by Laura Abbot
Something shifted in the vicinity of her stomach. “Oh?”
He bent one leg and stretched his arm along the back of the couch so he could face her. “Those tears this morning? I don’t think they had much to do with a messy room.”
His sensitivity nearly did her in. She owed him some kind of answer. “I have…things going on in my life right now. Things I can’t talk about. Not yet.” She looked into his eyes. “It’s not just you. I can’t talk about them with anyone. They’re…very personal.”
“I respect that. But whatever is upsetting you, maybe I can help. You don’t have to go it alone.”
Oh, but I do. “Thank you. That means a lot.” She didn’t know what to say next, how to break the thread of intimacy his offer had woven. Fortunately she didn’t have long to worry about it. The ringing phone saved her. Quickly excusing herself, she took the call in the kitchen. It was her widowed father in West Texas, who phoned her nearly every Saturday night. She loved him for the gesture. Undoubtedly he thought his call made her feel less dateless, less lonely.
After concluding her conversation, Pam returned to the living room, surprised to find Grant standing, his hands behind his back. “That was my father. He—” She faltered, the perplexed expression on his face stopping her in her tracks. She stared at him, confused.
He took a step toward her. “I—I was looking for the TV remote. You know, to catch the ball scores.” Slowly he brought his hands in front of him. “And I found this instead.” He held up the book she’d hidden beneath the sofa pillow.
The walls whirled and his voice seemed to be coming from a great distance.
“Pam, you’re not just doing research, are you?”
There was no turning away from the question, nor from the compassion in his eyes. “No.” Helpless, she felt tears threatening once more. She gulped, then, for the first time, whispered the words aloud. “I’m pregnant.”
CHAPTER TWO
WHERE THE HELL was Ann Landers when a guy needed her? Grant stared at Pam, questions racing through his head. Carefully he set the book on the arm of the sofa and moved toward her. “That’s good news, er, isn’t it?”
She lowered her eyes, standing before him defenseless and vulnerable. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Just wonderful.”
The hitch in her voice tugged at him. “Come here.” Before he could stop to think, he had wrapped her close, cradling her head against his chest.
He held her for long minutes, feeling her shoulders tremble beneath his hand, listening to the muted sounds of her weeping. She had to be scared to death. How could this have happened? Pam was smart, savvy. She had to know where babies came from.
He scanned her living room, desperately trying to focus on something besides the feminine body pressed against him. Okay, two cats reclining on the window ledge, books piled randomly in the bookcase, a baker’s rack crowded with candles and figurines, multihued pillows everywhere and an eclectic collection of prints and pictures on her walls. Nothing matched, but it was somehow…homey. Comfortable. The same way she felt in his arms.
The faint citrus scent of her hair and the way her cheek nestled against him stirred a surprising hunger. Gilbert, don’t be a jerk. The last thing this woman needs is you coming on to her.
He stepped back then and tilted her chin so he could look at her. “Are you okay?”
She ran her hands down his arms, then, clutching his wrists, ducked her head. “I’m sorry. Tears are stupid. They don’t accomplish a thing.” She let go, then turned away from him. “Two times in one day. That must be something of a record for you.”
“Probably, but who’s counting?”
“I promise not to make it three.”
“Sure? Third time’s the charm, you know.”
“There isn’t any charm to help with this.”
What did a guy say to that? He led her back to the couch, then wrapped a purple mohair throw around her. “Sit down and let me fix you a cup of tea. That was my mother’s solution to everything.”
“It can’t hurt. Tea’s on the top shelf of the pantry.” Almost without seeming to notice what she was doing, she picked up the baby book but didn’t open it, her fingers tracing a path around the edges of the cover.
While he waited for the water to boil, Grant paced, considering his options. Should he keep his big mouth shut? Or ask the tough questions? Like where the father was. Who he was. There had to be a rational explanation for this bombshell. He was no dummy, he’d read about the biological clock. Maybe she’d deliberately gotten pregnant. But then what about her job? Talk about an awkward, potentially litigious situation.
