A Mother's Secrets

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  And was looking forward to the evening ahead more than he’d looked forward to anything in a very long time.

  * * *

  It was all very practical. The plans. The rationales. The contract. The process.

  She’d managed to compartmentalize the actual procedure as little different from an ordinary vaginal exam. In her world, implantation was all part of their day’s work.

  One key element was unaccounted for, however. What in the hell was she supposed to do with an incredibly sexy and far too endearing man in her home when he wasn’t there for anything to do with her? It wasn’t like she could suddenly install some kind of X-ray system on her stomach that would allow him to watch over the seed inside her while leaving the rest of her life alone.

  And what was with all of the sudden spirals going on “down there”? Did having an embryo implanted inside you suddenly make you horny?

  She’d expected cramping. Knew hormones could ratchet up the sex drive. But implantation? She’d never heard of that.

  He had dinner in the oven. Was opening cupboards in her kitchen, judging by the sounds. While she lay on the couch, tablet in hand, pretending to work.

  She’d just had a new life planted inside her. It was all a little nerve-racking.

  “Do you eat at the dining room table or the kitchen?” He came through a small hallway from the kitchen, wiping his hands on the hand towel she’d had hanging from the oven door handle.

  “I usually sit at the kitchen counter bar.” There were two stools. The kitchen table was for when she had guests over. The dining room for special occasions...

  He wasn’t a guest.

  Thank goodness.

  The guy just had to breathe and she was aware of him there. In her home. Filling her space. Those tight, firm legs. The backside that followed suit to form a shape made for A-list actors. She stared at it as he left the room.

  It had been a while since she’d had sex. A year or two. Clearly too long.

  It was a little late now to do something about that. She couldn’t very well go have sex while she was carrying another man’s baby.

  If the procedure was successful, she wouldn’t be having sex for another nine months. Just didn’t seem right to have another man’s body part up there with a baby trying to grow. Didn’t seem the least bit sexy to her. That would make it two or three years going without.

  She hadn’t thought this through well enough.

  Why hadn’t Olivia reminded her about this?

  Olivia. She’d promised her friend she’d text her when she got home. So thinking, she pulled out her phone and let Olivia, who was in San Diego attending a conference, know that all had gone well. That she was home and resting as planned.

  She didn’t mention that she wasn’t heating her dinner herself. Just like she didn’t mention most of the business meetings she had throughout her days. It wasn’t like she and Olivia told each other everything.

  Christine wasn’t a “tell someone everything” person. Not since her mother had died.

  Besides, every moment in every day came filled with new things to explore and talk about. No need to dredge up the moment that just passed...

  Or ones that passed long ago. So it was a bit discomfiting to her, half an hour later, to find herself sitting side by side with Jamison Howe at her countertop bar, and finding nothing to talk about. The awkward silence was choking her as, everywhere she looked, every thought that came to mind, was filled with nonbusiness conversation.

  You could only mention so many times that you hoped and prayed the procedure took. Or that it would be a hard two weeks, waiting for a definitive answer. She could take a test in a couple of days. And since her hormone levels would be in a state of flux, an early test could be wrong, either way.

  They’d mentioned the fact that they had enough embryos for a couple of more tries, at least five times. Or her brain had. She wasn’t certain she’d said all the words aloud.

  Jamie, as he kept insisting she call him, didn’t seem to mind the silence. Maybe he was one of those quiet, silent guys.

  Which, considering she didn’t usually go for that type, preferring a guy to step right up and say his piece, boded well for her inappropriate sexual attraction to him. And not at all well for the months ahead. She could handle no drinking, carrying around extra weight, throwing up... But months on end with no conversation...?

  “My Gram and Gramps used to sit here every single day for lunch.” She blurted out the words like an exploding pressure cooker. “Right here, on these two bar stools, him on the stool where you’re sitting and her, here.” There. Something got out.

  Hopefully the most innocuous of the thoughts she’d been having and holding back.

  “This was their house?”

  She nodded. Ate with her normal healthy appetite. The enchiladas were especially good this time around. “My mom grew up here,” she said. “And so did I. In case you haven’t noticed, the place is huge. By the time my mom and dad married, the house was already getting to be too much for my gram and gramps to maintain, so the four of them decided to live together. Mom would one day inherit the house, and it wasn’t like she and Dad would be able to afford anything as nice with the way property values had risen here.”

  He helped himself to another enchilada. She felt kind of good about that. Mostly she was the only one who usually knew whether the dinner she’d made had been a success or not.

  “I tried not to be too nosy, but I got a look at the den,” he said then. Sitting next to each other, they were facing the kitchen, not each other, and she found that it made conversation with him easier. She just had to be certain that, with their stools as close as they needed to be to fit, she didn’t turn and knock her knees into his thigh.

  That would not be good.

  “All those books...and the woodworking of the shelves, even the desk. It was like stepping back in time to an elegant drawing room...”

