Читать книгу You're My Baby - Laura Abbot - Страница 8

WHERE THE HELL was Ann Landers when a guy needed her? Grant stared at Pam, questions racing through his head. Carefully he set the book on the arm of the sofa and moved toward her. “That’s good news, er, isn’t it?”

She lowered her eyes, standing before him defenseless and vulnerable. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Just wonderful.”

The hitch in her voice tugged at him. “Come here.” Before he could stop to think, he had wrapped her close, cradling her head against his chest.

He held her for long minutes, feeling her shoulders tremble beneath his hand, listening to the muted sounds of her weeping. She had to be scared to death. How could this have happened? Pam was smart, savvy. She had to know where babies came from.

He scanned her living room, desperately trying to focus on something besides the feminine body pressed against him. Okay, two cats reclining on the window ledge, books piled randomly in the bookcase, a baker’s rack crowded with candles and figurines, multihued pillows everywhere and an eclectic collection of prints and pictures on her walls. Nothing matched, but it was somehow…homey. Comfortable. The same way she felt in his arms.

The faint citrus scent of her hair and the way her cheek nestled against him stirred a surprising hunger. Gilbert, don’t be a jerk. The last thing this woman needs is you coming on to her.

He stepped back then and tilted her chin so he could look at her. “Are you okay?”

She ran her hands down his arms, then, clutching his wrists, ducked her head. “I’m sorry. Tears are stupid. They don’t accomplish a thing.” She let go, then turned away from him. “Two times in one day. That must be something of a record for you.”

“Probably, but who’s counting?”

“I promise not to make it three.”

“Sure? Third time’s the charm, you know.”

“There isn’t any charm to help with this.”

What did a guy say to that? He led her back to the couch, then wrapped a purple mohair throw around her. “Sit down and let me fix you a cup of tea. That was my mother’s solution to everything.”

“It can’t hurt. Tea’s on the top shelf of the pantry.” Almost without seeming to notice what she was doing, she picked up the baby book but didn’t open it, her fingers tracing a path around the edges of the cover.

While he waited for the water to boil, Grant paced, considering his options. Should he keep his big mouth shut? Or ask the tough questions? Like where the father was. Who he was. There had to be a rational explanation for this bombshell. He was no dummy, he’d read about the biological clock. Maybe she’d deliberately gotten pregnant. But then what about her job? Talk about an awkward, potentially litigious situation.

The whistling kettle startled him. He was in way over his head. He hadn’t a clue how to help her.

When he presented her with the steaming cup of tea, she took two dainty sips before setting it on the antique trunk that served as a coffee table. Then she gave him a wan smile. “Your mother was right.”

Holding his cup and saucer carefully, he lowered himself into the easy chair. And waited. A car horn sounded outside; inside, the ticking of a wall clock created a hypnotic rhythm. The bigger cat, a black one with white spots, leaped from the window ledge and hopped into Pam’s lap and curled into a ball.

“Who’s your buddy?”

“This is Sebastian.” She nodded toward the window. “And that’s Viola. They were littermates.”

Cat names had always struck him as pretentious. He was a dog man himself. Dogs had forthright names like Buster and Max. “Where’d you get those handles?”

“The bard. Viola and Sebastian are the sister and brother in Twelfth Night.”

“Oh.” Shakespeare. It figured. If he ever had a cat, God forbid, did that mean he should call it Euclid?

They sat in silence, slowly drinking the tea. She appeared lost in thought, but finally looked up. “I’m scared.”

That was an admission he’d never have anticipated from the Pam Carver he knew. “You don’t need to tell me, if—”

“It’s time I talked to somebody, and it looks like you’re elected.”

“You can trust me, Pam.”

“I do.”

Her sincerity touched him. “Is there a man in the picture? Are you planning to marry?”

“No man.” Then she gave a short, derisive laugh. “Obviously there was one. But marriage isn’t an option.”

Grant was confused by his reaction. How could he be relieved to hear that? “Does he know?”

“No. And he’s not going to.”

“Is that fair? Maybe he would want to be involved. Help.”

“Please.” Her eyes begged. “You’ll have to take my word for it. I’m in this by myself. For good.”

The enormity of her predicament was hard to imagine. “It’ll be tough being a single mother. I’m sure you’ve thought of that. Have you considered…you know…?”

Her cheeks flamed. “That’s not an option. I want this baby very much. This may be my only chance to become a mother. You’ve surely noticed I’m not getting any younger.” The edge in her voice cut off any inept, glib response. “So I simply have to figure out where to go from here.”

“Does anyone else know?”

“No. And I don’t plan for them to until it has to come out.” She drew the throw closer around her shoulders. “I’ll have to resign then.”

That would really be a blow for her. She was a born teacher, but schools—especially private schools—couldn’t overlook what might be viewed as “immoral” behavior. And Keystone? For the second time that day, the school motto came to him. Caring, Character, Curiosity. Jim Campbell, the headmaster, was big on character, but even if he found a way to ease Pam’s situation, would the trustees go for an unmarried, pregnant English department chairman? Pam was in a no-win situation. “Jeez, I suppose you’re right. What then?”

She looked directly at him. “I don’t know. I wish I did.” She crossed her arms over her stomach, as if protecting her womb. “But I’ll tell you one thing.” Her voice held the old spark. “I will do whatever I must to love and support this baby.”

