? Maybe Timmy and Katie could go, too. With three children between them, she and Noelle could make it a family outing.

  Noelle went on talking. “Tricia asked if I’d heard from you. It made me uncomfortable to lie to her.”

  A pang of regret rocked Dana; she’d always liked Tricia, who had lived in the same apartment building.

  “You can tell her I’ve been in touch if you like. Any more flack from the tabloids?”

  “I had a call at work this week from someone at Tattle-tales Weekly. And Bentley Howser of the National Probe left a message. I can’t stand that woman.”

  “That makes two of us. I hope you didn’t call her back.”

  “No way. Philip said—”

  “You’ve seen Philip?”

  A small hesitation, and then Noelle said, sounding defensive, “I work for Philip, Day. As we all do here at General Broadcasting.”

  “Of course. I meant socially.” Dana regretted her sharp interruption.

  “Oh well, Philip stopped by my office one day. He said he’d heard from Bentley Howser, also. He didn’t know anything to tell her, he said. He wanted to know if I’d talked to you.”

  “You haven’t. At least as far as Philip is concerned.” Dana tried and failed to keep the bitterness out of her voice, but with the lingering image still clear in her mind of Philip’s bare pink buttocks pumping—in Dana’s bed, no less—and Erica’s subsequent shriek and scramble for cover, Dana felt less than kindly toward either one of them. Especially Philip, because he had betrayed her.

  It was at that moment that the door to the cabin swung open and Conn said, “Hey, I didn’t know if you had a charcoal grill or not so I—”

  Dana hurriedly muffled the phone, but it was too late. “Day?” Noelle was saying. “Is someone there with you? It sounds like—”

  Dana broke the connection before Noelle finished her sentence, and her eyes met Conn’s. Guiltily, she thought, though she wasn’t sure why. He wouldn’t care if she talked to someone, but it wouldn’t do to have him find out who it was.

  Conn cocked one eyebrow and went to set down the bags and boxes he was carrying on the kitchen table. He glanced over his shoulder as he began to unpack them.

  “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were on the phone,” he said.

  “I was just hanging up,” Dana said.

  His keen eyes bored through her as he came to stand in the doorway. “Was it anyone I know?”

  Dana felt her cheeks coloring under his scrutiny. “A friend. No one from here.”

  “Not that it’s any of my business,” he said dismissively as he went back to his unpacking. “I brought a hibachi so I could grill the steaks tonight. I didn’t think you had a charcoal grill here.”

  “I don’t,” Dana said, laboriously getting up from the couch. She lowered herself to one of the chairs at the kitchen table. “How are the birds?”

  “I’ll work them tomorrow. Billy Wayne wants to go with me.” He crumpled up the plastic bag. “Where does this go?”

  “In the closet. So you liked Esther’s nephew?”

  “Seems like a decent kid once you get past the orange-and-purple hair. He used to keep pigeons for racing, so he was excited to see the hawks. He’ll be a good one to come and feed them if I ever have to go to L.A.”

  Dana said very carefully, “Are you thinking of going soon?”

  “I like to visit my mother from time to time,” he said.

  “You haven’t seen her for a while, I take it?”

  “Not for several months. She doesn’t know me, but I always feel better if I check in once in a while to make sure that everything is okay.”

  “When will you be going next?” She didn’t like to think of his leaving.

  “I’m not sure. Say, do you want potatoes or rice with your steak tonight? I brought potatoes,” he said, indicating two large russets on the edge of the sink, “and you already have rice in your cupboard.”

  “Potatoes. I’ll wash them.”

  “Fine. I brought my laptop computer so I can work, and I can use the time to sort out some things on it while you take your nap.”

  Conn went into the living room and sat down in the green chair with the computer on his lap. She peeked at him once while washing the potatoes, and he seemed absorbed in whatever it was, studying something on the computer screen with an intensity that begged no interruption.

  She wondered what kind of
work he was doing and why he had chosen to take it up now. She had seen no evidence of his doing any kind of job before.

  A daily nap had become a necessity since her bout with the flu, so she didn’t intend to skip it today. When she headed for the sleeping alcove and pulled the curtain across the opening, Conn seemed not to notice. He was still intently peering at the computer screen when she fell asleep.

