Читать книгу The Baby Truce - Jeannie Watt - Страница 10

REGGIE TOOK TWO MORE PREGNANCY tests early the next morning before work. Just to make sure.

Her body and three different pharmaceutical companies were in agreement. She was pregnant.

After the last test went into the trash, Reggie poured a big glass of orange juice, took two sips before deciding it tasted off, then put the glass on the counter.

She sat at the kitchen table and laid her head on her folded arms. Mims jumped up on the off-limits surface and butted her with her head, trying to remind her that the Salmon Soufflé was still in the can. Reggie shooed her off, then closed her eyes. Maybe she could sleep here, shut out the world and all the issues she had to figure out fast.

Issues she didn’t think Eden would fully understand, because she hadn’t understood until she’d found herself in this position.

The questions about her future, the sobering reality of being responsible for a child. The fear that Tom’s gypsy lifestyle would forever warp her kid, coupled with the lingering sense of unreality about the entire situation. She wanted nothing more than to slip into denial, pretend none of this was happening—at least until she vomited again.

Mims was having none of being shooed away. She threw her body hard against Reggie’s legs and then, when she had her weary owner’s attention, raced for the pantry. Reggie got to her feet and followed, wishing she’d thought of picking up the old brand of cat food when she’d gone to the store for more pregnancy tests.

A few minutes later, she took a deep breath, held it as best she could as she opened the can and dished out the food. She tossed the can in the trash on top of the pregnancy tests, then fled the kitchen for the relatively fresh air of the living room.

When she arrived at work twenty minutes later, Justin was there alone, leaning against the counter at the opposite end of the room, not moving at high speed for once in his life…almost as if he was waiting for her.

“Justin.”

“Reggie.”

Oh, yeah. He knew. She didn’t know whether to be angry at Eden for spilling the beans, or grateful that she herself didn’t have to. The three siblings hadn’t kept many secrets from one another while growing up. They’d been in the odd position of practically raising each other while their long-haul trucker father had been on the road, after their mother’s death. Oh, Justin had tried to hold secrets, but the neighborhood grapevine was quite effective at keeping Reggie and Eden up to date on his activities.

But this time it wasn’t Justin who was in hot water. Nope. Tables turned.

Reggie walked the short distance from the back door into the office as if nothing was wrong, put away her purse, smoothed her hair, tied on an apron. When she left the office, Justin was right where he’d been when she’d entered the building, leaning against the stainless steel counter, gripping the metal on either side of him. His usually warm expression was cold. Was he ticked because this had happened to her after all the lectures she’d given him?

“Been talking to Eden?” Reggie asked, giving him an opening so they could get this discussion over with fast.

“Yeah.” Still cold. Still closed off.

“Well.” Reggie shrugged, less than comfortable discussing this matter with her younger brother. The one she’d threatened with annihilation as a teen if he wasn’t sexually responsible. “I don’t know what to say.”

He nodded as he regarded her. “Have you…made any plans?”

“Like…?”

“Keeping the baby?”

Reggie raised her eyebrows. “I’m keeping the baby.” Of course she was keeping the baby. She wasn’t a pregnant teen. The thought of giving it up hadn’t even crossed her mind.

Her brother’s face relaxed an iota, but his voice was still stern when he asked, “Told Tom yet?”

“No.”

“You gotta do that.”

Reggie frowned. “I will.” Justin appeared as if he was on a mission. But what mission? She hadn’t a clue. “I’m going to phone him.”

Her brother glanced down at his feet. He was wearing flat skateboard shoes. He hadn’t changed yet, which meant talking to her had been his first order of business. “I can be there when you make the call.”

Justin was returning to protective form—a good sign.

“I’ll handle it.” It wasn’t a conversation she wanted anyone to hear. She met her brother’s blue eyes. “If I need propping up afterwards, I’ll hunt you down.”

He smiled slightly. “Just…don’t put it off too long. All right?”

“All right.” Reggie smoothed her hands down the sides of her apron. “Well, I guess I’d better get going on the chops for the dinner tonight.” She started for the cooler, then glanced back over her shoulder. “Will you be here for the interviews this afternoon?”

“I got called in to the lake early.” His mouth tightened. “Sorry about that.”

“No, I understand.” Justin’s job at Lake Tahoe brought in a lot of contacts and potential business. “Eden and I will be fine.”

“Don’t settle,” he said. “Because, well, there’s a chance whoever we hire might end up full time for a while. You know?”

Reggie knew.

TOM GAVE PETE A WEEK TO COOL off, then phoned. Pete was out of the office. The next time he called, a day later, Pete was once again unavailable. By the third call Tom understood that he was never going to be available. Tom was on his own.

