I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Seriously?”
I looked at her and nodded.
She wrinkled her nose. “It’s not Paul’s kid, is it?”
I laughed out loud. “No way. We stopped sleeping together a long time ago.”
“Thank God,” she said. “Last thing this world needs is something Paul spawned.”
Our eyes met, and we both laughed.
She went on. “In all seriousness, I’m really glad to hear it’s not his. You don’t need a reason to be tied to him for the next eighteen years, so it’s just as well.” She smirked. “I think I’d rather be knocked up by a stranger.”
“Tell me about it.” I bit my lip. “And…it wasn’t a stranger.”
“That’s good.” She paused. “If you don’t mind my asking…” The tilt of her head finished the question.
I swallowed. “That’s where things get a little…complicated.”
“What? Is he married or something?”
I laughed bitterly. “Sort of.”
“Sort of?” She cocked her head. “To use a perfectly appropriate analogy, being sort of married is like being sort of pregnant. You either are, or you aren’t.”
“Well, he’s not married,” I said. “But he’s…attached.”
She groaned. “Carmen, please tell me you didn’t sleep with some guy who was cheating on his girlfriend.”
“Actually, he has a boyfriend,” I said.
Eileen blinked. “Pardon?”
“He has a boyfriend. And his boyfriend was…” I cleared my throat. “Let’s put it this way: one of the two of them is the father of this baby.”
She stared at me. Then she shook her head and put her fingers to her temples. “You’re not…you’re not telling me this involves Donovan and his guy, are you?”
Heat rushed into my cheeks. “Yes. That’s exactly who it involves.”
“Really?”
I nodded.
“Well, I’d say snagging those two was a hell of a way to cash in all the karma you racked up putting up with Paul for so long.” She grinned but then cringed. “I mean, not the baby, but…the…”
I waved a hand. “I know what you meant.”
“And anyway, I thought they were gay,” she said. “They both bat for both teams?”
“Apparently so.” My face burned hotter. “I didn’t realize it either, but we were sort of celebrating my divorce. With some wine.” I coughed. “A lot of wine.”
Eileen laughed. “A lot of wine and…yeah…”
“Yeah.”
“Does Mom know?”
“Are you kidding?” I stared at her, wide-eyed. “She’d have brained me by now.”
“Good point.” She chewed her lip and raised her eyebrows. “Are you going to tell them?”
I glanced down the hall. “Eventually. Not tonight, though.” Coward.
“I don’t envy you,” she said with a grimace. “We—”
“Carmen, honey.” Mom’s voice interrupted Eileen, and a second later, my mother appeared in the hallway. “Are you all right, sweetheart?”
“I’m fine.” I forced a smile in front of clenched teeth as nausea roiled in my stomach again. “Just getting over a stomach bug.”
Her eyes widened. “What? You’ve been sick? Oh, honey, why didn’t you tell me, you—”
“Mom, I’m fine,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”
She pursed her lips, and I half-expected to be interrogated about everything I was doing to cause myself to get sick—not taking care of myself, letting myself get too stressed, being divorced, leeching off my sister instead of working a job my mother approved of—but she mercifully let it go.
“Well, why don’t you come in here and get something to eat, then?” She put a hand on my arm and tugged me toward the dining room. “Can’t have you ill.”
Oh God. My mother’s cooking. That would help me feel better.
Mom insisted I sit at the table while everyone else brought plates and glasses in. I didn’t know if I was irritated by the assumption I was frail and fragile, or thankful for one less opportunity for an inopportune moment of light-headedness to give me away.
Rose laid a plate in front of me. I stared at the salmon casserole and gulped. I had a cast-iron stomach thanks to years of consuming my mother’s culinary masterpieces, but this? If this went down at all, it wasn’t staying there.
I glanced at Eileen as she sat beside me, and I raised my eyebrows in a “help me” expression. She laughed behind her hand, and I couldn’t help grinning to myself when she gave a subtle nod that said she had me covered.