  “The floors need to be redone,” she said, almost light-headed with relief that they’d found something to talk about. “And the rug is threadbare.” It was wool, though, and she hadn’t been able to afford another like it in that size; settling for synthetic had seemed disrespectful to her parents and grands.

  “I’m actually using the money I’m making from you to finish the updates I need to make on the house,” she told him, envisioning hours of house renovation conversation. She had lots and lots to say on that topic. Research she’d done. Choices she’d already made and some she had yet to make.

  People she’d interview to do the work. Some she’d chosen, some she had yet to choose.

  “I’m assuming your grandparents must have passed, since you speak of them in past tense and...they aren’t here,” he said, interrupting her perusal of her house repertoire right when she’d been debating starting with floor refinishers or the roofers who’d just completed the first portion of the work that needed to be done. All with an eye to the baby’s safety, of course.

  “They died, one right after the other, when I was in college.”

  “I’m sorry.” Her peripheral vision told her he’d glanced her way. She glanced back before she could stop herself. Read more in his gaze than she generally shared with business associates. Clients.

  Or any employer she’d ever had.

  Alarm bells rang through her entire system—so loud it was a wonder he couldn’t hear them. They had nine months ahead of them, hopefully, at the very least.

  No way could she afford to feel things for this man. Any things.

  Not even the compassion she freely poured over her clients.

  He’d already used up his allotted amount.

  Chapter Eight

  So the man understood grief. Considering their circumstances, that was a given. Didn’t mean they had to share a moment over it.

  Turning back to her food, Christine attack
ed the next bite with a gusto she didn’t feel. Not for the chicken. “It wasn’t unexpected,” she said, finding her distance again. “They’d both been failing for a while.”

  And her turning up pregnant her senior year of high school hadn’t helped matters. She’d caused them so much worry...

  Not “Jamie Howe on the premises” thoughts. “I’m sure they’re both sighing in relief as they look down and see the new roof,” she said, managing a real chuckle, as she made her first house renovation conversation choice.

  “What about your parents? Are they still local?”

  He didn’t know her. He knew about Ryder, but he didn’t know her. As big and wide as her world in Marie Cove was, she still lived a somewhat insular life. Around people who knew about her mom, at least.

  “My mom died when I was ten,” she told him. Clinic history. All of her employees knew. Some of her clients did. No reason her temporary employer shouldn’t.

  Or were they business partners? Their contract put her mostly in the boss position...

  “Dad was working eighty hours a week in LA and he and my grandparents thought it in my best interest to keep me with them. Eventually he gave them custody of me.” After he remarried.

  “I didn’t get along with his new wife. Probably my fault as much as hers. I wasn’t open to replacing my mother. Or having another one.”

  “Do you ever see them?”

  “Once or twice a year. But we talk at least once a month.” She loved her dad. And Tyler, too. Even had developed some fond feelings for her stepmom, who’d been a surprising source of support to her when she’d been pregnant the first time, and again when Gram had died.

  But a girl didn’t forget how easily she’d been given up. Or how easily months could pass without being missed. She knew that love didn’t always mean having someone who shared your daily life. Or cared about knowing your daily ups and downs.

  “How about you?” He’d almost finished his dinner. As had she. Another awkward moment or two and she’d be escaping. She hoped his response came in time, though. She was kind of curious.

  “My mom remarried when I was fourteen. They stayed here in Marie Cove until I graduated, but moved to his hometown in Oregon when I left for college.”

  “Do you ever see them?” She purposely repeated his question.

  “Once or twice a year,” he said. “But we talk at least once a month.”

  He was grinning. She grinned back.

  And, on that note, excused herself.

  * * *

  He couldn’t get her out of his mind. Being on break at the university didn’t help. No papers to grade or club meetings to attend. He’d finished putting together his syllabi for the upcoming semester, too. School hadn’t yet started.

  A guy could only run so much. Tennis camp was done. He’d picked his team the week before the implantation. Axel, the student whose mother had wanted him to concentrate on basketball, was on it. The team was running regular workouts and practice matches. They were done by eleven, Saturday morning.

  Heading to the country club, he’d just pulled into the parking lot when he got a text from Tom. His father-in-law wasn’t going to make their tennis date. The daughter of a friend of his had just been arrested. Tom wanted to see what he could do to help.

  He was there. He could at least get some lunch. The club’s chef had a special sauce he put in his turkey wraps...

  Phone still in hand, he pushed the newest icon on his speed dial app.

  Christine answered on the first ring with: “I’m fine.” And followed it with: “And I don’t need a thing.”

  He pictured her on the couch as he’d left her the night before, her tablet and phone at hand as, propped up by pillows, she worked. She was the clinic’s chief fundraiser and was setting up appointments with the boards of various corporations who supported The Parent Portal. She’d told him that the night before when, after dishes, he’d tried to hang around.

  After her response, he’d been dismissed. Politely. Kindly. And he’d quickly said good-night, feeling as though he’d left a vital part of himself behind. His and Emily’s baby could be in that house.

