The Baby Bump

by Jennifer Greene

  Amos had left her no choice but to try going behind his back. She walked the long yard back to the driveway—thankfully her eyes were stinging from the smoke, so her eyes were tearing. She had to look as if she’d been crying. She didn’t try knocking on the back door, where Amos could see her, but approached the front door to ring the bell.

  Amos’s wife showed up, wringing her hands dry on a dish towel. She peered through the screen and immediately opened the door. “Why, honey, what’s wrong?” she said. “You’re Ginger Gautier, aren’t you? I’ve thought a lot about you since your grandma passed. Did you have an accident? Are you hurt? Never mind, come on in, I’ll get us some tea, and you can tell me whatever it is.”

  Guilt pinged at her conscience. Her grandparents had certainly never taught her to lie...but it wasn’t her fault she had to resort to a little shady behavior. A girl couldn’t sew on a button if she didn’t have needle and thread.

  She needed some way to coax Amos into working for her.

  Chapter Six

  Ike regarded one of his favorite—and most difficult—patients. “You know, Amos, it might help if you gave me a call before you were in a world of hurt.”

  Amos stuck out his chin. “I’m not one to complain to doctors.”

  “And I respect that. But gout is a mighty painful condition, and we want to address that uric acid before the numbers get so high. There’s medicine that helps.”

  “Well, I know that. But I don’t want any dang fool pills.”

  “Afraid you’re going to have to bite the bullet, because I’m writing you a script for some of those dang fool pills. But I’m also going to recommend that we work on your stress level.”

  “I don’t do stress and never will. I’m sick of everyone talking about stress as if anyone had a choice about it. Life’s stress. It’s just the way it is. And I need to work.”

  “But you don’t need to work seven days a week. I want you to just try it. Relaxing. Take a long weekend with your wife, go up to Whisper Mountain, maybe camp out there or stay in one of the retreats or resorts around there. Sleep in. Take a couple fishing poles. Practice just sitting around and enjoying the view.”

  His patient looked at him. “Are you plumb crazy?”

  Ike nodded. “What can I tell you? That’s what they teach us in medical school.”

  “If I was to go up to Whisper Mountain, it wouldn’t be to pay for any dang fool resort. There are stills in the hollows of that mountain. Moonshine. Good moonshine. Now that might help the pain.”

  “My family came from Whisper Mountain. My brother, Tucker, still lives up there. I’ve heard about the stills, but I figured that was just country legend.”

  “Nope. It’s truth. When I was a kid...well, no, never mind. No reason you should hear about the wild things I did as a boy.” Amos buttoned his shirt. “You know, this flare-up of gout happened because of the Gautier girl.”

  “Ginger? What did she do?”

  “She went to my wife, that’s what she did. Went around my back. I told her I wasn’t working for the Gautiers ever again and that was that. And like I’d never spoke to her, she went to my wife, started crying, and the next thing I know, my wife is tearing a strip off my hide, yelling and not making dinner and making me sleep on the couch.”

  “No!” Ike tried to make his tone sound incredulous.

  “You don’t know my wife. She’s kind to everybody in the whole county but me. She says I was being ungentlemanly for not helping that girl. That I was raised better. That her grandmother’s passed and her grandfather left his mind somewhere months ago, and when that poor child asked for a little help, what did I do? Turn her down. My Lord. She went on and on. My back almost went out from sleeping on that old couch. There was no living with her until I agreed to help the Gautier girl, and I’m not just telling tales.”

  “Oh, I believe you. I’ve heard Ginger can be a little on the strong-willed side.”

  “She’s pretty enough. But bless her heart, she’s ornery clear through.”

  That was his Ginger, all right.

  He hadn’t seen her in four days, and that was about as long as he could take.

  He was overdue a visit with Cashner, anyway.

  Three patients later, he grabbed a bite for lunch and then he was free for the day.

  Pansy howled when he gave her a fresh rawhide bone—she knew that meant he was leaving her—but a frisky wind was bringing in a fresh batch of clouds. The area needed more rain like fish needed feet, but Pansy’d do better at home in a storm than tearing around the country with him.

  He turned onto Gautier property before two. One glance and he could see the place was starting to look better. The long, rolling lawn was freshly mowed, a lot of the tangled brush near the fence cleared out, and a dead tree had been cut down. He was still glancing at all the improvements as he knocked on the door—and then let himself in.

  When he didn’t immediately see or hear anyone, he ambled inside, aiming for the kitchen. He found a pot of Creole gumbo soup simmering on the stove, and more great smells emanating from a slow cooker. A stew, maybe? The air was rich with the scents of fresh basil and tarragon and pepper. A lot of great food—but still no bodies in sight.

  Eventually he located Cashner, taking an afternoon snooze in front of the television. He did his usual prowl-around, checking the tray in Cashner’s bedroom, making sure the medication was there and that Cashner was taking his pills. Normally Ike would have taken his blood pressure and pulse, but there was no sense waking him as long as his color was good.

  Ginger’s old Civic was parked in the drive, so she couldn’t be too far. He checked the backyard, glanced around the garages—nothing. For lack of a better choice, he ambled across the road to the farm. A sharp wind bit at his sweatshirt, nipped at his neck. If it did rain, it was likely to be a mighty cold soak...which was probably why he noticed the wide-open door to the tea shop.

