by Judy Duarte
And why in the world should it even matter?
After a little more small talk about ducks and chickens, fairies and unicorns, Hector got up to leave.
She almost invited him to stay for dinner, but she didn’t want him to think that she was trying to monopolize his time.
“Thanks for your giving me your opinion,” she said.
“Anytime. If there’s anything that’s a given about me, it’s that you can count on me to have an opinion.”
She smiled as she walked him to the door.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, as he reached for the brass knob, “I actually liked the farm print best.”
“But you said it was boyish.”
“I figured you for bunnies, so I told you what I thought you wanted to hear.”
“Why’s that?”
He studied her a moment, as though trying to decide whether to level with her or not, then he winked. “Because you have the prettiest smile I’ve ever seen.”
She couldn’t tell if he was teasing or serious or both. And when he reached for the doorknob to let himself out, she was more intrigued by him than ever.
Chapter Five
After their little talk last night, Samantha decided that she really ought to avoid Hector, especially since she was finding herself more drawn to him, more intrigued by what he had to say. More attracted, she realized. How crazy was that?
After all, he couldn’t possibly be interested in dating a woman with a ready-made family, especially when one plus one equaled five. So after a long, restless night that had her dreaming about all kinds of scenarios—including three darling little babies and a tall, dark and handsome daddy—she decided to keep to herself from now on.
And she would have done just that, if Hector hadn’t rung her doorbell again early the next morning.
She’d been up for hours, or so it seemed, yet she hadn’t expected anyone to stop by. When she’d swung open the door, her breath had caught when she’d spotted him standing on the stoop in a pair of khaki slacks and a pale blue golf shirt. She remembered that he had always packed his golf bag into the back of his trunk every Saturday morning before taking off for the bulk of the day. And that she’d seen his clubs in his foyer yesterday.
So why had he stopped by her house before heading to the country club?
“I’m on my way to the grocery store to pick up a few cleaning supplies and wondered if you needed anything.”
“Do you always dress so nicely when you’re scrubbing counters and mopping floors?” she asked.
He slipped her a crooked smile, and her heart slammed against her chest. “I have a woman who comes to work for me on Saturdays, and she told me last week that I was out of window spray and cleanser. But I forgot to pick it up, so I’m off to get it now, before she arrives.”
Her gaze traveled the length of him, then back to those intoxicating brown eyes. “What time do you play today?”
His grin brightened. “In an hour. So it’ll be a quick trip to the market. How’d you know that I was playing golf?”
“Just a lucky guess.”
“So,” he said, nodding toward his car, which was idling in the drive, “do you need anything while I’m at the market?”
“No, I’m okay. But thanks for asking.”
“No problem.”
As he headed to his vehicle, she turned to go back into the house, then thought of something she’d forgotten to pick up yesterday.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “I’m going to empty out the closet in the room that’s going to be the nursery, and I’ve already run out of boxes. Would you mind asking if they have any to spare?”
“Will do.”
He took off, and she went back inside. When he returned with more boxes than she needed, he asked if she wanted any help.
“No, thanks,” she said, even though she hated to deal with the heavy boxes. “Go on and play golf. I’ll be okay.”
But she wasn’t exactly okay. She was feeling way too many yearnings for her handsome neighbor. And she really needed to get her mind off Hector and back on nesting.
The next morning, when he spotted her sweeping the stoop, he crossed the lawn, took the broom away from her and finished the work himself.
If truth be told, she was glad that he had. It was getting harder and harder to do some of the simplest things.
But she had to stop relying on her neighbor to do them for her.
Three days later, when her doorbell rang, she didn’t need to peer out the peephole to see who it was. Hector, it seemed, had taken her on as some kind of pro bono case.
And in the past week and a half, he’d taken her recycling bins to the curb on trash-collection days, which was especially surprising since he wasn’t home very much and rarely had items that needed to be recycled—at least, not that she was aware of.
His kindness touched her, of course. And so did his boyish smile, the unruly hank of hair that flopped onto his forehead and the heart-spinning scent of his woodsy cologne. Just being near Hector had her thinking all kinds of wild and crazy things, some of them not the least bit neighborly.
She liked having him come around—maybe too much. What would happen if she got a little too used to his visits? What if…?
Well, there were a lot of things that could complicate her peaceful life, and she wasn’t sure that she was in any position to deal with any more than what she was already up against. And for that reason, she needed to get him, her heart and her zinging hormones back under control.
So when she swung open the door and found a smiling Hector on her stoop again, she invited him into the living room, intending to have a little heart-to-heart.
“I was just thinking,” he said. “This is a big house, and you probably shouldn’t be doing anything strenuous.”
“I’m not. The big stuff, like the moving, is over. And the Salvation Army will eventually come and take all those boxes in the garage.”
“I’m talking about scrubbing and cleaning and vacuuming. After I saw you sweeping the stoop yesterday, I called Margo, the woman who works for me. She has a free day each week, so if you’re interested, I can give you her number.”
He was concerned about her doing too much? And he was offering his cleaning lady?