The whistling kettle startled him. He was in way over his head. He hadn’t a clue how to help her.
When he presented her with the steaming cup of tea, she took two dainty sips before setting it on the antique trunk that served as a coffee table. Then she gave him a wan smile. “Your mother was right.”
Holding his cup and saucer carefully, he lowered himself into the easy chair. And waited. A car horn sounded outside; inside, the ticking of a wall clock created a hypnotic rhythm. The bigger cat, a black one with white spots, leaped from the window ledge and hopped into Pam’s lap and curled into a ball.
“Who’s your buddy?”
“This is Sebastian.” She nodded toward the window. “And that’s Viola. They were littermates.”
Cat names had always struck him as pretentious. He was a dog man himself. Dogs had forthright names like Buster and Max. “Where’d you get those handles?”
“The bard. Viola and Sebastian are the sister and brother in Twelfth Night.”
“Oh.” Shakespeare. It figured. If he ever had a cat, God forbid, did that mean he should call it Euclid?
They sat in silence, slowly drinking the tea. She appeared lost in thought, but finally looked up. “I’m scared.”
That was an admission he’d never have anticipated from the Pam Carver he knew. “You don’t need to tell me, if—”
“It’s time I talked to somebody, and it looks like you’re elected.”
“You can trust me, Pam.”
“I do.”
Her sincerity touched him. “Is there a man in the picture? Are you planning to marry?”
“No man.” Then she gave a short, derisive laugh. “Obviously there was one. But marriage isn’t an option.”
Grant was confused by his reaction. How could he be relieved to hear that? “Does he know?”
“No. And he’s not going to.”
“Is that fair? Maybe he would want to be involved. Help.”
“Please.” Her eyes begged. “You’ll have to take my word for it. I’m in this by myself. For good.”
The enormity of her predicament was hard to imagine. “It’ll be tough being a single mother. I’m sure you’ve thought of that. Have you considered…you know…?”
Her cheeks flamed. “That’s not an option. I want this baby very much. This may be my only chance to become a mother. You’ve surely noticed I’m not getting any younger.” The edge in her voice cut off any inept, glib response. “So I simply have to figure out where to go from here.”
“Does anyone else know?”
“No. And I don’t plan for them to until it has to come out.” She drew the throw closer around her shoulders. “I’ll have to resign then.”
That would really be a blow for her. She was a born teacher, but schools—especially private schools—couldn’t overlook what might be viewed as “immoral” behavior. And Keystone? For the second time that day, the school motto came to him. Caring, Character, Curiosity. Jim Campbell, the headmaster, was big on character, but even if he found a way to ease Pam’s situation, would the trustees go for an unmarried, pregnant English department chairman? Pam was in a no-win situation. “Jeez, I suppose you’re right. What then?”
She looked directly at him. “I don’t know. I wish I did.” She crossed her arms over her stomach, as if protecting her womb. “But I’ll tell you one thing.” Her voice held the old spark
. “I will do whatever I must to love and support this baby.”
“You’ve got guts.” Pam had always been a fighter. She’d need to be now.
“I figure I’ll be able to make it at school until Thanksgiving, at least. That should give me time to line up some other type of work.”
“Have you seen a doctor?”
“I’m not very far along. Except for morning sickness, I feel fine. I’ll try to locate a doctor this week. One that has nothing to do with Keystone School.” She reached for her cup, then took several sips. “I’m sorry to burden you with this.”
He rose to his feet. “It’s no burden.” He picked up his cup and saucer and carried them to the kitchen divider, then returned to her. “You’re brave. You’ll manage.” He stood awkwardly, feeling helpless. “What about your family? Can they help?”
“Not really. My mother’s dead. My father and I are very close.” She ducked her head. “He’ll be disappointed in me at first.”
He waited.
Then she looked up. “But he’ll love this baby.”
