The Baby Clause: A Christmas Romance

by Tara Wylde

  The last of my cool goes out the window, and I hurl myself up the hill, arms up, fending off branches, saplings, something that feels like a rotten curtain. My legs ache. My breath’s hot in my lungs. I’m not sure how long I’ve been running when the lightning hits again, and there it is, just ahead, a narrow path, with a few wooden steps set into it.

  This has to be it—the way to the house.

  I run for the steps, only to freeze in my tracks. Yeah—but whose house?

  I don’t have a choice...do I?

  I flatten myself against a tree, and concentrate on breathing. It’ll be fine. I’m practically in my parents’ neighborhood. No one gets turned into a human-skin coat in sight of Mom’s kitchen.

  Sure they do.

  Not helping. Not helping, at all.

  I’m getting soaked out here. Don’t think this tree has any leaves.

  The entire sky flashes, and this time, it’s not trees I see in front of me, and not an empty path. It’s a man, hollow-eyed, tall as a giant, brandishing the biggest gun I’ve ever seen.

  “Don’t scream,” he says.

  There doesn’t seem to be much point, so I don’t.

  41

  Sam

  What I mean to say is “Oh, hello! I’m not sure you’re aware, but there seems to be a gunman loose on the mountain. If you could avoid attracting his attention, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

  What I say is “Don’t scream.”

  Oh, very smooth. Now, she thinks you’re a murderer.

  “Sorry. That came out wrong.” I whip out my phone and swipe it on, so she can see my face in the glow of the screen.

  “I’m Sam. Sam Lee. You’re in my yard.” I grin, to show her I’m not crazy. Hopefully, it doesn’t come off like some lunatic snarl in the dark.

  “I’m—I’m Sarah. Sarah Bell. Were you—that wasn’t me, if you’re looking for who was shooting up your forest.”

  I chuckle, hoping it’ll help her relax. “Yeah. I can see that.” My phone blinks out—probably shouldn’t have risked it in the storm.

  I chew my lip. “Look, it’s dark, and it’s wet, and I’ve got a dog inside who’s probably worked himself into a full-on panic attack by now. I realize I’ve just jumped out of the woods at you, under some pretty freaky circumstances, but would you like to come inside? I’ve got a landline that ought to be working.”

  Nothing. Should’ve figured.

  Suddenly, she laughs. “Oh—yeah! Sorry! I was nodding. Real helpful, in the dark.”

  I think about taking her hand. Probably not the best idea. “Follow my voice,” I say, instead. I start back up the path, taking care to warn her of every step, every intruding root. Soon, the porch light twinkles into view. I swear I hear her heave a sigh of relief.

  Boone meets us at the door, apparently more scared of being alone in the dark than of the thunder. He squeezes past me, and butts at Sarah’s knees. Of course he does. Fickle mutt. She leans down to tickle his ears.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Boone.” I flick on the lights, in time to catch her wincing.

  “Oh, God—say it’s not Spaniel Boone.”

  “It’s...not Spaniel Boone?”

  “It is, though, isn’t it?”

  “Totally.”

  “Oh, wow. Wow. That’s...so bad.” She’s grinning, with one hand over her eyes, like she’s embarrassed for me. Better than scared of me, at least.

  “What’s yours called?”

  “How do you know I have one?” She eases past Boone, and shuts the door behind her.

  “I think you’re avoiding the question.”

  “Killer. It’s Killer. My dog.”

  Oh, this is too rich. I smirk. “Follow-up question...is he a Chihuahua?”

  “Old English sheepdog.”

  Can’t let this one go by. “So, basically, a giant walking mop. Named Killer.”

  She’s trying to look indignant, laughing too hard to make it work. “Yeah, but...Spaniel Boone?”

  “Yours is still worse.”

  “As bad. I’ll concede to as bad.” Sarah tousles Boone’s head some more, a serious look slowly replacing her smile. “The gunshot you heard. It wasn’t me, but the guy who fired it—he’s after me. Any second now….”

  Instinctively, I glance out the window. Nothing to see. I try to come up with something reassuring. “He shouldn’t be able to find this place in the dark. Come to think of it, how did you?”

  “Completely by accident. I ran into the woods, and...just headed uphill.”

