Make Room for Baby

by Cathy Gillen Thacker

  Tad knew he did love Abby. But if he told her that now, in her current peevish mood, she’d probably burst into tears. Either that or she’d explain to him that he really didn’t love her.

  “Because she needs to know you love her whether she’s pregnant or not, young or old, fat or thin, tall or short, already married or just engaged. Once she does, once she feels that in her heart, my guess is she’s gonna calm down pretty quickly.” Doc stood. The advice-giving session over, he clapped him on the shoulder. “Think you can handle all that?”

  Tad nodded. Agree with her, give her presents, tell her that he loved her. It sure sounded simple enough. “Thanks, Doc.” Tad shook Doc’s hand. “I really owe you for this one.”

  “DID DOC KNOW what to do?” a worried Sadie asked Tad the moment he walked back through the newspaper doors.

  Tad nodded, distracted. “Yeah,” he said thoughtfully, sitting down behind his computer. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense to him.

  Abby was already a little ticked off at him because he’d kept trying, however subtly, to preempt their agreement and get her back into bed with him. That had seemed—to him—a logical and speedy way to get them feeling close again.

  Judging by what Doc had told him about pregnant women needing lots of reassurance and husbandly understanding, that had probably been a mistake. Abby already felt pressured by the many changes in her life. She probably thought sex was all he wanted from her. And though Tad knew nothing could be further from the truth—he wanted Abby in his life, baby or no baby, sex or no sex—he resolved to stop putting the moves on her until she gave him a signal that she wanted them to resume the physical side of their relationship.

  Doc was right. Maybe if Abby realized he loved her for herself and not just the shape of her body or the incredible passion between them, she’d begin to have trust in him, in them, and see they had the potential to make their marriage last a lifetime, after all.

  Chapter Seven

  Tad tried calling off and on the rest of the morning. Abby was either not there or not answering or talking on the phone and ignoring the call-waiting beep. Whatever the case, Tad had to check on her or go crazy. When lunch hour came, he delegated a breaking story about a potential salmonella outbreak at the Mighty Fine Restaurant to Sonny, then hopped in the Jeep and drove home.

  The red, white and blue express-mail truck was just pulling away from the curb as he turned into the driveway. Abby was standing in the doorway. She looked pale and wan and had what appeared to be a receipt in her hands. In deference to the warm and sunny July day, she’d changed into an oversize navy blue T-shirt and matching running shorts that deftly disguised her pregnancy. Her feet were bare and her golden-brown hair had been caught in a bouncy ponytail on top of her head. Color flooding back into her cheeks, she waited while he approached.

  “Everything okay?” Tad asked as he followed her into the house.

  She shrugged her slender shoulders, her expression noncommittal. The pink spots in her cheeks deepened. She swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “I could ask you the same thing.” Their eyes met as she folded her arms beneath her breasts. “What are you doing home?”

  “I left some papers here,” Tad fibbed as he moved close enough to inhale the intoxicating vanilla fragrance of her perfume. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected from her today. Recriminations for walking out on her the night before, not telling her where he was going or letting her know when he’d be back. At this point he’d even take the silent treatment. Instead, she seemed determined to let him know she couldn’t care less what he did. And that left him feeling panicked.

  Determined not to let her know that, however, Tad sauntered into the living room and stepped around his favorite recliner. Recalling his purported mission, he looked around for papers—any papers. “I tried to let you know I was coming home to pick them up—” he paused to retrieve a folder of papers from the coffee table he was half-afraid she knew he didn’t need “—but the phone line was busy, I guess.”

  Abby put her express-mail receipt and several new copies of her résumé in her briefcase. “I’ve been on the phone all morning talking to a headhunter Yvonne recommended.”

  The news Abby was now actively pursuing a job hit Tad like a sucker punch to the gut. He was irritated with Abby, but remembering Doc’s advice not to upset her, Tad lounged against the back of the sofa and pretended an amiable attitude he couldn’t begin to feel. “Yeah?” He studied her with growing curiosity. “What’d she say?”

