by Zoe York
“Got it,” she mumbled.
“I’ll talk to your mom. But I want you to remember that because we’re your parents, we are allowed to worry about you.”
“Tell her—”
Lord save him from a bossy eighteen-year-old. He turned Becca around and pointed her in the direction of her room. “I don’t need you stage managing this conversation. Leave what I’m going to say to me.”
After texting Rachel, who leapt on his invitation to come over later and have a team meeting, he paced around the house for a bit, looking for something to do, but everything annoyed him. Finally, he knocked on Becca’s door and told her he was going to the station to get a quick workout in before her mom was coming over. He needed to burn off the nervous energy zinging through him. It was making his bark worse than usual.
Pine Harbour was too small to have a proper gym, so lifting heavy stuff had to happen at work or with one of his army buddies. A few people had proper home gym setups, with weight racks and benches. Not Owen, though. He lived in a three-bedroom bungalow with no basement. Between his eighteen-year-old daughter, who needed her own room, and the fact that three of his four younger brothers were nomadic and often needed a place to crash when in town—necessitating a guest bedroom—building a home gym for himself had been on his “when Bec moved out” to-do list.
As he’d put up the Christmas tree, just a few weeks earlier, he’d had the naive thought that it was the last year for over-the-top piles of presents. And he’d miss it, in a way, because it was the end of an era, but he’d also fantasized about next Christmas doing something radical like buying her a trip to Mexico with her college friends so he could spend the holidays converting the spare room. He even had a treadmill picked out. The only redecoration of the spare room that would be happening now would be converting it to a nursery instead.
Owen’s Dad Years weren’t over after all.
While he was at the station, he checked his email, then stomped up the back stairwell to the private gym space reserved for firefighters and paramedics. He had it all to himself, which he liked, so he cranked Guns n’ Roses—a musical choice the younger first responders rarely tolerated.
When he got back to the house, his muscles well-used and his brain a bit clearer, his ex-wife was waiting for him in the driveway.
He gave her a sweaty one-arm hug and she launched right into an emotional outburst. He cut her off. “Rach, we gotta stop. She knows what she wants. We don’t have to understand it, but we do have to accept it.”
“Do we?” She huffed out a frustrated breath. “I know. I know.” But she didn’t, because the silent beat that stretched out next practically vibrated with tension. Then she turned on him. “Now is not the time to be pointing fingers.”
Calm blue ocean, Kincaid. “It’s really not.”
“But—”
“You just said—”
“She’s eighteen years old and pregnant, Owen. Eighteen. Where did we go wrong?”
At least she said we, and not you. “I dunno.” He swallowed hard. “I’ve been thinking of pretty much nothing else since she told us.”
“She says Hayden still hasn’t responded to her text messages.”
“What do you want me to do, go over there and drag him out of his house by his hair?”
Rachel gave him a beseeching look. “Yes?”
Owen laughed, but it felt hollow. “Yeah, me too. But I can’t.”
“Stop being a reasonable grown-up.”
The thing was, Owen didn’t feel reasonable on the inside. He was scared and out of his depth, and this whole situation was bringing up all kinds of uncomfortable feelings from their distant past.
He wanted Hayden to do the right thing, but he knew how stupid eighteen-year-old boys could be—and how they didn’t have the emotional maturity to understand what the right thing truly was.
And did he want Hayden to follow in his own steps, when in the end, Owen hadn’t been a good enough husband to Rachel? Hadn’t loved her enough? Sure, he’d married her, but he hadn’t turned into the partner she needed. Owen was the punk-ass kid. He left town as soon as they broke up and partied a little too hard while at firefighter school.
Not hard enough to bury the guilt, though. Not when the partying just made a fresh layer of guilt to pour on top of the layered Dad Guilt.
That feeling had never gone away, not even after Rachel married Hudson, who had given her three more kids and a big house on the edge of town.
He pointed out the house. “Let’s go inside.”