  I blink. Probably best not to tell her just how lucky she got. She’d only have had to miss the path by a few feet, to end up on the wrong side of a sheer drop, topped with thick brush. She’d have passed the house, sight unseen, and plunged into the wilderness.

  “If he’s coming up the driveway,” I tell her, “he’ll hit the carport maybe halfway up. The path from there’s hard to find, even during the day, and there’s a gate. A tall one. Still….” I reach past her, and engage the deadbolt.

  “Thanks.” Sarah turns the handle, testing the lock. Her hand’s shaking. So is the rest of her. I notice she’s missing a shoe, and her jacket’s soaked through.

  “You must be freezing. Come on—I’d just lit the stove when I heard the shot. You can warm up, while I call the police.”

  “Thanks.” She visibly relaxes. I head for the linen closet to grab a towel for her hair, and by the time I get back, she’s found the stove, and dragged the ottoman as close as it’ll go. “I love this room,” she says, gesturing at the overstuffed couches, the shelves of knickknacks. “So cozy. It just needs a rocking chair with an afghan thrown over it, maybe a fluffy rag rug.”

  I laugh. “Chair’s on the back porch. Rug’s in the bedroom. More hairy than fluffy, though. Boone thinks it’s his bed.”

  Boone lifts his head at the sound of his name. He’s settled himself at her feet. Good boy.

  Sarah smiles down at him, and holds out her hand for him to lick. Whoever she is, whatever she’s running from, she can’t be that bad. Boone’s mostly useless, but his asshole radar’s on point. I leave Sarah in his care, and head for the kitchen and the only phone in the house. It’s an elderly wall-mounted model, grudgingly installed by Dad when the rotary stopped working.

  And...this one’s not working, either. At least, not at the moment. It was when I got here. Storm must’ve taken out the line.

  Well. This doesn’t look great.

  Back in the living room, Sarah doesn’t look terribly concerned. “Phone down?”

  “Uh, yeah….” I shrug. “I mean, I know it’s got to look bad: first, I come looming out of the dark, telling you not to scream; now, I’m saying there’s no phone…. You should check it, yourself, if you’re—”

  She’s smiling again, shaking her head. “I honestly didn’t expect it to work. My parents have a cabin here, north of Conway. Their service sucks, too. One stiff breeze—forget it.”

  “That’s where you were headed?”

  “Yeah. They’ve probably called the cops themselves, by now. I should’ve been there hours ago.”

  I sit down next to her, and peel off my wet coat. She’s already spread hers out on the flagstones under the stove to dry. “What happened, anyway? I mean, you don’t have to tell me, but—”

  “No, I do.” Sarah frowns. “I mean, if he does make it up the mountain, that puts you in the line of fire. You need to know what you’re dealing with.”

  A log snaps in the stove. She jumps, and shakes out her hair to cover up the flinch. Now that it’s not quite so wet, I can see it’s a deep, rich chestnut, not black as it seemed in the dark.

  She takes a moment to collect herself. “That was my ex-boyfriend,” she says. “And this is embarrassing. I’m not—I don’t go for the douchebags, the ‘bad boys.’ I know better. But...that’s not him. Or, I didn’t think it was.”

  She’s shaking her head, like she can still hardly believe it. “I mean, he’s an accountant. He did my t
axes. That’s how we met. One minute, he’s this...this skinny little beanpole of a guy, with his big old birth-control glasses, and his library card, and his stupid, finicky clothes brush—and the next, he’s running me off the road, destroying my rental car, shooting up the forest; talk about Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde!”

  “My accountant embezzled three million dollars,” I say. “And I think he took my fountain pen, the one from my dad for graduation.”

  “Fucking accountants!”

  We look at each other, and crack up laughing. Boone does a weird little half-howl, half-ruff, that gets us going even harder. I can feel the tension ebbing away.

  “Anyway, he...I mean, we’d been seeing each other about a year, and...I don’t know. It got weird. Not all at once—a little here, a little there. It...snuck up on me.”

