Baby by Design

by Paula Detmer Riggs

  "I don't want unpredictable," Raine said with so much force, Prudy wondered if she was trying to convince both of them. "I want steady and dependable and … home every night." Raine drew a breath. "Which is one of the reasons we're getting a divorce. Our marriage is over. Kaput."

  "Yes, I know."

  Prudy rested her hands on her bulging tummy and waited. Raine had the look of a woman who needed to vent. Since she herself had done plenty of venting to her friends during her rocky reconciliation with Case, she figured it was only fair to put in some listening time.

  Raine traced an imaginary pattern on the tabletop. Her face was pale and her eyes shadowed. The result of a restless night, Prudy suspected. She empathized.

  "Believe me, it wasn't easy to walk into that attorney's office and set things in motion," Raine declared far more softly. "I cried for two days afterward."

  And ached to be in Morgan's arms instead of lying alone in the bed that always seemed empty now. Until last night, when she'd stood at the doorway, watching Morgan sleep…

  "I remember. Stacy and I thought you were doing a pretty good imitation of a zombie."

  Raine went on as though Prudy hadn't spoken. "I despise the very idea of divorce, but I hate continuing with a travesty of a marriage even more."

  Prudy blinked. "Travesty?" she said carefully.

  "I don't know what else you would call it. Morgan never really lived with us. He … visited. Just when Mike and I would be getting used to having him around again, it was time for him to leave. Most of our marriage was spent in airport lounges." Raine sighed. "Or in bed."

  "Hmm, that sounds promising."

  "It sounds like an affair, which is mostly what we had. No real sharing, no genuine communication, none of the lovely little intimacies of married life. Nothing like you have with Case or Stacy has with Boyd. Heck, we never even argued. Whatever I wanted, Morgan just said 'Fine with me, honey.'" She glowered across the table, her forehead knitting. "Honestly, Prue, he might as well have been a sailor on leave, looking for a good time."

  Prudy blurted a laugh, then worked to swallow it when Raine frowned. "Pardon me, but that sounds a tad like an exaggeration."

  "It's not," Raine insisted, glancing toward the living room where the sound of little-girl giggles rose over the swell of familiar theme music. Mike had adored "Sesame Street," too. He'd known the words to all of the songs by the time he'd turned three. She felt a familiar ache settle over her heart. The pain of loss was no longer paralyzing, but it was always there, waiting in the background.

  "Do you still love him?" Prudy asked after a few beats of silence.

  Raine shook her head. "How can I, Prue? I don't really know him."

  "Hmm." Prudy blew on her drink before risking a sip. "How well did you know him when you got married?"

  "I didn't."

  "Aha."

  "I was twenty-three years old and pregnant. He didn't want his child to be illegitimate. Neither did I."

  "You could have gotten a divorce after Mike was born."

  "You sound like my father."

  "You're hedging."

  Raine considered that for a moment, then sighed. "I hate it when you're right."

  Prudy laughed. "So does Case."

  The dryer buzzed, demanding immediate attention, and Prudy levered herself awkwardly to her feet. "Be right back," she said before disappearing into the utility room adjacent to the sunny yellow kitchen.

  Raine took a sip and stared at the rain sheeting down the window. She doubted that Morgan had a raincoat or even an umbrella. After all he'd been in the Mideast for the past six months. Guilt washed over her as she thought about him slogging through the summer downpour.

  "It's not my fault," she muttered.

  Returning with a basket full of baby clothes, Prudy grinned. "Uh-oh. The man's only been home one day, and she's talking to herself. Definitely a bad sign."

  Raine glanced at her watch and sighed. "I should have opened the store ten minutes ago. Mr. Arnheim will be very upset with me. He claims he can't start his day properly without a cup of low-fat hazelnut latte and two bran muffins."

  "You can spare a few minutes to finish your drink," Prudy declared as she set the basket next to her chair and sat down. "Besides, if Mr. Arnheim has any sense at all, he'll wait until the monsoon slacks off before he risks going outside."

  Raine wondered where Morgan had gone to get in out of the rain. A bar wasn't really his style. Besides, he rarely drank. Perhaps one of the coffee shops in the mall, she thought. After all, the man had eaten virtually nothing since he'd crossed her threshold.