And that sucked, because while he could cook, he knew squat about business.

He’d already called everyone he knew in the city, tried to pull in a few favors, but so far no luck. Even people who said they wanted to help indicated they couldn’t. Not right now. Lower-end restaurants were more than willing to take a chance on him, hoping his notoriety would bring in business, but that wasn’t a career move Tom was ready to take. He wasn’t into notoriety. Not on purpose, anyway. He was into making good food the only way he knew how. His way. The Times article had done him some serious damage. He spent an evening writing a blistering rebuttal, but realized after an hour of slamming thoughts onto paper that he wasn’t in the most defensible position. In fact, he was pretty much in the juice.

Memories were short, though. Given a month or two, a new scandal, people would forget. He’d be back at the helm of a new restaurant, and this time he’d choose more wisely—choose a place where he approved of the management style, rather than the name. He had savings and investments. Although he knew very little about them, since he’d trusted Pete implicitly.

But what to do now? Continue pounding the pavement, trying to get an interview? Call Lowell and hear the guy rant about how Tom had screwed himself?

Not yet. Lowell Hislop, who’d gotten Tom the job in Spain that had ultimately jump-started his career, was the closest thing to a mentor he had. He was also unpredictable and hard to deal with. A veritable force unto himself, and at the moment as unemployed as Tom was. But in Lowell’s case it was by choice, while he hammered out a divorce agreement with his French wife, Simone. They’d split innumerable times in the past, but this once it appeared to be for real. Lowell had sold his restaurant, dumped his investment properties and quite likely stashed a bunch of cash in odd places. He was nothing if not savvy, but the last Tom had heard he was up to his ass in his wife’s lawyers.

Yeah, Tom would call him, but first he’d see what he could do on his own. There were still a couple avenues left to him.

He hoped.

He was halfway up the stairs to his apartment when his phone rang. It wasn’t Pete, as he’d hoped, but it wasn’t Jervase telling him the town wasn’t big enough for the both of them, either. It was a Nevada number.

“Reggie?”

“Hi, Tom.” There was an awkward silence, then she said, “I, uh, have some news for you.”

“All right.” A lead on a job, maybe? The Associated Press had picked up his “interview” with the Times and it was all over the country. No doubt she knew he was out of work. He didn’t really want a job in Reno, but he’d consider it. For a while.

“Before I start, I just want to tell you that you don’t have to be involved in any way. I plan to handle everything myself.”

“Handle what?” He balanced the phone on his shoulder while he dug his keys out of his pocket.

After another short silence, she said, “I’m pregnant.”

He almost said congratulations. Then her meaning struck him. “How pregnant?”

“Almost two months.”

He dropped the keys on the carpet between his feet. “We…used protection.”

“I haven’t slept with anyone but you.”

“We…used protection,” Tom repeated. He pressed the heel of his palm into the solid wood door. Blood hammered in his temples, making it damned hard to think.

“Like I said…” She hesitated. “I thought you should know, but…I don’t need anything from you.”

“Well, aren’t you brave?” he snapped.

“Yes. I am. I lived with you for a year.” The phone went dead.

Tom stood for a moment without moving, then reached down and picked up his keys. It took him two tries to get the right one into the lock, mainly because his hands were shaking.

Pregnant?

Call her back, you jerk.

Not yet. Soon, but not yet.

He needed time in the worst way.

Once inside, he dropped the keys on the table, set the bag of produce beside them.

He was going to be a father.

Out of a job. Living on savings. About to be a dad. This was not the way his life was supposed to work out.

Tom rubbed his temples with his fingertips. Then he went to the cupboard and pulled out a bottle, the first one he touched. He didn’t even look to see what it was. He poured a healthy amount into a glass and downed it in one swallow.

Bourbon.

He poured another, then went to the window and stared out at the building behind his, swirling the amber liquid in the glass. This time he sipped, allowing the alcohol to warm his throat slowly. The tension started to ease out of the muscles of his neck and shoulders, but his mind was still whirling.

If Reggie was two months pregnant, then he had seven months to figure this all out. He’d be employed by then. Have a new business manager, be able to set up a college fund, or do whatever dads did. His father had done two things—hauled him around the world with him when he could, or sent him off to boarding school when he couldn’t. Not the most normal of upbringings. His dad had been more like a friend than a father…when they’d been together.

So what the hell did Tom know about fatherhood?

“Damn.” He tossed the bourbon back, then reached for the bottle and poured another shot.

TWO INTERVIEWS DOWN AND ONE TO go. So far, not so good.