  Her lips curl, like she’s got a bad taste in her mouth. “I mean, he’d call me at work, and want to video-chat, want me to pan the camera over the site. I thought he wanted to see what I did. It was flattering. Cute, even. But then, it was like...he wanted to make sure I was at work. And if I didn’t pick up, or I couldn’t talk, he’d find some excuse to drop by—like, hey, looks like rain—have an umbrella! Or, just passing by; let’s get lunch! One time, he dropped off these carrots, just...a huge bunch of carrots, said he’d passed by a produce stand, thought of me.” She rolls her eyes. “Carrots! Who does that?”

  “Maybe he was concerned about your eyesight.” I wink to let her know I’m kidding.

  “Yeah. My eyesight.” She makes a rather cute little huffing sound. “It was so weird. My boss was right there, which was bad enough—but then, the carrots were sitting in the fridge, in our tiny little trailer—did I mention we’re geologists? We’re geologists! Not exactly working out of palaces! There we were, mid-survey, out in the sticks, ten of us sharing this...dorm-sized mini-fridge, and I fill it with carrots. You can imagine how popular that made me.”

  “It’s fish, at my office. My CFO microwaves fish. Everyone hates him.”

  “I hate him, and I’ve never even met him.”

  We share another chuckle at that. I don’t tell her I have my own fridge, my own microwave—my own floor—and only know about the fish disaster through the grapevine. Now doesn’t seem like the time to rub it in.

  “After the carrots...it got bad. He’d grill me about my boss, how well I knew him, if he was single, what our working relationship was like. And, I mean, this guy’s fifty, maybe sixty—think M*A*S*H, the original Colonel. The one with the hat, and the fly-fishing—what was his name?”

  “Blake. Loved that guy.”

  “Me, too. Used to watch that all the time….” She gets a faraway look, for a second, like she’s remembering something pleasant. “Anyway, think Colonel Blake in a suede jacket with elbow patches. And corduroys. Oh—and in case I forget—a salmon shirt. Or a red shirt, with a salmon tie. Or—well, you get the picture.”

  I do. Kind of reminds me of my economics professor. Hadn’t thought about that guy in years. I tell her so.

  “He was a professor. I mean, most of us teach; there’s not enough fieldwork to last the year. And nothing was going on, in case you’re wondering. I think I had dinner with him once. At Denny’s, after a conference, with eight other people.” She frowns. “It all got to be too much, with the stalking, and the third degree, and I told Vince—that’s my ex—I told him we were through.”

  “Didn’t take it so well?”

  “I thought he did. He said he understood, hoped we’d be friends—the usual things you say in a breakup. But on my way home...the texts started.”

  Her frown deepens into an outright grimace. Still kind of cute.

  “Four phones later, dozens of blocked numbers, they haven’t stopped. And last night, I got home from work, and...you know how you walk in a room, and you know something’s different, but you can’t put your finger on what?”

  “He’d been in your house?”

  “Can’t prove it. He didn’t take anything, and everything was pretty much where I left it, but...I don’t know. Something was….” She throws up her hands in frustration. “Something was off. Thought I’d sneak off for a while, hide out with my parents. But, boom, there he was. Waiting in South Deerfield.”

  “He chased you all the way from there?”

  “Right up your driveway. Speaking of which, I might be blocking you in. Didn’t exactly come to the most graceful of stops—oh, and I maybe, definitely...might’ve flattened your mailbox.”

  Not the worst news I’ve heard all day. “Hey, I’d count that as a favor. Dad put that up. It was one of those cow ones.” I curl my lip.

  “My parents have one where the flag’s an old lady bending over, with her bloomers showing.”

  “I think I’ve driven by that a few times!” I absolutely have. It’s an eyesore. “Maybe next time, I’ll, you know, ‘slip’ on some ‘black ice.’” One good turn deserves another….

  “Speaking of ice, ah….” She shifts uncomfortably. “I’m still sort of damp here, and there’s mud drying in some...uh, in some truly unfortunate places. If I’m going to be here a while, would you mind if I used your shower?”

  “Oh, yeah—of course!” Stupid, stupid—should’ve offered! “Just down the hall, on the right. Watch out for the hot faucet—it kind of sticks, and then it comes on all at once and sprays everywhere.”

  “Noted—thanks!”