  THE ARTICLE HE’D WRITTEN about the Florida panther, an endangered species, seemed like a halfhearted effort. That was probably because he had never pursued the freelancing aspect of a writing career; there had been no room in his life at that time for halfhearted endeavors. But as he read, he realized that all he needed to do was juggle some paragraphs around and update it a bit. Then the piece would be ready to send to Jim Menoch, his friend at Nation’s Green.

  He stood up, energized by the idea of readying the article for publication. After grabbing an apple from a bowl on the coffee table, he sat down on the edge of the couch. That’s when he spotted the small leather address book tucked down between the couch cushions. Thinking that he didn’t want it to get pushed any farther under the cushions, he wedged his fingers down next to it and pulled it out. Idly, because he was still concentrating on the Florida panther article, he thumbed through the pages of the little book.

  It had lots of entries. The name of someone named Raymond was underlined, two phone numbers crossed out and replaced with new ones. Tricia Phelps didn’t have an address, only a phone number, and Noelle Hassler had her children’s names listed under hers. He was on the verge of closing the book when a name leaped out at him—Philip Grantham, the same name that was on the scrap of the envelope he had found earlier.

  Philip Grantham had no address, either, but there were three phone numbers—home, office and mobile.

  He heard the yank of the curtain behind him, and he dropped the book back onto the couch. He nudged it under one of the pillows.

  He stood up, turning to find Dana looking all rosy with sleep.

  “Feeling okay?” he asked.

  “Mmm. Feeling lazy is more like it.”

  “We settled that a couple of days ago. You’re to sleep as much as you like. We have to get you in shape so that you can fly the hawks with me again soon.”

  She smiled at that. “Can’t wait.” She glanced at his computer. “Did you get much work done?”

  “Enough.”

  “What is it you’re doing?”

  “I’ve decided to do a bit of freelancing. Nature articles, that kind of thing. Say, since you’re awake, I’ll go light the charcoal in the hibachi. I thought I could set it up on the old picnic table out back.”

  “Fine. I’ll toss the potatoes in the oven.”

  He nodded, wondering if he would ever feel comfortable asking her something about her life before she came here. All the while he was piling the charcoal and squirting it with lighter fluid, he debated whether to broach the subject over dinner.

  SHE COULDN’T HELP HERSELF. She leaned over the back of the chair and read the words on Conn’s computer screen. He’d never mentioned that he was a writer.

  From what she could figure out, the document she was reading had something to do with the Florida Everglades. It wasn’t a part of the world that she associated with Conn. When she searched her memory trying to recall if he’d ever said anything about being in Florida, she came up with nothing. She leaned closer and realized that the writing pertained to the Florida panther.

  If she had dared, she might have scrolled down the screen to find out more. But she was saved from that decision when a screensaver popped up on the screen, and the Florida panther information was obliterated by cartoon fish swimming.

  She reminded herself that she should be doing something besides trying to figure out what Conn was up to. For lack of anything better to do, she went and dug the toenail clippers out of the basket in the bathroom where she kept them.

  When Conn came back inside, Dana was sitting on the side of the bed with clippers in hand, trying to figure out how to cut her toenails. With mounting despair, she realized that they never told you that in any of those pregnancy handbooks. They told you about massaging your nipples so they wouldn’t crack when breastfeeding, they told you to eat saltines for morning sickness, but not a word about toenails. She couldn’t bend over—the baby was too big now for her to be able to reach her toes. She couldn’t even reach her toes with her knee bent and her foot on the edge of the bed, mostly because her big stomach kept her knee from bending much.

  Conn went over to his computer and turned it off before closing the lid. “Anything wrong?” he asked mildly.

  Dana glared at him. “Only everything,” she snapped. She didn’t know why she snapped; it just happened. It occurred to her that she had endured a surprise pregnancy, a faithless lover, and self-exile only to be done in by toenails.

  He looked as if the hinges on his jaw had given way. “Could you explain that?” he asked cautiously. Her eyes couldn’t help following the indentation on his upper lip and admiring the curve of it.

  She swallowed, a big gulp. “It’s—it’s—I hate counted cross-stitch. And I hate being p-pregnant. And I hate not being able to cut my toenails.” She waved the toenail clippers in the air for emphasis and ending up throwing them against the wall. They fell with a clatter, and in horror she realized that Conn was staring at her with an expression of dislike. Or was it disgust? Or what?