Rachel’s jaw jutted to the side, then righted itself. There was no more anger there. All of that had been fought over—many times—almost two decades earlier.
They’d both moved on.
“Maybe it won’t be as hard for her as it was for us,” he said as he let her inside. There was no sign of Becca, but her car was in the drive. He lifted his voice. “Bec! I’m home, and your mom is here.” He turned to Rachel. “Coffee?”
“Always.”
He got that going, then texted his daughter that she needed to make an appearance in the kitchen. Rachel laughed at him as he muttered about technology.
He scrubbed a hand over his face as something else occurred to him. “Listen, I gotta warn you about the latest thing she’s been talking about. She’s been doing her research, and she knows how many hours she needs to get maternity leave benefits. If she can’t find a second job here, or get more hours at the country club, she’s talking about heading to the city.”
“A job? In the city?” All the relief fled from his ex’s face. “No, Owen. That’s shortsighted.”
“I agree.”
“Then we need to keep her focused on staying in school. Got it?”
“Got what?” Becca asked from the doorway.
Her mother paused, then launched into a classic too-much-information dump. “I think it’s great that you want to get a job, honey, I really do. But the city is expensive, and will be even more so when you’re only getting the EI payments for maternity leave. It’s hard to live on that, and—”
Owen stepped in between them and held up his hands, cutting her off. “One thing at a time. Bec, we see how you’re trying to manage this, okay? But we love you and we want to support you, too.”
“It doesn’t feel very supportive right now,” his daughter said softly, her eyes big and wet as she glared at her mom. “I’m not asking for anything. Do you hear me asking for anything?”
“You don’t have any money,” Rachel exclaimed. “How are you going to move to the city?”
“I’ll sort that out.”
Owen didn’t want her going anywhere. He changed the subject. “One thing at a time. First, you need to go see the doctor.”
Becca made a face. “I don’t want to go see Dr. Malcolm. I looked up the midwifery practice Jenna Foster works in. I like the sound of their whole deal. Do you know the difference between informed consent and informed choice?”
Owen blinked at his daughter. “Yes. Hi, I’m your dad. I’m a trained paramedic with two decades of experience. I’ve even attended births, you know that? We get called out to home births with those midwives you’ve just discovered on the internet.”
Not to mention he knew Jenna, both from working with her, and working with her brother-in-law, and the fact their town only had six hundred people in it.
Calm blue ocean.
Becca made a face at him. “No need to be snippy.”
This time it was Rachel that got between them. “Okay, so we have an action plan?”
Owen dragged in a breath. “Sounds like it.”
Becca’s first appointment fell on a day off for Owen, so he volunteered to drive her the hour south to Walkerton, where the clinic was, and be moral support. Her ex-boyfriend Hayden still hadn’t responded to her messages. Owen wanted to kick his ass, but that wasn’t productive.
Right now, no matter how he felt on the inside, he needed to keep his yap shut and let Becca deal with the whole situation
as she wanted.
It was easier said than done.
At least the appointment was well outside of Pine Harbour, off the peninsula. And Jenna Foster had promised Becca’s privacy would be protected at every turn.
At the clinic, the receptionist gave Becca an intake form, then told them to take a seat. “The midwife will be out shortly.” She pointed at a short hallway. “She’ll come and get you when it’s time.”
Owen didn’t miss that Becca’s hands shook as she filled out the paperwork. He wrapped his arm around her and squeezed. The seconds ticked by, loud as if there was actually a grandfather clock right next to him, instead of just his own nerves.
When the door at the end of the hallway swung open, instead of Jenna Foster, a dark-haired woman with olive skin stepped out. She was wearing bright, glossy red lipstick, and was short enough that she had to go up on her toes to reach the charts filed away on top of the filing cabinet behind the receptionist. As she looked at the first one she grabbed, then shook her head, put it back, and grabbed another, her short, brown waves bounced.
Owen was transfixed.