  He’d never been in the retail shop before, had no reason to, but he knew that the tidy white building housed both the retail tea products and the farm office. Ginger’s grandmother had done the landscaping herself, made the place pretty and welcoming from the outside.

  When he stepped through the open door, though, he wanted to shake his head.

  The inside wasn’t just neglected; it was a disaster area. Dust and dirt carpeted every surface. The windows hadn’t been washed in years. The stock on shelves was either in disarray or just suffered from an abandoned look. The old-fashioned cash register was gaping wide open. A mouse or some varmint had taken off with string and ribbon. Papers cuddled in corners and odd heaps.

  But he’d finally found her.

  Ginger.

  On the floor, lying on her back with a bunched-up jacket behind her head.

  He closed the door—since she hadn’t had the sense to—and then hunkered down beside her.

  She wasn’t asleep. Her eyes were wide open and narrowed on him, her voice as cross as always. “How is it that you manage to always—always—show up when I’m at my absolute worst?”

  Ike knew better than to answer an estrogen-loaded question like that. Besides, his first priority was to make sure she was okay. It didn’t look as if she’d fainted or fallen, more as if she’d taken an impromptu rest.

  Her appearance revealed that she’d been up to no good. She was wearing old jeans, dirty at the knees and seat. The white sweatshirt—well, there was a single spot, near her right shoulder, that was still white. The spot was no bigger than a quarter. The rest of the sweatshirt and everything else looked like something his mother would have thrown in the rag bag.

  Her chin had some more dirt. Her hair had streaks of white, not from sudden age but dust. At some point she’d wiped her face and eyes with a clean rag—apparently—because there was an almost-clean swatch of face around the eyes.
>
  But the familiar belligerence in her expression was enough for him to conclude she was fine. Frustrated and tired, but pink-cheeked healthy.

  “So, is this really your worst?” he asked with pretend curiosity. “Do you promise?”

  “Don’t make me laugh, Ike, or you’re likely to see violence.” She closed her eyes tight. “Right now, Ike...I just plain can’t see any possible way I could raise a baby.”

  So they were in the middle of that conversation, were they? “I don’t suppose that maybe you’re feeling overwhelmed because you are overwhelmed?”

  Nah. She didn’t like that answer. Didn’t even try opening her eyes. “I don’t have a job. I don’t see any chances of a job here, at least in anything I studied for, and there’s no way I could move away from here to find a job. I can’t leave my grandfather for a completely unknown period of time. This is a royal, royal mess. And I just can’t fix it. Or affect it. Not in a week. Maybe not in months.”

  He wished he could soften the edges for her, but there was no way. “Okay. What else?”

  “Money. I don’t exactly need a lot of money here. Gramps has enough coming in from Social Security and his retirement funds to keep him going. I’m not worried about him having enough to eat. It’s just...”

  “You don’t have any spending money.”

  “Actually, I don’t care about spending money. I had savings before I quit my Chicago job, and I have a few investments besides. My grandparents weren’t about to raise any dumb granddaughters. But...” She sighed, still not opening her eyes. “But I still see huge debts possibly everywhere. I don’t think Gramps filed taxes last spring. Amos says the fields are almost too far gone to bring back, and for sure there was no income last year. The farm could go under. And I don’t know what the house needs to bring it back into good shape.”

  Now she opened her eyes, swung to a sitting position and sat cross-legged—which enabled her to hold a chin in one palm. “Ike, I need the legal right to pay his bills. To see what kind of financial trouble he’s in. That’s why I tried to talk to his attorney—crabby old witch that she is.”

  “She was just as complimentary about you.”

  “I kind of liked her.”

  “I do, too.”

  “But here’s the thing. Even if I saw a heap of his records, I’m not sure I’d know what they meant. I’ve been all through the office in the house. Then I came out here. I was trying to go through everything—the inventory records and the tax records and the sales information and all that—but the place was so dirty, I couldn’t even think. When my grandmother was alive, this place was spotless. And I found a bunch of records, but the numbers all started to blur in my head. And between trying to clean and trying to wade through gross and net numbers, I just got completely lost.”

  He got it. Why she’d been lying on the floor like she was in a coma. Or a wished-for coma. He’d likely have caved on line two of her list.

  “Ginger...tell me about tea. This whole place.”

  “That’s just the point. I don’t know anything about the business! I keep telling you!”

  She crashed back on the floor and closed her eyes again. He clearly needed a new tack. “I don’t mean the big picture numbers. I meant...what are all these products on the shelves? White tea and green tea and black tea and all. What makes them all different?”

  “They’re not different. They all come from the same plant. Camellia sinensis.”

  “Huh?”

  She opened one eye. “You’re just humoring me, Ike. Trying to get me in a better mood. Trust me, I’m entitled to a terrible mood. I’d have to be certifiable to be in a good mood. There are no silver linings in any of these clouds.”

  “Okay. I promise you can go back to your terrible mood—I certainly would, in your shoes. But just tell me a little more. I don’t get it. How you’d get all those different kinds of teas from the same plant.”