Dinner commenced, and everyone discussed the grandkids, our jobs, and all the things we kids—including our brother, who wasn’t there to defend himself—were doing wrong with our lives. My mother was unusually easy on me tonight. She didn’t harp on me about my divorce or anything, so she must have truly believed I was ill. Well, that was a plus. If being queasy kept Mom off my back, then at least it wasn’t completely bad.
All the while, Eileen and I strategically consumed our meals with military precision: me polishing off the more palatable side dish while Eileen ate her main dish, and both of us eating about half of the overcooked vegetable of the night. And we waited. We waited for that moment that always came about two-thirds of the way through the meal.
“Jack, would you like another drink?” Mother held up her own empty glass.
Dad looked at his glass, just like he always did, and predictably nodded. “Yes, please, dear.”
Mom pushed her chair back, collected his and her glasses, and went to the kitchen for more iced tea. As soon as she was out of sight, Eileen and I switched our plates. Rose snickered. Dad chuckled. Eileen and I dutifully continued eating just like we had before, and when Mom returned, she was none the wiser. As much as she noticed every little thing we did, we somehow always slipped this past her radar.
It was a skill we’d perfected as kids: the art of moving an undesirable piece of food from one person to someone who could stomach it. Eileen would take salmon casserole off my hands tonight, and some future night when I wasn’t so queasy, I’d pay it forward by taking her lamb curry. Woe be unto the sibling who ended up sitting next to an in-law who wasn’t in on this little pact.
Most people didn’t continue such childish things going into their mid-thirties. To be fair, though, most mothers couldn’t singlehandedly render three types of herbs extinct just by seasoning one meal. Maybe it was childish, but it meant we made it through a meal without insulting our mother or having to gag down something excruciatingly unpalatable.
Once dinner was finished, and my sisters and I had helped our dad with the dishes, everyone retreated into the living room. Apparently, now that I’d eaten something, I was once again a fair target for my mother’s scrutiny, because she stopped me on the way to the living room. We hung back in the dining room, and she peered at me over the rims of her glasses like the Church Lady. It was an expression that might have been comical if I wasn’t so used to the blistering criticism it always preceded, and I silently cursed the temptation to clasp my hands behind my back and concentrate on my feet like a kid about to be disciplined.
“I wanted to ask you,” she said, “have you called Nancy Harper about that job I told you about?”
Without allowing any frustration to slip into my tone, I said, “No, I haven’t.”
Cue Mom’s famous sigh of disapproval. “That job’s not going to be available forever, you know.”
“I know. But, I don’t need it.”
She huffed. “Carmen, you’re taking up a room in your sister’s apartment and barely making ends meet. You don’t have Paul’s income anymore, so you need to get a real job instead of flitting around with this writing nonsense.”
I bit my tongue. There was no point in arguing with her. Since I wasn’t rolling in riches like everyone who’d ever published a book, clearly I was a complete failure and c
ouldn’t possibly support myself without someone’s help.
Without thinking about it, I dropped my gaze and reached back to clasp my hands behind me. A jolt of panic stiffened my posture, though, and I quickly folded my hands in front, as if the opposite position had exposed my stomach enough to nearly show my mother I was pregnant. Of course I wasn’t showing yet, but I was terrified she’d see right through me.
“Carmen?” She touched my arm. “Honey, I know you want to write, but you need to start supporting yourself. You don’t have Paul to take care of you, so this is something you need to do.”
Fine, I will. Just please, please, don’t figure out I’m pregnant.
“I’ll talk to her,” I said quietly.
“Good.” She smiled. “You’ll be much less stressed when you have a real job and a steady income again.”
If I bit my tongue any harder, I’d draw blood. Yes, Paul had had a steady income. Yes, he’d made twice what I made. He also spent it three times as fast, and getting any money—from his paycheck or mine—was like getting blood from a stone. The only reason money was tight now was because of that monstrous bill from my attorney.