Eden and Reggie exchanged glances as the second of their three candidates walked out the door. Reggie’s stomach was in a tight knot, but this time it had little to do with morning sickness.

The first candidate hadn’t known how to hold a knife and, when shown, had preferred to do it her way. That was fine. She could do the wrong thing in her own kitchen, but not the Tremont kitchen. Oh, and she couldn’t work on weekends.

The second candidate had skills, but also had a schedule Tremont would have to work around. That kind of defeated the purpose of having a prep cook, who had to be able to prep when they needed her, not when she was free from her other job.

If these were the top candidates, Reggie didn’t hold out much hope for numbers four, five and six.

“If this person can breathe and work our schedule, I say we hire her,” Eden whispered to Reggie as a roundish woman in her mid-forties, with short brown hair and a no-nonsense expression—candidate number three—walked in the door exactly five minutes before her interview.

She approached the desk where Eden and Reggie were sitting and set a bound résumé before them.

“I’m Patty Lloyd. How do you do?” she said. “I’m here for the interview. I realize that I have large gaps in my employment history, but I assure you, I can cook.”

Eden met Reggie’s gaze with raised eyebrows as Patty took her seat on the other side of the desk.

The interview went well. Despite her somewhat arrogant, take-charge attitude, she’d been employed at a private care facility kitchen for the past two years and proved to be slow yet meticulous. And part time was fine with her for now. What the woman didn’t know they could teach her.

The only problem was that Patty was very, very serious, in her speech, in her dress, in her attitude, which made Reggie wonder if the woman could handle Justin. Justin, when not dealing with pregnant sisters, tended toward irreverence.

Eden obviously had the same concern. She smiled up at Patty and said, “I want you to meet my brother for a second interview tomorrow, and then we’ll have you make a couple standard dishes on our menu. Would that work for you?”

“Certainly. Let’s say ten?” Patty stood, extending her hand.

“She scares me a little,” Eden said after the door shut behind her. They watched through the front window as she got into a small blue Ford that had to be twenty years old, yet appeared almost new.

“That,” Reggie said, carefully setting down her pen, “makes two of us. But if we keep her in the kitchen and away from clients, I think she’ll do fine.”

“We’ll have to tell Justin to behave.”

“That goes without saying. I’ll get going on the tapenade,” she added, because Eden had that touch-base-to-see-how-you’re-feeling look, and Reggie wasn’t in the mood.

She was still recovering from her phone conversation with Tom, would most probably have to have another in the near future, and wanted time to stew. Alone.

TOM WENT TO THE WINDOW OF HIS apartment and leaned his forehead against the cool glass, watching the people on the sidewalk five stories below. A lot of them were probably going to work. The bastards.

It was hard to believe, but Montrose appeared to have him by the short hairs. As near as he could tell, he was blacklisted.

But for how fricking long?

Tom left the window and stepped over the clothes he hadn’t bothered to pick up during the past few days. It was time to call Lowell, admit that he needed his help.

“You’re totally screwed,” Lowell said shortly, after hello. “I’ve been keeping tabs.”

“I don’t buy ‘totally screwed.’” Maybe he was temporarily screwed, and for the zillionth time Tom wondered how getting fired for stuff that had nothing to do with his cooking ability could interfere with his ability to get a job cooking. “What do you suggest I do about that?” he asked with more patience than he was feeling.

“Keep out of trouble for, say, a day or two and let this blow over.”

“It’s been a goddamn day or two.”

“Calm. Down.”

“This is your advice? Calm down and what? Helpful, Lowell. Really helpful. At least tell me if you hear of anything…”

“Yeah…but like I said. Right now? Screwed. Hope you have some savings.”

Tom hung up so he didn’t have to tell Lowell what he could do with his bloody useless advice. One thing about Lowell—you might not know what he was going to do next, but you knew where you stood with him.

Staring at the phone, Tom became increasingly aware of an unfamiliar feeling unfurling inside him. Desperation. Coupled with fear.

He grabbed the phone and threw it across the room, where it smashed into the wall. That felt satisfying. He refused to give in to fear.

He had to plan for this baby.

Tom had no idea how to handle fatherhood, but regardless of Reggie’s glib assurance that she would handle everything by herself—or maybe because of it—he’d have some say in his kid’s life. Even if that kid didn’t seem real. Yet. Seven more months and he’d be real. A new Gerard in the world.

Tom went into his kitchen, bypassed the bottle of bourbon for a glass of tap water, which tasted of metal, then went back to his phone and called Pete at home. He was getting his business manager back and his life on track. All he wanted to do was cook and cook well—for someone other than himself. And get himself into a position where he could at the very least support his kid.