  "Isn't that sleeper a little small for Chloe?" she asked, watching Prudy fold a tiny garment of pink terry cloth.

  "Hand-me-downs for her sister," Prudy said with a soft smile as she put the folded sleeper to one side. "I've been meaning to get these ready for the last month. I figured, since I've been having a few twinges now and then I'd better not wait much longer."

  Raine narrowed her gaze. "First stages of labor?"

  Prudy glanced down at her belly, her expression rueful. "Not yet, but I have a hunch this little one is going to be early."

  "Has she dropped?"

  "Last week. Can't you tell?"

  Raine inspected Prudy's rounded contours with a critical eye. Her always colorful friend was wearing a voluminous shirt, tie-dyed in brilliant hues of orange and yellow, over turquoise shorts. Her hair was tied back with a matching orange ribbon that clashed wildly with the coppery shade.

  "Do you want the truth or do you want me to lie?"

  Prudy grimaced. "Lie, please! Tell me you've gotten a revelation from the universe that I'm going to have this baby soon. Like today."

  "Obviously, you're ready."

  "Lord, am I ever! I love being pregnant, and I'm not all that crazy about the actual birth process, but enough's enough."

  Raine laughed. "Stacy says the second one's easier. I'm holding her to that big-time."

  "She's right. Chloe's birth was disgustingly easy. Hardly more than a sneeze. But the first…" Her voice trailed off.

  "You mean Chloe wasn't your first?" Raine asked carefully.

  Prudy shook her head. "Case and I lost a child during our first marriage. A little boy. I was seven months along."

  "I'm sorry."

  Prudy glanced toward the living room where her daughter was now singing along with Big Bird. "Case never wanted children, and I agreed to that when we were married. But I wanted a baby so badly." She drew a breath. "I stopped taking the Pill without his knowing it. When he found out, he was furious with me. He felt betrayed, and he was right. I was dead wrong."

  "Oh, Prue, how dreadful."

  "When I lost the baby, I, well, I guess I considered it my punishment for lying and cheating."

  "Is that why you divorced?"

  Prudy nodded. "Eventually, yes. It was his choice, his decision. That's why I was so reluctant to tell him about the baby when he got me pregnant the second time."

  Raine had heard the story of the Randolphs' second love affair shortly after she'd bought the house. After years of estrangement, Prudy and Case had come together as godparents to his niece's child and had ended up making love. Prudy had gotten pregnant with Chloe that night.

  "You told me this baby was Case's idea."

  Prudy brightened. "He claimed he didn't want Chloe to be an only child. Said that we 'onlies' are spoiled brats."

  "Ha!"

  Prudy nodded, then took another sip of carob-flavored milk. "I saw Morgan's face when he realized you were pregnant. For a moment he looked totally destroyed."

  Raine refused to feel guilty. "I didn't ask him to come home."

  "And the twins' father? I assume Morgan has asked for all the gory details."

  Raine shifted uncomfortably. The babies had been unusually quiet all morning, but one of them had just given her a hard kick. A rebuke? she wondered. Or a reminder?

  "He asked. I didn't say much."

  "Are you s
ure that's wise? Legally—"

  "Please!" Raine protested, holding up a hand. "Don't remind me. The last thing I need for these little guys is a clouded paternity."

  "But if you're still married when they're born—"

  "I won't be!"

  She felt another kick and pressed her hand against her tummy in an attempt to soothe her protesting offspring.

  "Morgan is just feeling a bit ruffled, that's all. Once he gets over his Neanderthal act, he'll calm down and sign the divorce papers."

  "Hmm."

  Raine frowned. "Don't look at me like that. I know what I'm doing."

  Prudy nodded. "So you don't think he loves you enough to accept another man's children?"

  "That's just it, Prue. He never loved me."

  "Are you sure about that?"

  Raine drew a breath. "We went to bed together on our third date." She stopped, suddenly aware that the man she was describing sounded insipid, when the truth was, Morgan had been an ardent, tenacious lover. A man who had seemed to radiate a hunger so wild, it had both thrilled and frightened her.