And just when that gets paid off, I’ll have a baby to take care of.
Stomach, stay put, and I swear I’ll have Rose stop for Häagen-Dazs on the way home.
Mom wasn’t done yet, though.
“I was talking to Carlene the other night. Her son’s going to be moving back this fall after he graduates.” She grinned like she was bragging about her own kid. “He’ll have his PhD, you know.”
“That’s great.” I smiled like I didn’t know where she was going with this. “Tell Carlene I said to congratulate him for me.” Oh, good one. Just walked right into—
“Well, maybe you could tell him yourself.” The grin broadened. “I can have her give him—”
I put up a hand and shook my head. “Mom, no. I’m not ready to date yet.”
She let out a long, disappointed, disapproving breath.
Before she could start again, I said, “When I’m ready, I’ll give him a call, okay?”
She scowled. “A man like him is a catch, hon. He won’t wait around forever.”
For whatever reason, any time she mentioned that about a man, I couldn’t help reading between the lines and hearing that I wasn’t such a catch. That I needed to take what I could get before he found some other woman who was far more worthy of him while I turned into a cat-hoarding spinster.
“I won’t wait too long,” I said, just to appease her. With any luck, Carlene’s son would be happily married by the time he came back with his PhD, and, oops, guess I missed another catch. Oh, darn. As if a catch like him would be interested in a recently divorced and quite pregnant creature like myself.
Thank you for the self-esteem, Mom. Really. I appreciate it.
I muffled a cough. “Should we go join Dad and the girls?” I nodded toward the living room.
Mom still scowled but gestured for me to go ahead. It was all I could do not to break into a run, just to escape this oppressive, stuffy room full of my mom’s criticism and disapproval.
Later in the evening, around the time we girls were making noise about calling it a night—always a slow, painful process, since Mom never wanted us to leave quite yet—Mom and Rose went into the kitchen to divvy up leftovers.
Eileen pulled me aside in the hall. Keeping her voice low, she said, “Listen, why don’t we go out shopping sometime this week, and maybe I can help you find some of the things you’re going to need?”
“You don’t mind?”
“Of course not.” She smiled. “We’ll do lunch, then hit up some of the different stores. I’ve been shopping for a lot of baby showers lately, so I know where all the good stuff and good deals are.”
“A lot of baby showers?” I raised an eyebrow. “Something in the water?”
“Maybe,” she said. “Thank God Tim is fixed. I am so not going through all that again.” She shuddered, and my stomach flipped. Then her eyes widened. “Shit, sorry. That’s…I mean, the whole infancy stage. It’s just—” Cutting herself off, she shook her head. “I’m just digging a deeper hole here, aren’t I?”
“Just a wee bit.”
She gestured sharply. “Okay, forget I said that. Anyway, let’s just say I have enough kids, and leave it at that.”
I laughed, but the tingle of dread lingered at the base of my spine. Suddenly I wished I hadn’t let my morbid curiosity keep me hanging on every word when she’d regaled Rose and me with the arrivals of her first two kids. All of her deliveries had been reasonably smooth, but everyone in this family was a natural storyteller. I might have been the only one who made a living doing so, but we all lived to turn even the most mundane things into wild tales.
Eileen’s from-the-trenches accounts of every minute, from the first heart-stopping contraction to the last local-anesthetic-hasn’t-kicked-in stitch, were enthralling stories back then. Now? Not so much.
“Well, I’ll give you a call later in the week,” I said. “I can use all the help I can get.”
“Don’t worry about a thing.” She smiled. “I’ll be glad to help.”
“Thanks. I—”
Don’s ringtone cut me off. I pulled my phone out of my pocket. To my sister, I said, “Would you excuse me for a second?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
She went into the kitchen, and I stepped out onto the patio. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Hey,” he said. “How’re you feeling?”
“I’ll feel better once I’m away from my parents’ place.”
He sucked in a breath. “Oh, ouch. You didn’t…tell them, did you?”