  She shot him a suspicious look. But she answered, “You always have to start with camellia sinensis. Then the next trick is to have the right climate, and to give the plants the right food and the right handling—to get the best quality tea. No shortcuts. No lazy stuff. No skimping on what the plants need.”

  “Got it. But you’re saying that green teas come from the same plant that black teas come from?”

  “Yes. Exactly. One tea plant could be bred a little differently than another. But that isn’t what distinguishes the type and taste of the tea. That’s about how the leaves are handled. It’s about fermenting.”

  “Fermenting? Are we talking about moonshine and stills here?”

  “No, you goof. Tea’s never alcoholic. But you get different flavors based on how you handle the leaves. You get white tea from picking the leaves before they’re fully open, when the buds are still tiny and young. That makes white tea more rare. It’s the most expensive.”

  “So...white tea is the best?”

  “That’s just a matter of taste. Green tea has a really light flavor. It takes a whole lot less fermenting—or oxidation—than the dark teas.”

  “So it’s better?”

  “Better is just a matter of taste. Green tea, for instance, has a really light flavor. The leaves for green tea aren’t fermented—or oxidized—at all. So those people who love green tea think the taste is more fresh, more herbal.”

  “How about you?”

  “Ike. If you’re raised a Gautier, all teas are holy. The worst sacrilege would be to not love tea. The second would be to believe one was better than another.”

  “Okay.”

  “So now we’re up to oolong. You know what that is. Even if you’re not a regular tea drinker, you’ve undoubtedly had oolong tea at Chinese restaurants. Oolong is between a black and a green tea. It’s partly fermented—but not for a long period of time. Black teas are the richest, hardiest teas because they’re fully fermented and oxidized.”

  “But then how do they get the other names? Like mint and jasmine and all that stuff—”

  “You can add all kinds of ingredients to the leaves. Like you could add jasmine to oolong to make jasmine oolong. Or you could add mint, if you liked that spice. But if you preferred Darjeeling, for another example...Ike! What are you doing?”

  * * *

  Ginger knew perfectly well what he was doing.

  The man was loco. Witless. In a complete meltdown. Marbles all lost. IQ dipping into the negative numbers. A major drafty hole between his ears.

  He kissed her again, this time his lips just skimming hers before sinking in for a long, slow kiss.

  Daft. The man was daft. She was filthy. Buried in dust and paper and discouragement. Hadn’t brushed her hair in hours. The tea store was a romantic setting on a par with...

  On a par with...

  On a par with...

  She couldn’t think. He suddenly twisted around, shifted them both so that he was flat on the floor now and she was propped over him. It should have been awkward, the sudden tangle of arms and legs, both of them off balance. But his mouth never severed from hers. It was a whole swoosh of sensation, her breasts against his chest, the heat and pressure and throbbing of his erection against the soft cradle of her pelvis.

  That gasp of awareness...she wasn’t expecting it, had had no idea the fierceness of longing and need were so close to the surface. Longing for him. Need for him. How could she have known?

  Possibly the real problem was that she was kissing him back.

  Possibly he wasn’t the only daft one—but she had excuses. She was exhausted. Worried. Anxious. She’d been trying so hard to do the right things, to make something of her life, to stand up for doing what needed doing...and every time she turned around, even more insurmountable problems seemed to show up.

  Besides which, Ike was a wicked-good kisser. Crazy. But lunacy didn’t affe
ct the parts of him that worked really, really well. He had certain beguiling habits. He surprised, but he didn’t pounce. He took, but she just couldn’t see it coming. He was a lazy man who brought every ounce of laziness to his kisses, as if every taste, every scent, every sensation needed to be examined and savored. He touched. Her upper arms, her back, into her hair, down her spine, around. Every stroke, every caress, conveyed the tenderness of a man who could soothe a lioness, disarm a wild animal.

  She was going to slap him any second.

  Pretty soon.

  Any second now.

  That lazy trick shouldn’t have worked. She’d never liked lazy or slow. She always galloped, never walked. Her temper was a brush fire, quick and hot, then over. It was who she was, how she was.

  Except with him.

  He pushed up her sweatshirt. Slid his hands into her jeans, pressed on her fanny, so she was glued even tighter against him. Still, he pulled kisses from her.

  Still, he made her close her eyes, because she felt so shivery and weak. Still, he made sounds, volatile sounds, groans, murmurs that sounded a whole lot like a love song.

  “Ginger.”

  “Hmm?” She lifted her head, but not willingly. She opened her eyes, but only reluctantly.

  And there was reality, in the form of his rugged face and unshaved chin and devil-blue eyes. He sucked in some oxygen. Smiled at her.

  “I’m all about this,” he assured her, and then said it a second time, because his voice didn’t seem to carry any volume on the first try. “I’m more about this than you can imagine. But at least the first time...I think we can do better than a dirty floor. A place where anyone could come in. Where there isn’t a pillow or a candle in sight.”

  She pushed up. Scowled at him. “We were never going that far.”

  “No?”

  She sort of straddled his thigh, trying to get off him. Everything that had been so impossibly right...now seemed so impossibly wrong.