  Sarah vanishes down the hall. I can’t help but watch her walk away. She has a great figure, long legs, round ass, narrow waist. And I like her. She seems smart. Funny. Into nerds. Might not be a bad idea to whip up some food while she’s in there, try to impress her—or at least dispel any lingering notion I’m some crazy gun-slinging mountain man.

  Yes. That’s what I’ll do. Can’t hurt, right?

  42

  Sarah

  The shower’s nice: not sure what Sam was talking about with the hot water. Comes on fine for me. And it doesn’t run out in five minutes like at home. I take my time, help myself to his surprisingly luxurious shampoo and body soap.

  There’s something familiar about that guy. I noticed it when he started to dry out. That neat black hair; those sun-narrowed brown eyes—and his smile, most of all. I’ve seen that smile before. I’ve admired that smile. It’s warm. Sincere. A memory tries and fails to surface. I fumble for it, but it’s gone.

  This is going to drive me nuts.

  On the positive side, I’m starting to think I might be safe here. It’s been a while, and Vince hasn’t come crashing in. He’s not the outdoors type. Most likely, he trudged up the driveway till the glare from his headlights gave out, fired a pissy little warning shot, and flounced off.

  Most likely.

  Still, even if he decided to go exploring, how far could he have gotten? I had blind panic on my side propelling me up the mountain. He has, what? Injured pride? Couple of beers?

  He’s gone home. He’s definitely gone home.

  Or he’s gone to my parents’ to….

  No.

  I rub conditioner into my hair, and go back to trying to fit Sam into the places I might’ve seen him. At the Whole Foods in Hadley, getting kale and kombucha? Can’t quite picture it. He’s friendly, but he’s got a hard look, wiry, maybe ex-military. In Vince’s office block, waiting for the elevator? Closer. I can imagine him in a suit, a sharp one—but I’d have run into him more than once if he worked there. I’d remember.

  It’s no use. Something’s missing—some essential piece of the puzzle.

  He wasn’t the sleepy bank manager who helped me open a line of credit—right hair, wrong everything else.

  I didn’t accidentally left-swipe him on Tinder. I’d have regretted that more.

  We didn’t share an uncomfortably silent elevator ride, down thirty-six floors of a forty-floor building.

  Yeah. Definitely driving me nuts.

  I get out and towel off, pleased to discover my dress has almost entirely dried out. There isn’t even that m
uch mud around the hem. I dig around under the sink till I find a hairdryer. I can give my clothes a quick blast when I’m done with my hair. That should finish the job.

  On the other side of the wall, Sam’s moving around. Sounds like he’s rooting through pots and pans. Ooh, maybe he’s making hot chocolate! I’d just been thinking how nice that would be when Vince crashed my evening.

  The smell drifting down the hall isn’t hot chocolate, but it’s definitely enticing. I head for the kitchen to investigate. Sam’s prodding something in a frying pan with a spatula. He looks over and smiles.

  “Wasn’t sure if you were a vegetarian, or if you eat eggs, or—well, figured you’d be hungry, so I made a little bit of everything. Uh, a Spanish omelet, this salad—” He gestures at a huge bowl of mixed greens. “—and some stuffed mushrooms, which should be done in about, oh….” He glances at the oven. “Three minutes! Those have bacon, though.”

  “Love bacon.” Suddenly, I’m starving. “It all smells great. Oh—is that what you do? You’re a chef? Wait, no...you can’t work in food, and have a CFO who’d put fish in the microwave.”

  “You’re half-right,” he says. He starts dishing up the omelet. It looks incredible, full of tomatoes and chives, just the way I like it. “I was a cook in the Army, way back when. And I worked at my Gramps’ restaurant, summers, as a kid.”

  “My Grandpa was an undertaker,” I say, and instantly regret it. Bit of an overshare.

  He snorts, though. “Now, there would be a summer job to remember!”

  “Seriously! I actually worked reception at my dad’s paving company, though. Less memorable, but...also less smelly.”

  The oven dings, and Sam grabs a ridiculous pair of gingham oven gloves. The kitchen fills with the delicious aroma of bacon and melted Parmesan as he retrieves the stuffed mushrooms. It’s making me weak in the knees...or maybe that’s the excellent view I’m getting of Sam’s rear as he bends over the oven. He’s really quite built. Must be the Army influence.

  I’m being rude. I should probably offer to help.