  “She thinks she can get me something, but it’ll probably take at least six months,” Abby replied. “Meanwhile, she wanted copies of my résumé ASAP, so I printed them out and sent them to her.”

  Again Tad feigned approval of her actions. She hadn’t left yet, he reassured himself. He still had months to get her to change her mind. Tad spotted the ginger ale and saltine crackers on the coffee table. “You feeling okay?”

  Abby tossed her head. “If you must know, no. At least I wasn’t earlier.” She pivoted on her heel and headed for the kitchen. “I’m starving now.”

  Now was not the time to be noticing how sexy her legs were or that she was not wearing a bra.

  “Feeling better, then?” he asked gently.

  “Yeah.” Abby smiled. “Plus,” she continued happily, “I think I’ve finally figured out why I’ve been so depressed and moody lately.”

  Tad had to admit he was very curious about why she’d cried herself to sleep the night before. Aware once again of the overpowering need to comfort her, he watched as she pulled a package of linguine off the shelf and put some water on the stove to boil.

  “I’m listening,” he said, all the compassion he felt for her reflected in his eyes.

  “I think it has to do with the fact that I hadn’t started my job search.” Her golden-brown eyes serious, Abby moved away from him. “I told myself I’d delayed it because of the pregnancy, because I was so busy here, but I don’t think that’s why I hesitated at all,” she confided as she bent down to get a skillet from the storage bin beneath the stove. As she straightened, she seemed to lose her balance. He moved forward and put out a hand to assist her. The feel of her soft hand in his was enough to make his heart pound, and he longed to kiss and hold her all the more.

  Removing her hand from his, Abby turned to put the skillet on the stove. For a moment her eyes narrowed reflectively and her mood turned brooding again. Finally she shook her head, let out a soft self-deprecating sigh, then turned back to him. “I think I was just afraid that I wouldn’t get another editing position on par with what I had. I know.” She held up a hand before he could interrupt. “It’s silly of me to even think that way, not to mention self-defeating, so I’ve decided to stop,” she told him happily, looking up at him with new resolve, “and just have a more positive attitude.”

  No question, Tad wanted her to feel good about herself and her work. “That’s smart,” he told her, knowing even as he encouraged her to shoot for her dreams, too, that he still did not want her to leave. Could he help it if he wanted her in his life? he wondered guiltily. For now, forever?

  “You’re right, it is smart,” Abby replied, squaring her shoulders. “Because the future is coming whether I want to think about it or not and I’ve got a baby to support.”

  “We both do,” Tad reminded her. He only hoped one day soon she would see that this was also something they could do together.

  “Right.” Abby smiled, relieved to find he understood. “Anyway, I need my work to sustain me, always have, always will, so knowing I’m eventually going to pick up where I left off is a big morale booster.” She strode past him and headed for the refrigerator.

  What about the work we’re doing here? Doesn’t that count? Tad wanted to ask. He recalled Doc’s advice, the fact Abby had already admittedly been sick once today, and knew he had no choice but to agree with her. “I’m sure it is.”

  Abby got out the makings for clam sauce. She put butter and garlic in
a saucepan and turned the burner up to moderate heat. “In fact, I think if I’d just made finding a new job in my field my number-one priority from the beginning, I would’ve felt a lot better from the get go.” Abby paused to add flour and then clam juice, blending the mixture with a wire whisk.

  Tad had known their marriage ultimately might not work the moment he’d told Abby he’d purchased the newspaper and intended to move to North Carolina. But it still stung to see her acting as if they were already on the road to divorce when they still had a good six and a half months ahead of them before their baby was born to try to make things work.

  The doorbell rang. Abby looked at Tad. “Are you expecting anyone?”

  Tad didn’t know if he was glad or sorry about the interruption. He only knew he didn’t want to talk about her leaving anymore. “No. You?”

  She shook her head. Tad went to get it, and a moment later Sonny and Tim Grau, the owner of the Mighty Fine Restaurant, came barrelling in. Tad knew before one word was spoken what the visit was probably about.

