Precedent for Passion

by Amber Cross

  They wouldn’t be missing anything. She looked like death warmed over. She was nauseous all the time, morning, noon, and night. She regularly fell asleep before eating, which was okay since she had no appetite, but not good for the baby. Her back hurt. Her waistline billowed out. Not enough for anyone to realize yet that she was pregnant, just enough for many of her clothes to be too tight. She looked and felt awful, and that made her mad as hell. If she had to suffer through this misery on her own, she was going to enjoy the results of it all by herself. For once her mother was right. She didn’t need a man. Especially one too pigheaded to even give her a chance, to even consider for a minute that she might not be as devious as his ex-wife and that maybe this baby hadn’t been part of her summer plans any more than it had been part of his!

  Propping her feet up on the coffee table, she turned on her laptop and did what she did best. She crafted a legal document.

  ****

  Glen was so angry steam should be coming from his ears. He threw the mail across the floor of his living room, slammed the door closed, and when it popped open again from the force, body slammed it. The pain felt good. It didn’t bring relief, but it gave him something to think about for a moment. Something other than the large manila envelope lying half beneath his easy chair. The one with the big bold letters spelling out A. Wilson, Attorney at Law just above the address. And what remained of the green postage ticket where the documents had been sent certified, return receipt requested.

  Nothing about the envelope warned him of its contents. He had decided to buy the cottage in Somerset and thought she must be handling the real estate transaction. The last thing he expected to see were the words Voluntary Termination of Parental Rights heading up the pages of legal speak.

  Even in his rage he could understand what the rest of the words meant, but Abby had enclosed a short note in her own handwriting in case it was too much for him.

  If you want nothing to do with my pregnancy or the outcome, please sign these documents. One copy is for you, one should be sent back to me, and the third copy must be notarized and sent to the court in Guildhall. I’ve enclosed an envelope with their address as well as a bank check to cover the cost of filing.

  As nasty as anything his ex-wife had ever sent to him. Worse, because it was so matter of fact, so impersonal, as if what they shared meant so little she couldn’t even be angry about it.

  Well, he had no trouble with that emotion. It was roiling through his bloodstream and pounding at his temples.

  Snatching the envelope up only to throw it against the wall, he cursed her with every profane word in his vocabulary.

  It didn’t matter that he had been seriously contemplating his conversation with Jason and was halfway to forgiving her.

  She would not trap him! By God, he was not going to let another woman tie him to her for eighteen plus years. Taking almost half of what he made, forcing him to change his career plans, and preventing him from making any decisions without first checking with her. He couldn’t change jobs because he carried the kids’ health insurance. He couldn’t move out of the city if it meant he would be outside a certain mile radius from her home. Traveling with the kids out of the country required him to sign so much paperwork that he stopped taking them to visit his grandparents in Quebec and instead they came to meet them in Vermont.

  Not again. Abby was about to learn she could not dictate terms to him and simply expect him to go along with them.

  He still had her number stored in his memory; there was no need for speed dial. It was seven o’clock on a Thursday night. She should be in unless her schedule had changed.

  Her phone rang until it went to voicemail. He hung up. Immediately dialed again but with the same result. Half an hour later there was still no answer. Or half an hour after that.

  He didn’t get through until ten o’clock, and by that time he had worn a path in the carpet from pacing back and forth. He had also built up such a head of steam that the first words out of his mouth, unplanned, were “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Glen?”

  She sounded groggy. He could picture her rolling out of bed, her body warm, hair mussed, gray-green eyes blinking slowly as she came awake. How was it possible for that image to make his loins pulse even after what she had done?

  “Well? Would you care to explain this envelope I got from you?”

  A long pause, then a much more alert Abby replied, “If you need clarification, I suggest you hire an attorney.”

  “I can read just fine!”

  “Then what explanation is there?”

  “Do you honestly expect me to sign off on my own kid?”

  “Well, what do you want? Because you’ve made it clear you don’t want anything to do with this child. Or me.”

  “I want you to admit that you tricked me! Put that in writing and send it certified, return receipt requested. Then we’ll talk about parental rights.”

  ****

  Unreasonable ass, she thought but didn’t get a chance to say it because he disconnected the call. She wished she had done it first. Wished she had a house phone so she could have the satisfaction of slamming it down in his ear. Instead she made do with a text message to the number he called from. You have thirty days. The deadline was on the paperwork already, but reminding him gave her the last word.

  Not that it made her feel any better. Even her anger was temporary, replaced almost immediately by the same depression that plagued her since the day she’d told him about her pregnancy. Fatigue made her life difficult, but his rejection made it miserable.

  The morning after their telephone argument, her cell phone rang even though she was at the office and her family knew better than to disturb her there. So her first thought was that Glen had calmed down and called to apologize. But it was her obstetrician calling.

  “Abby, this is Doctor French,” the woman said unnecessarily.

  “Hi, Doc.”

  “I’m calling to see if you can come into the office this afternoon?”

  Uh-oh. This didn’t sound good.