Her body flexed, taut like a dancer’s, as she slowly lowered her heels to the floor. The midwife’s office was not the place to notice tight, round curves or the flex of her calf beneath the cut-off hem of a pair of jeans.
Not the place at all, Owen. Eyes anywhere else, man.
But it was hard to look elsewhere, because this tiny woman sucked all the air out of the room. And she hadn’t even looked up. She was still reading the chart in her hand, like she was pouring all of her attention into the pages.
When she turned around, she immediately looked at his daughter, her face brightening up. “Becca Kincaid?”
He should have seen that coming. Of course she was Becca’s midwife. That was exactly the right next punch for the universe to deliver in the Take That, Owen Kincaid march of events. He locked down any awareness of this person as a woman. She was his daughter’s caregiver, apparently. Or one of them. He squeezed Becca’s hand. “That’s you, honey.”
She didn’t move.
“Bec?”
She shook her head, and he could see tears swelling along her eyelids.
Aw, shit. He wrapped his arm around her and squeezed. “Come on. I’ll go in with you.”
The brunette came closer. Close enough to speak in a low voice and still be heard, but not so close as to freak out his daughter. She crouched low and gave them a friendly smile. “I’m Kerry Humphrey.”
“Becca thought we’d be seeing Jenna,” he said by way of explanation. He had a lump in his own throat. His daughter wasn’t the only one thrown by this unexpected change of plans.
“Ah. Sorry about the miscommunication. Jenna’s at a birth right now. But we can do the intake together, and she’ll be here for the next appointment. Why don’t we go into the exam room and I can explain our model of care. We work as a group, so you might see any of us for your appointments.”
“Sure.” Owen moved to stand up.
Kerry pivoted her gaze in his direction, her gaze sliding quickly from friendly to coolly professional. “Can I see Becca alone first? You’re welcome to join us in a few minutes.”
No. She’s my baby and she’s scared. But that wasn’t how medical appointments worked, and he knew it. That lump in his throat got harder and he puffed out his cheeks, trying—and failing—to match her professional tone. “Of course.”
Becca gave them both a nervous look.
“Go on,” Owen said, trying to be gentle for her. Fuck. Rachel should have brought her, he was making a mess of this, like a bull in a china shop. “I’ll be right here.”
Kerry had spotted the terrified young woman as soon as she’d stepped into the waiting room. She’d noticed the way the man had his arm possessively around her, too. She didn’t recognize him at first, not without the parka and the toque, but as soon as she looked at the file, she recognized the last name, and the address. Pine Harbour.
He was older than her, by a fair margin. A big, tough-looking guy, with a bit of silver at the temples. Almost twice Becca’s age, Kerry would bet. Lore’s words rang in her head. You know he’s off-limits. Becca would kill you.
Well. Holy shit. This was trial by fire for her new community, but Kerry knew what to do. Talking to clients one-on-one was standard procedure any time. Moments like this were exactly why they had that practice in place.
She closed her office door as Becca sat down, then took her own seat. “Welcome to our practice.” Smiling, she waited for Becca to nod, then continued. Each beat of her introduction was followed by a pause, making sure the young woman was easing toward being comfortable. Trust was so important here. “Let’s go over the information you put on the intake form. I’m going to ask some questions that will help us support you with this pregnancy. Feel free to ask your own questions as we go, and know that everything we talk about is strictly confidential.”
“Okay.”
“How is your pregnancy going?”
Becca shrugged. “I dunno. It’s early. I feel fine.”
“That’s great.” Kerry paused. “How do you feel about being pregnant?”
The young woman’s eyes snapped up, meeting Kerry’s gaze. “Because I’m young?”
“Sure, yeah. Your age might be a factor there. But I ask every woman who comes through that door the same question, I promise. A pregnancy can be an unexpected thing to adjust to at any age—and, at any age, it could be a good time or a bad time for the news.”