  "He was already famous when he came to give a talk at Bradenton. I was a lowly senior, tying to figure out if I wanted to go on to grad school. I took one look at him and melted."

  "Maybe the same thing happened to him."

  Raine shook her head. "What love Morgan has to give has always been reserved for his work. Before he met me, it was his wife and mistress and passion all rolled into one."

  "And after you married?"

  "After we married, his work still came first." She felt a wave of bitterness threatening to swamp her and did her best to fight it off. "At the end, Mike could only move his eyes. He couldn't even talk. I … sat with him and held his hand. Mostly he just slept, but now and then he would open his eyes and just stare at the door." She had to stop to clear her throat. "He was looking for his father, you see. Waiting, to say goodbye, I think."

  "Oh, Raine, I'm so sorry," Prudy murmured softly as she reached across the table to touch Raine's clenched fist.

  Raine nodded. "Morgan tried to get home in time. Because of that mess in Bosnia, he had trouble getting a flight. I can't blame him for that, of course."

  "If you don't blame him, why are you divorcing him?"

  "Because I couldn't bear the thought of another child of mine staring at a door, wishing his father would walk through it. And yet, I was desperate to have another child. It came down to a choice, and I … made an appointment at the sperm bank."

  Raine glanced at the window, checking the weather. The rain seemed to have grown even heavier, pounding incessantly against the panes. If Morgan had any sense, he would be having a second cup of coffee in a nice, cozy restaurant somewhere.

  "I'd better go. I have an appointment with Luke this afternoon, and a stack of mail on my desk at the store that needs tending." And a life of her own to live.

  Chapter 6

  « ^ »

  Though well past sunup, it was as dark as twilight outside. A typically gloomy Oregon storm, guaranteed to rust anything metal that wasn't double coated, and even then, it was iffy.

  The rain was a wet dank curtain as Raine cut across the MacAuley property toward her own, heading for the cement walk that led to her carport. Huddled into her slicker, she sloshed through puddle after puddle, congratulating herself on her wisdom in slipping on her boots this morning instead of her sneakers. Even the grass beneath her feet was sodden and slick and far more treacherous than it looked. The last thing she needed now was a fall.

  She was slipping through the hedge marking the property line when she remembered the back porch light. Far too absentminded lately, she'd forgotten to turn it off three mornings in a row.

  Sure enough it was still on.

  She was debating whether or not to take the time to return to the house when she realized that someone was sitting on her porch. No, slumped on her porch, his back against the shiplap siding of the house.

  "Morgan? Is that you?" Even as she called his name, she was hurrying up the walk toward the rear steps.

  At first she thought he was asleep. And then she noticed the terrible pallor of his skin and the odd frown on his face. He looked sick. Or in terrible pain.

  "Morgan, what's wrong? Are you hurt?"

  Careful to use the handrail, she hurried up the slick steps and crouched next to him, a difficult feat given the fact that her tummy bumped her knees. She reached out a hand and touched his shoulder.

  "Go away," he grated, his voice little better than a harsh rasp. His body shuddered, as though even that slight effort cost him.

  "Are you hurt? Did you fall?"

  His frown deepened as he opened his eyes to slits, then winced, as though even the dull light of a gray rainy day had seared his retinas.

  "Why the hell don't you keep a key under the mat like most sensible people?"

  If Raine hadn't been so worried, she would have laughed. "Yell at me later. Right now I want to know what's wrong so that I can help you."

  "Just … open the damn door and then go away so I can die in peace."

  Die? It took Raine a heart-pounding few seconds to realize he was attempting some kind of macho joke.

  "I'm going to call 911. You need an ambulance."

  "No!" he shouted, then groaned. "No ambulance," he ordered in a softer tone. "Only a … damned headache. Pills in my bag." He glowered at her, daring her to object.

  Pills? Raine took a moment to assimilate that. In all the years she'd known Morgan, she'd never known him to take so much as an aspirin or a vitamin. Fear ran through her, sharp as a knife. Was he seriously ill? Perhaps he hadn't been joking about dying. Was that it, his reason for returning?