  “It’s nothing to worry about, but I’d like to check a few things. I was looking at your numbers from Monday’s appointment, and your weight gain is higher than expected at this stage of your pregnancy. It may be nothing, just a big baby, but I don’t want to take any chances. If you can come in, we’ll double check your sugar and blood pressure and maybe do another ultrasound.”

  Hours later Abby stumbled out of the examination room and plopped down onto one of the chairs in the reception area. She couldn’t move. She was completely numb, stunned by what Doctor French had told her.

  A toddler pushed a plastic dump truck past her feet and made a vroom noise. She barely noticed. The bell above the door jingled as another patient entered. She didn’t even look up.

  “Would you like some water?”

  The question was directed at her, but she only registered it when a paper cup swam before her dazed eyes. She looked up to see the receptionist holding it out for her. The woman smiled sympathetically and urged her to take the cup. Abby swallowed the contents in one gulp.

  “You looked like you could use that.” The receptionist laughed. “It isn’t every day a woman finds out she’s having twins.”

  Abby held the cup out to the woman, intending to thank her for her thoughtfulness, but the words died on her lips. The new patient standing at the window behind her was tall and attractive, with gray-streaked dark hair. Glen’s mother. The O on her lips told Abby she had heard every word.

  ****

  Glen’s head hadn’t stopped spinning for weeks.

  His ex-wife had robbed him of the things every father deserved. When Darcy took her first step, he wasn’t there to see it. When Colin went to preschool, he was in another town. She had already moved with the kids to Scarsdale and set up house with the first of many live-in boyfriends. He wasn’t there in the middle of the night to comfort his children if they were sick. He wasn’t the one putting
money under their pillow when they lost a tooth.

  Over the years he had done the best job he could. The fact that the kids wanted to stay with him instead of moving to California with their mother proved he had done a good job. He never said anything bad about her to them or in front of them. Never said anything that could be repeated to them or in front of them. He just worked, every day, year in and year out, at being a constant source of love and security in their lives.

  What will Abby’s child have? The question slipped into his mind like a serpent, coiling around his thoughts and twisting his emotions until he thought they might suffocate him.

  Abby’s child would have him. There was never any doubt about that. He couldn’t walk away from this baby any more than he could have walked away from Colin and Darcy. But it wouldn’t be full time.

  There would be uncles, definitely. Maybe some other male figure. It would be hard for any man to resist a woman like that. Confident. Smart. Sexy.

  The idea of a man living with her, sleeping in her bed, raising their child, brought sweat to his brow. His hands grew clammy and started to shake. He swallowed hard. It hurt because his mouth was suddenly dry.

  He never cared about another man being with his ex-wife. Not like this. In the beginning her relationships had been an affront to his pride. When they became long term, he’d worried about the men treating his children well, but there was no jealousy.

  Just the thought of Abby with another man had that destructive emotion running through his bloodstream like corrosive acid.

  Did it matter if she’d tricked him? Was it even true? He couldn’t remember Darcy’s doctor warning them about birth control and antibiotics. Abby was a brilliant woman, but that didn’t make her infallible. She’d probably read the directions on the package, not the tiny multi-page insert from the pharmacy where warnings like that were listed. He was a genius, and still he’d been duped by his first wife, too enamored by her to see that she was a woman on the make. Too confident in his own rational mind to listen to his college friends when they warned him about her. By the time he introduced her to Jason, who saw through her immediately, it had been too late. Colin had already been on the way.

  His chest hurt and his brain spun. Dropping into the easy chair, he put his head between his knees and took deep breaths, but they didn’t help. He could not trust his own judgment where Abby was concerned. Because he had been wrong before. Because she was so important to him and because he wanted so badly to believe her.

  What if he was wrong, and she wasn’t trustworthy?

  Worse, what if she was everything she claimed to be, and he had abandoned her?

  Feeling like he was about to pass out, he reached blindly for his cell phone where it lay on the end table. Thank God for speed dial. He punched in three keys and waited for the ring tone. It rang and rang. Panic squeezed the air from his lungs, and he stumbled out of the chair onto the carpet where he lay on his side taking great gulps of air. Trying to still his racing heart.

  The room spun in a blur. Would anyone find him if he had a heart attack right here, right now? He didn’t want his kids to walk in and see his stiff corpse at the end of the weekend.

  “Are you there, or is this a pocket dial?”

  Jason’s voice. He must have already answered the phone and received no response.

  Gasping, Glen rolled onto his back and clutched the phone to his ear. “I’m here.”

  His voice sounded weak. This was more terrifying than public speaking. He had only experienced this kind of panic in the courtroom sixteen years ago, when he listened while his ex-wife annihilated his character and put his rights as a father at risk. This was so much worse.

  “Glen? What’s wrong?”

  His answer was a cry from the depths of his soul. “I’m in trouble.”

  ****

  Abby dragged herself out of the elevator and stumbled across the foyer to her condo door. Tonight she had only been able to swim half an hour at her usual pace before fatigue set in, and she couldn’t wait to flop down on the nearest soft surface.