Samantha wondered if Peter would be that worried about her, if he’d been alive and known they were expecting triplets.
Probably, but Hector…
She pointed to the sofa. “Why don’t you sit down for a minute.”
He complied, folding his long, lean and masculine body into the seat and stretching his arm across the backrest. “What’s the matter?”
“I really appreciate your thoughtfulness, Hector. But I guess it just seems…”
“Weird?”
“No. Not that. It’s just…”
“Unusual?”
“Yes, that’s what I’m getting at. I mean, you’re just a neighbor. And, well, you didn’t even like my husband.”
“I wasn’t fond of him, if that’s what you mean. But I’m sorry that he died. Sorry that you lost him.”
“Thanks. I’m sorry, too.”
His sympathy surprised her, yet it seemed to make it all better. Or maybe it made it worse. She struggled with her reactions to him, both physical and emotional. But she’d be darned if she knew what to do with them, other than put a stop to their budding friendship—or whatever it was—before things took a complicated turn.
“I’m uneasy with your help, Hector.”
“Why?”
“Because…” She didn’t dare give her primary reason, so she reached for another. “It feels as though you’ve taken me on as some kind of charity project.”
“That’s not it.”
“Then what is?”
“I have no idea. I guess you could say that I care for you. Maybe it’s sympathy. Maybe it’s a weird desire to look out for you. Hell, I don’t know what it is. Maybe I’m attracted to you.” He laughed at that, and she didn’t know what to
make of it.
He had to be joking, but she didn’t find anything funny about it, especially since her attraction to him was growing by leaps and bounds.
But she’d be darned if she knew what to do about it—other than accept his help.
And then where would that leave her?
The Armstrong Fertility Institute, a modern structure located near the Harvard Medical Center, housed the administrative offices, as well as a research lab and the clinic where Dr. Chance Demetrios practiced.
Since Samantha had been instructed to return the following week, she’d scheduled her appointment on Wednesday at ten o’clock in the morning. And she made sure that she arrived ten minutes early.
She was eager to learn that the babies were growing, that everything was just as it should be.
There were only three other women seated in the waiting room, and since there were other doctors who practiced at the clinic, it wouldn’t be too long before she was called.
After the door shut quietly behind her, Samantha headed to the front desk so she could check in with Wilma Goodheart, the receptionist. Wilma, who was in her late fifties, had worked at the Institute almost since day one and seemed to know each patient by name.
As Samantha approached the desk, she said, “Good morning, Ms. Goodheart.”
The receptionist, with her silver-streaked hair swept into a no-nonsense bun, glanced up from her work and smiled warmly. “Hello, Mrs. Keating. You look bright and cheerful today. I take it you’re feeling well.”
“I am. Thank you.”
Samantha had asked the woman to call her by her first name several months ago to no avail. Apparently, Wilma insisted upon referring to all the patients as either Ms. or Mrs., which was nice. But Samantha didn’t like to be called Mrs. Keating. Every time someone addressed her that way, she felt compelled to turn around and see if Peter’s mother was standing behind her.
“Go ahead and find a seat,” Ms. Goodheart said. “I’ll let the nurse know that you’re here.”
“Thank you.”
Samantha chose a chair near the window and reached for a magazine. But as she did so, she couldn’t help noting that two of the other pregnant women were seated next to men. It was nice to see expectant fathers be so supportive of their wives or girlfriends, and Samantha couldn’t help being just a wee bit envious.
As she thumbed through the pages of the latest issue of Parents, her name was called. She looked up to see Sara Beth, the head nurse at the Institute, and smiled. Samantha had always liked the petite, red-haired nurse.
“How are you doing today?” Sara Beth asked as Samantha approached.
“I’m doing great, thanks.”
Sara Beth, who held a medical chart in her hand, led Samantha to the scale and weighed her. Then she took her to exam room two, where she had her blood pressure and pulse rate checked.
“Everything looks good, Samantha. I’ll let Dr. Demetrios know you’re here.”
“Thanks.”
She didn’t have to wait long, because a few minutes later, Dr. Demetrios entered the exam room.
He was a big man, with olive skin, dark hair and brown eyes. The first time she’d met him, she’d been surprised by how handsome he was. Based upon his professional reputation, she would have thought him to be a lot older, a lot more scholarly in his appearance.
“Good morning,” he said with a smile. “How are you doing, Samantha?”
“Great. In fact, I’ve never felt better.”
“I’m glad.” He studied the open chart Sara Beth had left on the counter.
Since Dr. Demetrious was a renowned fertility specialist who divided his time between research and his medical practice, he didn’t have as many patients as most obstetricians, so Samantha was glad to be able to count herself as one of them.
“Everything looks good,” he said. “But we’ll see what the sonogram shows us. I’d like to get a better view of Baby C.”
After she got settled on the exam table, Dr. Demetrios turned his back to her and made some adjustments to the equipment, and she watched him work.
The last time she’d been at the clinic, she’d overheard two women in the waiting room whispering about him. From what she’d gathered, a former patient had once claimed that he’d impregnated her. The story made the gossip column and the society page of the Boston Herald, and Dr. Demetrios took a leave of absence to clear his name.