  “You can’t do this to me,” Tim shouted at Tad angrily, his face turning almost as red as his rust-colored hair. “Not after all the advertising dollars I gave your paper.”

  “Look, I’m sorry if you have a problem down there, but one thing has nothing to do with the other,” Tad said. The scent of simmering clam sauce filled the air and a perplexed Abby came out to join them, wooden spoon still in hand.

  “The hell it doesn’t!” Tim countered as Abby walked over to Tad and stood next to him. “I just opened three weeks ago,” Tim continued. “If you lead with a story on food poisoning, I’m finished.”

  “Not necessarily,” Tad said.

  “Oh, yeah?” His expression grim, Tim looked at Tad. “Would you want your pregnant wife eating there if you read in the Blossom Weekly News that six people got sick after eating the chicken special last Thursday?”

  Tad understood why Tim was upset, but there was no way he was censoring the news to protect some people and expose others. The truth was the truth. The news was the news. And that was the way it was going to be.

  “Six people did get sick, according to the health department,” Tad said matter-of-factly.

  “It wasn’t my restaurant’s fault! The poultry was tainted when I got it!”

  “If the facts bear that out,” Tad said, knowing full well that the investigation by the health department had not yet been completed, “then the article will say that.”

  Tim Grau glared at Tad. He looked mad enough to punch something. “You know, I heard from some of the other merchants in town that you were going to be unreasonable,” he said, a muscle working in his jaw. “But pulling stuff like this is going to do you in, McFarlane. In fact, unless you adhere to the local creed and give more favorable coverage to those who place the bigger ads as a sort of professional courtesy, from one merchant to another, I’ll bet you go out of business faster than I do.”

  Tad was betting he wouldn’t. “I’ve never purposely held back on a story and I’m not going to start now,” he told Tim as Abby slipped her hand in his and gave it a squeeze.

  “Then you’re going to be sorry.” Tim Grau turned on his heel and left in a huff.

  Sonny looked at Tad apologetically. “I tried to stop him, but in a town this size, it wasn’t hard to figure out where you were. Since he was headed over here, as the reporter covering the story, I figured I’d better come over here, too.”

  “It’s okay,” Tad reassured Sonny.

  “It certainly is.” Abby smiled at him, too.

  Relief flooded Sonny’s youthful features. Once again he looked to Tad for advice. “So what should I do about the story?”

  “Write it. Talk to everyone who got sick, including Doc and the health department, and then put it on my desk. It’s going in the next edition.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise?” Abby asked after Sonny had left and she and Tad sat down to steaming plates of linguine with clam sauce.

  Tad liked the idea of coming home to have lunch with his wife, even if it had been sort of a spur-of-the-moment deal. It was cozy and intimate, sitting here with her like this. So much so that he wanted to take her in his arms, cement their conciliatory words with a hug. He knew he couldn’t, not without being tempted to do more, so he sat where he was.

  “I purchased my own newspaper because I was disgusted by the increasing bias in the news and the pressure put on me by the brass to slant certain stories certain ways and forget others entirely. I’m going to give fair balanced reporting or none at all.”

  “I admire the way you’re sticking to your convictions,” Abby said with a smile as she got up to get out dill pickles and chocolate syrup. While Tad watched in amazement, she added chocolate to her milk and pickles to the edge of her plate. “That was one of the things I always hated about magazine work. We were so dependent on advertising.”

  “Well, you won’t have to do that at the Blossom Weekly News,” Tad said as he dug into the delicious pasta. “If there’s a story of interest to our readers, we’ll cover it, and we’ll leave the editorializing to the editorial page.”

  He held her gaze, amazed as she continued to down her food with all the gusto of a hungry linebacker. “You’re really going to eat that dill pickle with the linguine?”

  “Disgusting, isn’t it?” Abby replied cheerfully as she ate one spear and then helped herself to another.