  Unfortunately, her sofa was out. Random articles of clothing were draped over the arms and back, and her half-filled suitcase lay spread open on the cushions, waiting for her to finish packing for a weekend conference.

  Her padded chair, super comfortable because it was made special for her height, was not even a consideration. She couldn’t look at it because the little table beside it held her chess board. A fine layer of dust coated the pieces. She should put it away, but the idea of ending that game for good was too painful, so instead she left it there, untouched, a daily reminder of her situation.

  Her bed wasn’t made. What was the point? Stacks of papers dominated one side and piles of clean laundry covered the foot of the comforter. She didn’t bother to move them. Just kicked off her shoes and collapsed onto the welcoming surface.

  She barely closed her eyes when her phone jingled to indicate an incoming text. That was unusual. Few people knew her number, even fewer called it, and none of her family members sent texts. Her brothers claimed it was because they were afraid she’d accidentally delete the message though she never had. Still, it must be one of them, and if she didn’t answer now she’d just get a call later.

  Rolling to the edge of the mattress, she rummaged blindly through her bag where it lay on the floor until her hand closed over the smooth rectangular instrument. Raised it to eye level and squinted at the panel. Then almost dropped the thing on seeing Glen’s name as the sender. She was suddenly wide awake and paralyzed with fear.

  The man could destroy her with one line, especially if that line was it’s over.

  He could also save her if the words were I’m sorry.

  Perspiration dotted her forehead. This could be the biggest moment of her life.

  Incapable of deciding whether or not to read the message tonight or leave it for later, she pulled open the drawer of her bedside table and retrieved the all important die. If it landed on an odd number, she would read the message. If even, she would go to sleep—as if she could sleep now—and read it in the morning.

  Rolling the die across the tabletop, she waited breathlessly for it to come to a stop.

  Three black dots on the white cube.

  With shaking hands she put it back in the drawer. Tremors of nervous anticipation rippled down her spine. She turned on the bedside lamp, propped herself up against the headboard, took a deep breath, and opened his message.

  It was a video. Warier than ever now, she pushed the little triangle for play.

  He sat in the living room of his New York condominium. Behind him the sky was orange and pink through the cracked blinds, throwing him into stark relief, making him look good enough to eat but also tired. His dark hair was disheveled, his beard a little longer than usual. Was he as worn out as she was, or was that a trick of the light? Or was it wishful thinking on her part?

  “Abby, here is your answer,” he said, holding a fistful of papers up close to the camera. Voluntary Termination of Parental Rights. The breath squeezed from her lungs while she waited for him to flip through the pages until she could see his signature at the bottom of the last one. Instead, he moved them away from the lens and held up a candle lighter. Slowly, his eyes steady on the camera as if looking directly at her, he put the lighter to the bottom corner of the pages and flicked the switch. Flames took hold and licked their way up the side of the documents. “I’ll be up this weekend.” He dropped the pages onto a glass plate on the coffee table and let them burn. “I hope you’re ready for a long talk.”

  The video ended. She stared at her telephone until the screen went black and reflected her own image back at her, paralyzed again by his message and what it could mean. He wasn’t denying paternity, but that wasn’t the same thing as wanting her back. His long talk could be about shared custody or the two of them. It could be about starting over or ending it once and for all.

  With unsteady fingers she brought her screen back to life. Wro
te a reply to his text. Accidentally deleted it while trying to make edits and had to start over. Four revisions later she finally sent a message simply saying I’m flying to DC on Friday for a conference and won’t be home until Monday. Call me.

  Her phone remained silent all night.

  When she had no missed calls on her phone the next day, or the one after that, her anxiety returned and with it her depression. By the time she finished packing for her flight on Friday, she was upset but glad to be putting some distance between herself and the empty condo across the hall. On the way to the airport she called David and shared her itinerary, who shared it with Romney and Hume in case anything happened during her trip. Mercifully nothing about her flight made the news, and she returned Monday night tired but in one piece.

  To her surprise, a basket of fruit wrapped in green cellophane was waiting for her when she stepped out of the elevator. The attached card bore her name in block print but no further identification; not the sender’s name or the company it came from. Since the entire selection was native to Andros, she called Romney to thank him even as she cored the pineapple.

  “Wasn’t me, little sister.”

  “C’mon. Who else knows all my favorites?” She poked the eyes out of the coconut and drained the milk into a glass. “There’s even sour orange in here.”

  “Don’t know what to tell you. But I’ll be flying in from Paris Thursday night if you want to save me some.”

  “Not a chance.”

  She called David next and got the same response.

  For a moment she considered it might have come from Glen, then just as quickly dismissed the idea. If he couldn’t even call her, he was unlikely to send her a gift. In the end it didn’t matter who it came from. She filled a whole mixing bowl with pineapple, coconut, Persian lime, and mango and ate every last bite.

  ****

  “Do you want this woman?” Jason had asked him when he finally got his panic attack under control.