“I’m sure he will. What about sisters? Brothers?”
“One sister. I can forget about any help from her.”
The uncharacteristic bitterness surprised him, especially in light of the bond he and his brother Brian had shared. “Why’s that?”
“We rarely see each other. I think it’s safe to say Barbara doesn’t have much use for me. She has her life in California with her dentist husband and her three children. For as long as I can remember, she’s made it clear I’m the baby sister who made her life miserable. Never mind that we’re grown-ups now. Supposedly.”
He identified with the hurt in her voice. He knew from his own father and from Shelley what rejection felt like.
She placed Sebastian gently on the floor and stood. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone now.”
Every instinct said, hug her, but instead he nodded his head. “I understand.”
She accompanied him to the door. “Thank you for coming. It helps just knowing I can talk to someone if I need to.”
He hesitated in the doorway, admiring the way she stood tall, determined, as if she could take on the world. “Call on me anytime if there’s something I can do.”
“I will.”
He studied her coppery hair, her wide hazel eyes, her full lips—as if he’d never seen them before. She was not only courageous, she was beautiful. “Good night,” he finally managed, turning to leave.
“Good night. And, Grant?”
He paused. “Yes?”
“The father is a good person. I knew what I was doing. But accidents happen.” She studied the floor and he knew she was going to say something more. Finally she raised her eyes. “But this is the last time you or anyone else will hear me refer to this precious child as an ‘accident.’”
Then she came closer, stood on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks for being my friend. Now, go,” she said, gently nudging him in the small of his back.
He stood on her walkway long after she had closed the door. The night was warm, and above him a nearly full moon was on the rise, the stars hidden beyond the city lights. The universe was as it eternally had been, its orbits fixed.
But something—Pam—had knocked him out of his.
HOLDING THE BASKETBALL in the crook of his arm, Brady Showalter gaped toward the azure swimming pool, bordered by palm trees swaying in the Florida breeze. “Your mom’s a fox.”
Andy Gilbert shot his friend a disgusted look. “So?”
“It’s cool, that’s all. My mom, all she wears are these dumpy-looking pantsuits. And I don’t even wanna tell you about her swimsuit.”
Andy knew what Brady meant. His friend’s mother wasn’t the hottest babe he’d ever seen. Still, it was embarrassing to have your own mother parading around the pool in her bikini, kinda like she was deliberately showing off her bod for his buddies. “Gimme the ball.”
Brady bounced it to him and Andy feinted, then lofted a shot that whistled through the hoop. Diving after the rebound, he whirled and went in for a layup. “Four points!” he crowed.
“You gonna play basketball in Texas?”
Andy banged the ball off the backboard. “You gotta be kidding. Play for my father? No way in hell.” What was with Brady? He oughta know the last subject in the world Andy wanted to discuss was this freakin’ move to Fort Worth! It was bad enough he couldn’t stay here where—finally—he would’ve been eligible to try out for the varsity. But play for his dad? No way.
“You’re weird, Gilbert.” Brady stole the ball from him and darted to the basket.
Andy stood, rooted. Weird. That was the truth. His whole life was weird. Mom was running off to some stupid foreign country with Harry, the biggest dork so far of Mom’s boyfriends. Which was saying something. Harry had a gut-busting paunch, fuzzy gray chest hair and a pinkie ring like some Mafia mobster. And he insisted on calling Andy “Sonny.” Like in “Hey, Sonny, how’s it goin’, big guy?”
“Andy? You wanna play or not?” Brady held the ball in front of his chest, waiting to pass off.
“Nah, I’m going inside. Mom’s been on my case. I gotta start organizing my stuff.”
“For the move, you mean?”
“Yeah. So I’ll see you later.”
“Here.” Brady tossed him the ball. “Call me if you wanna go with the guys to crash Liz’s slumber party.”