“Oh.” Becca shifted in her seat. “My parents aren’t thrilled, to be honest. But I’m…” She put her hand on her midsection. “I’m happy. I know it’s going to be hard, but my parents were young when they had me, and I think it’s going to work out.”
Kerry jotted a quick note, optimistic, next to that set of questions, and moved on. “What is your current relationship status?”
Becca made a face. “It’s complicated.”
“Do you live with your partner?”
“No. I live with my dad.”
Kerry made another note about the possibly unsupportive parents at home. If they had concerns about Becca’s complicated relationship with the older boyfriend, that would be important to track as the pregnancy progressed. “Okay. Now I’m going to ask you a couple of other routine questions that I ask everyone—and this is why it’s important that we first talk alone, okay? These are health and safety questions. Everything we discuss in here is just between us.”
“Sure.”
“Have you ever smoked or used tobacco or nicotine products?”
Becca hesitated.
Kerry waited.
“No, not really.” The teen made a face. “I tried a few times.”
“Did you use any tobacco or nicotine products in the three months before you became pregnant?”
“No, it was last summer.”
“Does anyone smoke in your house or vehicle?”
“No.”
She repeated the same set of questions about alcohol and recreational drugs, then moved on to the intimate partner violence screen. “Since you’ve been pregnant, have you been slapped, kicked or otherwise physically hurt by someone?”
“No.” Becca’s eyes widened.
Kerry noted that, then asked the next question. “Have you ever been emotionally or physically abused by someone important to you?”
“No.”
All of her negative answers seemed genuine and without stress, but the age gap between her and the boyfriend and the tense dynamic between them in the waiting room still gave Kerry some concern. Another note, then she paused and pointed at the door, toward the man on the other side. “The person with you today, do you want them to come in for any part of the appointment?”
“Oh yeah, my dad’s great.”
Kerry’s pen slid against the paper. Her father. Oh. She backed up her mental process, all the way to when she first stepped into the waiting room and saw the big guy sitting on the couch, who had
to be older than her, with his arm around the slight, scared-looking teenager.
The name, the accidental connection to gossip at the Green Hedgehog. What a rookie mistake. And then she zoomed, fast forward, to what Becca had just said. My parents aren’t thrilled. My parents were young when they had me.
“You mentioned he wasn’t thrilled? I just want to make sure you’re comfortable and supported here.”
“Oh.” Becca grimaced. “Yeah. Well, I am. My parents both mean well. You’ll meet my mom at the next appointment. They think I’m reliving their mistakes, but like, I’m their mistake? And I’m pretty cool. Obviously. So they’ll deal. It’s fine. He can come in. His bark is worse than his bite.”
“All right. Let’s zip through the rest of these questions and figure out your probable due date. Then we’ll get him to come in and we can discuss appointment schedules and what comes next.”
By the time Kerry opened the door and invited Becca’s father to join them, the teen had relaxed and opened up a bit about her ex-boyfriend, who hadn’t responded to her texts about the pregnancy yet, and her worries about having enough hours to get EI for her maternity leave.
Becca’s demeanour didn’t shift at all when her dad sat down next to her, either. They leaned in to each other, exchanging a warm, silent communication.
Kerry’s concern eased all the way.
But the warmth this man had for his daughter did not extend to her midwife. When he pivoted his attention to her, his gaze was hard and cold. “Are you done grilling her?”
Kerry felt her eyebrows spike toward her hairline, and it took all of her self-restraint to catch them and ease her expression into something more like gentle taken-aback-ness rather than the sharp what-the-fork reaction she was really having.
Nodding slowly, she held his gaze. Dark grey eyes glared back. “There was no grilling. I explained to Becca that it’s routine practice to cover off some of the basics alone, and then bring in the support person for the appointment. It’s great that you could be here. I understand Becca lives with you?”
“Yes.”
“And is your name Kincaid as well?” She was already pretty sure it was, but the gossip had led her astray already once today.