  She stopped breathing, felt a rush of weakness, a flurry of nausea. Her head suddenly seemed filled with air. It occurred to her then that she just might be sliding toward her first-ever fainting spell. It was unthinkable. Only Victorian ladies or wimps allowed themselves to swoon.

  "I… Let me … open the door," she said before hauling in a lungful of rain-scented air. Using his boulder-hard shoulder as a prop, she pushed herself to her feet, then gathered in another deep breath. The giddiness lessened, though she still felt shaky and disoriented.

  "Keys," she muttered, determined to remain calm and in control.

  Her key ring was in her purse, which was still hanging from her shoulder. Morgan closed his eyes while she fumbled through the vast array of necessities she always carried with her. Force of habit from the days when she'd invariably had a toddler in tow.

  It seemed like an eternity before she found the ring and dealt with the locked door. She thrust it open, slung her purse onto the counter, then drew a deep breath and turned her mind to the man still slumped against her house.

  He was utterly still, his thick golden lashes and brows the only spot of color in his face. His mouth was compressed in a hard line, and his brow was deeply furrowed. His jeans and T-shirt were sopping wet and clinging to the impressive contours of his long, lean form with clammy tenacity. As far as she could see from a cursory inspection, he'd packed on a few more pounds in the form of hard muscle. Heavy muscle.

  She thought about giving Stacy a quick call for assistance, then decided to try it alone first. It seemed imperative to get him inside and out of his wet clothes.

  "Morgan, if I help you, do you think you could stand up?"

  For an instant she thought he'd passed out, and then he opened his eyes to glare up at her again.

  "Dumb question," he mumbled, but without much force.

  She waited, then frowned. "Uh, do you suppose you could give me an answer to my dumb question?"

  He muttered something pithy and obscene, then gritted his teeth and lurched to his feet. He stood swaying for an instant before Raine slipped her shoulder under his arm.

  He managed to take most of his own weight as she clumsily steered him through the door and into the kitchen. She paused, thinking furiously. She'd forgotten how big he was. And solid.
Twice her weight at least.

  The bedrooms were upstairs. She considered gravity, the strain on her back and the risk to the babies. No, she would never get him up those stairs safely.

  "Plan B," she muttered, frowning. "Which is … what?"

  The living room sofa, she decided, urging him past the butcher-block island Boyd MacAuley had built for her last summer.

  "Fine, now," he muttered as he made a valiant effort to untangle himself from her. "Thanks."

  "Uh-huh."

  She tightened the arm she'd stretched across his wide back and directed him toward the door at the opposite end of the kitchen. He moved carefully as though made of glass. Each step precise and measured.

  "To the left now, a few more steps through the hall, that's it."

  His forehead was beaded with sweat and he was swearing steadily by the time she maneuvered him onto the couch and helped him to stretch out on his back. The cushions sagged under two-hundred-plus pounds of hard-packed muscle and steely sinew.

  Raine took a moment to catch her breath. Her heart was racing, and her back hurt. Beneath the shelter of the slicker, one of the babies gave a hard kick.

  "Okay, the pills you mentioned. Which bag are they in?" she asked, staring down at him.

  "Shaving kit," he replied without opening his eyes. "Bedroom."

  "I'll be right back." She turned away, then swung back to order briskly, "Don't you dare try to get up."

  His mouth quirked as he opened one eye.

  "Right. Another dumb remark," she muttered as she hurried toward the staircase in the front entry.

  Morgan heard her footsteps pounding up the stairs and blistered the silence with a particularly foul curse in Arabic, taught to him by a rummy camel driver with a talent for creative obscenity.

  The pain had hit him fast this time. A piercing splinter of hot agony in his right temple, followed by the familiar crushing sensation inside his skull. Like the sharp, hot jaws of a vise closing tighter and tighter until he wanted to scream.

  Somehow he'd made it up the steep, winding path leading from the river walk to the street without passing out. With whole chunks of his vision blocked by luminescent squiggles and jagged explosions and his balance more precarious than reliable, he'd had the devil's own time finding his way back to Raine's house, only to find the place locked up tight.