“Okay.” Andy dribbled angrily along the sidewalk to the back door of the house—the third one he’d lived in in two years. What was the point of going with Brady tonight? He’d never see any of these kids again after next week. Oh, no. He had to go live with his dad, Coach Cheeseball of Keystone School. The father who’d walked out when he was three.
What did Dad know about him, really? Maybe he’d squeezed in some visits between teaching, coaching and running basketball camps, but it wasn’t like they ever spent any length of time together. Dad had never once made it to one of his basketball games.
His mom kept telling him just to forget about it. “He’s devoted to that school, Andy. You have to understand. Everything else comes second. Maybe it’s better this way. Just you and me, sweetie.” Yeah, you and me and whatever dickhead was after Mom. He didn’t want to go to the friggin’ United Arab Emirates and he sure as hell didn’t want to go to Fort Worth. But did he have a choice? No, he was just the kid. The victim.
He slammed the back door on his way to his room. Divorce sucked.
GRANT USHERED the smilingly officious woman out the front door, closed it and sagged against it, the headache he’d had all day continuing to play racquetball against his temples. How many applicants was this? Seven? Two who spoke minimal English, one who smoked like a chimney and had insisted she be allowed to bring her bulldog with her, two who claimed they’d had no idea he actually expected them to stay over the weekends, and one—the only real possibility—who wouldn’t be available until at least November.
He walked toward the kitchen, wiping his palms on his pants, aware of a buzzing in his ears and an uncomfortable shift in his stomach. He was running out of ideas, and he had to let Shelley know something by Friday. Before the upcoming Labor Day weekend. Because, if all went well, Andy would arrive Labor Day evening. And school started the day after.
But all wasn’t going well. He’d interviewed everyone who’d applied through the agency or the newspaper ad. Texas Christian University and U.T. at Arlington had both been dry holes. So where did that leave him?
Desperate.
He reached in one of the cupboards and pulled out the aspirin bottle, shook out two tablets and chased them with a glass of water. He had so much riding on this year with Andy. Although he knew he couldn’t make up for all the time he’d missed, he hoped to God they could build their relationship. The boy needed a family. Stability.
A family. It had all been so promising in the beginning. Sure, he and Shelley had been young and naive, but when Andy was born, he’d been certain they
could raise a fine son, have more children. Live happily ever after.
But that hadn’t happened. He could never please Shelley. And Andy, poor kid, had been the one who’d suffered most. Damn.
Grant had to do something. He couldn’t let this opportunity pass him by.
A family. More than anything, that’s what Andy needed.
Prickles cascaded down Grant’s spine. A hammering sensation reverberated in his chest. No. It was a crazy idea.
Lunacy.
Grant raked both hands through his hair. But if…?
Pros and cons rocketed through his brain. He shook his head. “Crazy” didn’t even begin to get it.
Somewhere outside a neighbor’s dog barked. The air-conditioner compressor cranked on. But Grant didn’t move. Maybe, just maybe, it could work.
He turned and grabbed his car keys from the counter and, before he could reconsider, strode toward the garage.
Hell, what did he have to lose?
PAM SAT on her living room floor, the multiple pages of her senior English syllabus spread all around her. Collating was hard work when Viola and Sebastian insisted on regarding the papers as playthings. Finally she’d had to close the cats in the utility room. She compiled one complete set, tamped it on the coffee table, then stapled it. As she gathered the next sheets, she deliberately avoided looking at the headings, especially those for second semester. It hurt too much to realize that someone else would be teaching the Romantic poets, Thomas Hardy and Wilfred Owen.
Sorting and stapling, she mentally reviewed her search through the Sunday want ads. There were openings for secretaries, of course, and receptionists. She’d thought about real estate, but what would she live on while she took the licensing course and established her clientele? College teaching might be a possibility, but openings were scarce.
She sighed. Tomorrow teachers’ meetings started. And after that when would she have time to follow up on job opportunities? She’d read in the pregnancy book that the lethargy she was experiencing was common in the first trimester. How ironic that when she most needed her energy, she was so bummed out.