A DNA test proved that the child wasn’t his, but the false accusation had shadowed his reputation, at least for a while.
Samantha wouldn’t have held his personal life against him, since he was such a good doctor, but she was glad that the charges were unfounded. And from what she understood, he’d recently eloped not long ago.
According to the women who’d been gossiping, his new wife had been a waitress and a single mom. And Samantha had found the story heartwarming. It gave her hope that one day she, too, might find someone to love, in spite of being the mother of three children.
She hoped the doctor’s troubles were finally over, and that his story had a Cinderella ending. After all he did for childless couples, he certainly deserved to be happy himself.
When the doctor had everything set up, he asked her to raise her blouse, then slathered her belly with gel so he could proceed with another ultrasound.
Samantha was mesmerized by the sight of her triplets.
“Baby C has turned around,” the doctor said, “and it looks like…yes, it’s a girl.”
Samantha’s heart soared with the news. She was going to have at least one of each, a boy and a girl. How cool was that?
“And Baby B?” she asked.
“Well, if it will move just a little… There we go. Another boy.”
“Two boys and a girl,” she said, smiling through the tears in her eyes. “I’m speechless. And so blessed. I don’t know how to thank you.”
Dr. Demetrious chuckled. “No need to do that. I just did my job. Nature did the rest.”
She couldn’t help giving God a whole lot of credit, too. And on the way out of the clinic and to the parking garage, she offered up a prayer of thanksgiving.
Then she climbed behind the wheel of her Jag. Before turning on the ignition, she stroked her growing belly. This pregnancy was the ultimate gift to Peter, to his parents. And she hoped they realized that.
They would be surprised when they heard the news—shocked, even. After all, it had been five years since Peter’s death. But thanks to Dr. Demetrios and the Armstrong Fertility Institute, Samantha was pregnant with the children she and Peter were meant to have.
She did, however, suspect the Keatings would eventually embrace the news. Peter had been their only child and the love of their lives. Yet she still couldn’t seem to pick up the phone and invite them over—or pop in on them, something she’d never done before.
Still, she’d have to tell them. And she’d have to tell Hector, too.
But for a woman who was bursting at the seams with excitement, she couldn’t help wanting to keep her secret to herself for a little while longer.
On Sunday morning, Hector walked outside to get the Boston Herald and noticed that Samantha’s sprinklers were on. He’d heard them go on at four that morning, but it was well after eight, and they hadn’t shut off.
Water saturated her lawn and had streamed onto the sidewalk, over the curb and into the gutter.
Her newspaper, which had been neatly folded when the paperboy had tossed it onto the lawn, was soaking wet. Hadn’t the guy noticed the sprinklers going?
Hector slowly shook his head. You’d think he’d be alert enough to put it on the porch or in the driveway.
Before retrieving his paper, he headed over to Samantha’s house and knocked at her door.
She answered wearing a pair of jeans, a blousy top and a breezy smile. When he pointed out the flooding, her lips parted, and she stepped onto the stoop.
He noticed that she wasn’t wearing shoes, which made the phrase “barefoot and pregnant”
come to mind, and he couldn’t help but smile.
“The sprinklers are supposed to be automatic,” she said. “So why didn’t they turn off?”
“There’s probably a short in the timer. I can take a look at it, if you’d like me to.”
“Yes, I would. Thanks.”
As she led him through the house to get to the garage, he caught the whiff of something sweet baking in the oven, something that smelled awfully good.
Suddenly, the cereal he’d planned to eat later didn’t sound very appealing anymore.
She opened the door, stepped down into the garage and pointed out the box on the wall that held the timer. “I really appreciate this. I’d call the landscaping company and have them check it out, but it’s Sunday, so I’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”
“I don’t mind.” Hector took a look at the timer, shut off the sprinklers manually. Then he disconnected the apparatus for her.
“Thanks for doing this on your day off.”
“No problem.” He closed the little blue door on the timer box. “In the meantime, that doesn’t do your newspaper any good. I’m afraid you won’t be able to read it.”
She crossed her arms and blew out a sigh of resignation. “How’s that for luck? I’d wanted to check the weekly ads to see what baby things were going to be on sale this week.”
“Hang on,” he said. “I’ll go and get mine for you to read.”
“Are you finished with it?”
“Nope.” He grinned. “I haven’t even opened it. But if you’ll invite me to taste whatever you’re baking, I’d be happy to hand it over, along with all of the ads and coupons.”
She laughed. “You’ve got a deal. And for the record, I made orange-cranberry muffins. They just came out of the oven.”
“Sounds great.”
“But I’ve cut out caffeine from my diet, so I don’t have any coffee in my pantry. If you want some, you’ll have to bring your own grounds. I have a pot and filters, though.”
“Will do. I don’t eat many meals at home, especially breakfast. But I try to keep coffee on hand for…visitors.” He didn’t mention that his houseguests were women who’d stayed the night. “Is there anything else I can bring back?”