  “Have you had lunch?”

  “No, but I’ve got plenty of food here, Jamie. I shopped before the procedure. I really am a big girl and perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

  “I’m being a pain in the ass.”

  “No, you’re a man who wants to be a part of his baby’s life from day one. Assuming the implantation even took. I do understand. I just don’t see any sense in us sitting around staring at each other.”

  “I was going to offer to bring you the best turkey wrap you’ve ever had. I can drop it and go,” he offered, trying to sweeten the deal.

  “The best turkey wrap I’ve ever had is at the country club,” she said. “If you can beat that, you’re on.”

  “How about if I tie it? That’s where I am.”

  “I didn’t picture you for a golfing guy.”

  “I’m not. Takes too long. I was here to play tennis, but my match got canceled.” He had a life. A good, full one. Why it was suddenly important to him that she knew that, he wasn’t sure. Didn’t care to ponder the situation.

  She’d already accepted implantation of his child. He didn’t have to impress her.

  “Oh.”

  “Tom Sanders, my father-in-law, and I play most Saturdays.” He was suddenly moved to put his family—his baby’s family, too—into the picture.

  “Tom Sanders is your father-in-law? Judge Tom Sanders?”

  “Yes.” A heat wave of worry passed through him. As though he’d done something wrong. Talking to the woman carrying his child about his wife’s father... “You know him?”

  There was no reason for awkwardness. The child he’d had implanted in Christine was Emily’s as much as it was his. He was in no way being unfaithful to his wife.

  It wasn’t wrong to like the woman who’d be bringing their child to life. To admire her.

  What kind of fool would choose someone he didn’t like, trust a woman he didn’t admire, to keep his baby safe?

  “I met him once,” Christine was saying. “At a fundraiser, actually. A dinner put on by the Wentworth Corporation.”

  Lionel Wentworth, a local financier, was a friend and golfing buddy of Tom’s. Jamie had seen him once or twice, in passing, at the club.

  “You know the Wentworths?”

  “Not really. I know Margot Simmons, an employee of theirs. She’s in charge of their charitable donations. I sought her out several years ago, asking for a donation, and she’s graciously included us on her recipient list every year since.”

  A thread tying them all together.

  Relaxing back in the seat of his dark blue SUV, he watched a couple get out of their luxury sedan and head into the restaurant. He was no longer part of a couple. But he was going to need a car seat.

  “I’m house hunting this afternoon, but I’d be happy to drop a wrap off to you,” he said. More eager than ever to see her. A decent guy felt gratitude toward those helping him.

  “I’d eat it, if you did,” she said.

  Not quite a request—Christine was far too independent for that—but Jamie was already out of his vehicle, phone still to his ear, heading in to place their order. He’d eat his on the way—saved him from sitting alone in the restaurant, noticing all the couples enjoying their Saturday relaxation time together.

  He wasn’t ready for that yet.

  He’d get there at some point... With another woman.

  “You like pickles?”

  “And onions and tomatoes.”

  As did he. Easy order.

  “I’ll be there shortly...”

  He rang off, happier than he’d been in a long time. He was on his way to being a father.

  Alive. With a future stretching
before him.

  He’d definitely made the right decision.

  * * *

  On Sunday Christine watched her phone. Carried it with her from room to room as she dusted the rooms she’d missed for two days. She took it easy. Did light dusting where necessary, using a wand instead of climbing up to get the scrolls at the top of the grandfather clock in the dining room.

  When she found herself carrying her phone with her to the bathroom, she had to acknowledge that she was waiting for Jamie to call. The wrap he’d dropped off the day before had been enough for two meals. She’d thoroughly enjoyed it. Took a moment to wonder what he might offer to bring over for dinner.

  And realized that she was enjoying being spoiled a little bit.

  Not good.

  Yes, she had to give him access to the intimacies involved in her process of giving birth. Not physical intimacies, of course, but the information involving them. And physical access...

  She could even enjoy the process, like she enjoyed her work in general. And certain aspects of it more.

  But there had to be a balance. Clear boundaries.

  Allowing him to tend to her some was fine. Looking forward to that attentiveness crossed boundaries.

  Which was why, when he called a little after noon, and her lower belly jumped with approval just at the sight of his name on her screen, she accepted his offer to bring over a healthy portion of a mixed green salad with mangoes and grilled chicken, but didn’t invite him in to eat with her.

  And as soon as she’d finished her solitary meal, she got in her car and headed over to the women’s center. It wasn’t her night to be there, but she knew what to do when she started to struggle with anything. Go help someone.

  That night she watched a couple of toddlers, sitting on the padded floor of the playroom and interacting with them, distracting them, while their bruised mother sat a couple of doors down. She was talking to the police and accepting arrangements for overnight housing for her and her children.

  Christine was there until after ten and half fell in love. And when the embattled little family waited to hear where a room was available, she thought about offering to take them home with her.