  Tears burned the back of her eyes, and one slid off the end of her nose and fell onto her shirt. She hadn’t realized that she was crying.

  “It’s the hormones,” she said, holding back further tears with difficulty. “When you’re pregnant, they go berserk. And then you go berserk. Not you, I mean me. Oh, what am I saying? I can’t even piece together a coherent sentence.” Another tear started its journey down her cheek. “I’m going to cry and get my nose all stuffed up again. I think I hate myself. I shouldn’t hate myself, though, cause I’m not even me anymore.” How true this was, Conn would probably never know, and her whole crisis of identity made her want to wail. She’d liked being Day Quinlan.

  “Dana,” Conn said, coming and kneeling beside the bed. “I don’t know what started this. I thought we could have a nice dinner, like we have the past few nights. You’re supposed to be feeling well enough to enjoy it.”

  “Well, I’m not,” she said stubbornly, refusing to look at him. She was fat and ugly and would never look like Day Quinlan again. No one would believe she was Day Quinlan, not in a million years. She didn’t have to worry about being discovered. About Philip giving her a hard time over the baby. About taking the baby from her.

  “Do you want to talk about this?” Conn asked gently, taking her hand.

  “No. All I want is to be able to cut my toenails,” she said.

  To her surprise Conn tossed his head back and laughed. He laughed long and hard, but she couldn’t join in.

  “I didn’t think you could be so mean,” she sniffed. “You’re making fun of me because I look so awful.” The minute the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. She knew she was being childish and petty, but she couldn’t help it. It was as if some evil genie had come along and forced the words out of her mouth.

  Conn sobered quickly. “No, you don’t look awful,” he said solemnly. “Except for your toenails being too long,” he added with a sly twinkle.

  “Ohhh, you!” she said, and socked him with a pillow.

  He fell back on the floor, pretending to be stunned. He sat up again. “Point your foot in my direction. I’m a pretty good toenail groomer. I trim the birds’ talons, you know.”

  She yanked her foot away in horror. “No way. I’d be too embarrassed. It’s too personal.”

  He reached for her foot and pulled it toward him. “So? You don’t think vomiting all over my hands was too personal? And we made it through that, didn’t we?” He retrieved the clippers from where they’d fallen when she’d thrown them.

  Dana blushed. “Con
n—”

  “Keep still, or you’ll end up with one less toe.” He clipped the first toenail, then the next one. “Was that so bad?”

  “No,” Dana said, clutching a pillow to her chest. “And you didn’t have to bring up the fact that I tossed my cookies that first night.”

  “I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t been so ornery.” He finished with the first foot and took the other in his hand. His hands were warm, and Dana tried to relax. She could, if only she hadn’t felt so undignified.

  “Have you felt the baby move today?” He asked this every day.

  “Yes, and quite forcefully too.”

  He finished clipping the toenails of the second foot, and Dana hastened to pull both legs up onto the bed. “Um, thanks,” she said. “I’m still embarrassed, but—well, thanks.”

  Conn sat down beside her on the edge of the bed. “Dana,” he said, “is there anyone you want me to call to come stay with you while you get over the aftereffects of this flu bug? If I were you I’d think of someone—a friend maybe—who could stay here with you.” His tone had shifted and become more serious.

  “No,” she said sharply, too sharply. She didn’t add that the sweet domesticity of their situation was beginning to grow on her and that she didn’t want to depend on him too much.

  She didn’t want to need Connor McTavish.

  At the same time and with growing dismay, she realized her own helplessness and vulnerability. And she was scared—scared of being alone, scared of—scared of herself. With sudden clarity she admitted for the first time that she wasn’t the person she had been before all this, she wasn’t strong, confident Day Quinlan anymore. She was the frightened and defenseless Dana Cantrell, at the mercy of her hormones and barely recovered from the flu.

  It made sense that Conn wanted her to find someone to stay with her because he was fed up. Who could blame him after what he’d been through with her the past few days? And with growing panic she realized that she didn’t want Conn to leave. But what did he want? She lifted her eyes to his, searching for reassurance that he wanted to be with her despite the problems she presented.