  Tad remembered Doc’s advice to agree with his pregnant wife at all costs. “No, actually it looks pretty good.” Tad pushed aside his revulsion and downed a couple of tart dill pickles, too.

  “You’re nuts, you know that, don’t you?” Abby said.

  He had to be, Tad thought, to be living here with her, and not making love to her. But that was the agreement they had struck, he reminded himself, and until she believed he loved her just for herself and nothing else, that was the way it would have to be.

  “THAT’S THE FOURTH present this week, isn’t it?” Donna said as the finishing touches were put on the living room in late July.

  “Yes, it is,” Abby said, bringing in the dozen red roses that had just been delivered from the local florist. Before that, there’d been a box of Godiva chocolates, a CD she’d been wanting and an array of scented hand soaps. The two weeks before that had been equally rife with gifts. Not a day went by, it seemed, that Tad didn’t come in at night with her favorite food or beverage or even a newspaper or magazine he knew she liked to read. At first it had been nice to be the object of so much thoughtfulness. Now...well, now Abby didn’t know what to think.

  Sonny loaded film into his camera. “So what’d Tad do to land in the doghouse?” he asked.

  It was possible he felt guilty about working so much. Since the brouhaha over the publication of the article on the salmonella outbreak at the Mighty Fine Restaurant, he had worked increasingly long hours, as had she.

  “Nothing. He’s not in the doghouse—at least not with me.”

  “Right.” Sonny’s lip curled with suppressed amusement as he got down on one knee to photograph the interior of the two rooms. “Maybe someone should tell him that.”

  Donna plumped the pillows on the long cream-colored tuxedo sofa just so while Abby adjusted the white plantation shutters to let in the maximum amount of light. The newly refinished wood floors gleamed beneath the beige-brown, cream and marine blue Oriental rug. Gleaming white trim and crown molding put the finishing touches on the handsome marine blue walls. And last but not least, Tad’s recliner sat in a corner, in a place of honor, newly covered in a beige-brown jacquard that coordinated well with the two other overstuffed armchairs in the room.

  “I know where Sonny is coming from.” Donna chuckled as she straightened the bookcases and the streamlined laptop computer on the antique writing desk. “My husband, Ron, gives me gifts for only two reasons. A special occasion, like my birthday or our anniversary, or when he’s trying to make up to me for something he’s done.” Donna paused to open a door of th
e armoire, to show the stereo and television set hidden within. “The size of the gift is usually directly proportionate to the degree of guilt he’s feeling.”

  “Amen to that,” Sonny said, directing both Donna and Abby into the next picture. “It didn’t take me long to discover that the right pair of earrings or bottle of perfume can go an awfully long way toward making up.”

  Abby smiled for the camera. As they moved into the finished entryway to photograph that area, she wondered what was going on with Tad.

  “DID YOU GET my flowers?” Tad asked, immediately seeking her out when he came in about ten o’clock that evening.

  Aware work would begin on the formal dining room in the morning, Abby was in there standing on a chair when Tad strode in. In a vivid blue cotton sport shirt worn open at the throat, casual khaki slacks and loafers that had seen better days, he looked casual and at ease. His naturally curly black hair was agreeably rumpled, his jaw shadowed with evening beard and scented with aftershave. And there was a seductive smile tugging at his sensual lips.

  “Yes, I got them.”

  Trying hard not to react to his presence or think how much she’d begun to miss his once-persistent passes, Abby turned her eyes from his handsome profile and continued taking down the threadbare flocked-velvet drapes that had come with the house. How long had it been since he’d kissed her, she wondered, or even wanted to kiss her? The answer was easy. It had been weeks. Meanwhile, her waist was thickening by the day.

  Tad glanced around. “Where are they?”

  “The kitchen.”

  He studied her. “You like red roses, don’t you?”

  Actually they were her favorite. Which, in Abby’s estimation, made it all the worse. She stopped what she was doing and turned to face him. Figuring they might as well get it all out in the open, she told him, “You don’t have to do this, you know.”