“Not yet. I think I’m going to wait until I can’t hide it anymore.”
“Good call.”
“Yeah. So anyway, what’s up?”
“Not too much,” he said with a grin in his voice. “But I’m planning something, and I need your help.”
“Ooh, a Donovan scheme,” I said, giggling. “Do tell.”
“Okay, but I want you to know up front that you can say no.” His tone was serious now. “If you’re not game, I’ll think of something else.”
“Duly noted,” I said. “But when have I ever not gone along with one of your little schemes?”
Don snickered. “Point taken. Okay, so here’s what I’m thinking…”
Chapter Seven
Isaac
When I got home from work one evening, Donovan met me at the front door with a gleam in his eye that made me shiver. We’d made plans to go out that night, which I’d been looking forward to all day, but the way he looked at me when I walked in said we weren’t leaving this house any time soon. The way he kissed me didn’t help matters either.
“Hmm,” I said between long kisses in the foyer, “something tells me you have something up your sleeve.”
“Do I?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“You’re right, I do.” He took a step back, drawing me toward the stairs. “I figured you’ve had a long day.” He paused for a long, deep kiss. “So it wouldn’t be right to drag you out again.”
“You’ll drag me upstairs instead?”
“Do I have to drag you?”
“Hardly.”
In a tangle of breathless kisses, we made it to the stairs. Then we separated so we could get up the stairs and down the hall. The bedroom door was closed, but instead of reaching for it, he turned around and reached for me.
“I was thinking,” he said, loosening my tie as he spoke, “your birthday is coming up.”
I groaned. “Don’t remind me.”
His hands stopped. “Don’t want your gift, then?”
Like I was going to turn down sex with Donovan. I put my hands on his hips. “I didn’t say that.”
“That’s what I thought.” Still holding my tie, he slid his other hand over the front of my pants. “So I was thinking about all the things I could give you for your birthday.” He let his lips graze mine as he
spoke. “And I kept coming back to one thing I knew you would enjoy.”
I grinned and kissed him. “You know me too well.”
“You don’t even know what you’re getting.”
“I have a few guesses.” I pushed him up against the door and kissed him deeply. “God, I want you so bad right now.” I reached between us, but he grabbed my wrist.
“Nope.” He grinned. “Guess again.”
“What?” I eyed him. “What do you—”
He reached back and turned the doorknob. When he pushed the bedroom door open, I looked past him.
My heart stopped. Lying in bed, wearing nothing but a devilish grin and the flickering glow of a few candles, was Carmen.
Donovan pushed my jacket off my shoulders and kissed my neck. “She’s all yours tonight.” His lip brushed my skin, sending a shiver down my spine. “And I want to hear all about it when I get back.”
A mix of panic and arousal kicked my heart back into motion. “You’re…leaving?”
He raised his head and nodded. “I am. I want you to spend an evening indulging your curiosity, exploring some fantasies, all the things you’ve been wanting to do…without an audience.” A hint of seriousness diluted the amusement in his expression. “Assuming you’re comfortable with this?”
I glanced at Carmen and her come-hither grin. Then I looked at Donovan. “You are, without a doubt, the best boyfriend on the planet.”
He laughed. “Of course I am.” He herded me into the bedroom and put his arms around me from behind. “Now. Go have a good time.”
“Oh, I fully intend to.”
He started to let me go but paused. “One more thing.”
“Hmm?”
He kissed the side of my neck and whispered, “I fully intend to fuck you myself when I get home.”
And with that, he left me on weakened knees with a beautiful, naked woman in our bed. The bedroom door closed behind me, and I gulped.
Carmen moistened her lips. “Happy birthday.”
“Thanks.” I laughed quietly. Approaching the bed, I was thankful for the dim light, which probably masked the color in my cheeks. “So, I don’t get to unwrap my birthday present?”
She grinned. “Do you want me to get dressed?”
Who's Your Daddy? Page 7