“You’ve got guts.” Pam had always been a fighter. She’d need to be now.

“I figure I’ll be able to make it at school until Thanksgiving, at least. That should give me time to line up some other type of work.”

“Have you seen a doctor?”

“I’m not very far along. Except for morning sickness, I feel fine. I’ll try to locate a doctor this week. One that has nothing to do with Keystone School.” She reached for her cup, then took several sips. “I’m sorry to burden you with this.”

He rose to his feet. “It’s no burden.” He picked up his cup and saucer and carried them to the kitchen divider, then returned to her. “You’re brave. You’ll manage.” He stood awkwardly, feeling helpless. “What about your family? Can they help?”

“Not really. My mother’s dead. My father and I are very close.” She ducked her head. “He’ll be disappointed in me at first.”

He waited.

Then she looked up. “But he’ll love this baby.”

“I’m sure he will. What about sisters? Brothers?”

“One sister. I can forget about any help from her.”

The uncharacteristic bitterness surprised him, especially in light of the bond he and his brother Brian had shared. “Why’s that?”

“We rarely see each other. I think it’s safe to say Barbara doesn’t have much use for me. She has her life in California with her dentist husband and her three children. For as long as I can remember, she’s made it clear I’m the baby sister who made her life miserable. Never mind that we’re grown-ups now. Supposedly.”

He identified with the hurt in her voice. He knew from his own father and from Shelley what rejection felt like.

She placed Sebastian gently on the floor and stood. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone now.”

Every instinct said, hug her, but instead he nodded his head. “I understand.”

She accompanied him to the door. “Thank you for coming. It helps just knowing I can talk to someone if I need to.”

He hesitated in the doorway, admiring the way she stood tall, determined, as if she could take on the world. “Call on me anytime if there’s something I can do.”

“I will.”

He studied her coppery hair, her wide hazel eyes, her full lips—as if he’d never seen them before. She was not only courageous, she was beautiful. “Good night,” he finally managed, turning to leave.

“Good night. And, Grant?”

He paused. “Yes?”

“The father is a good person. I knew what I was doing. But accidents happen.” She studied the floor and he knew she was going to say something more. Finally she raised her eyes. “But this is the last time you or anyone else will hear me refer to this precious child as an ‘accident.’”

Then she came closer, stood on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks for being my friend. Now, go,” she said, gently nudging him in the small of his back.

He stood on her walkway long after she had closed the door. The night was warm, and above him a nearly full moon was on the rise, the stars hidden beyond the city lights. The universe was as it eternally had been, its orbits fixed.

But something—Pam—had knocked him out of his.

HOLDING THE BASKETBALL in the crook of his arm, Brady Showalter gaped toward the azure swimming pool, bordered by palm trees swaying in the Florida breeze. “Your mom’s a fox.”

Andy Gilbert shot his friend a disgusted look. “So?”

“It’s cool, that’s all. My mom, all she wears are these dumpy-looking pantsuits. And I don’t even wanna tell you about her swimsuit.”

Andy knew what Brady meant. His friend’s mother wasn’t the hottest babe he’d ever seen. Still, it was embarrassing to have your own mother parading around the pool in her bikini, kinda like she was deliberately showing off her bod for his buddies. “Gimme the ball.”

Brady bounced it to him and Andy feinted, then lofted a shot that whistled through the hoop. Diving after the rebound, he whirled and went in for a layup. “Four points!” he crowed.

“You gonna play basketball in Texas?”

Andy banged the ball off the backboard. “You gotta be kidding. Play for my father? No way in hell.” What was with Brady? He oughta know the last subject in the world Andy wanted to discuss was this freakin’ move to Fort Worth! It was bad enough he couldn’t stay here where—finally—he would’ve been eligible to try out for the varsity. But play for his dad? No way.

“You’re weird, Gilbert.” Brady stole the ball from him and darted to the basket.

Andy stood, rooted. Weird. That was the truth. His whole life was weird. Mom was running off to some stupid foreign country with Harry, the biggest dork so far of Mom’s boyfriends. Which was saying something. Harry had a gut-busting paunch, fuzzy gray chest hair and a pinkie ring like some Mafia mobster. And he insisted on calling Andy “Sonny.” Like in “Hey, Sonny, how’s it goin’, big guy?”

“Andy? You wanna play or not?” Brady held the ball in front of his chest, waiting to pass off.

“Nah, I’m going inside. Mom’s been on my case. I gotta start organizing my stuff.”

“For the move, you mean?”

“Yeah. So I’ll see you later.”

“Here.” Brady tossed him the ball. “Call me if you wanna go with the guys to crash Liz’s slumber party.”

“Okay.” Andy dribbled angrily along the sidewalk to the back door of the house—the third one he’d lived in in two years. What was the point of going with Brady tonight? He’d never see any of these kids again after next week. Oh, no. He had to go live with his dad, Coach Cheeseball of Keystone School. The father who’d walked out when he was three.

What did Dad know about him, really? Maybe he’d squeezed in some visits between teaching, coaching and running basketball camps, but it wasn’t like they ever spent any length of time together. Dad had never once made it to one of his basketball games.

His mom kept telling him just to forget about it. “He’s devoted to that school, Andy. You have to understand. Everything else comes second. Maybe it’s better this way. Just you and me, sweetie.” Yeah, you and me and whatever dickhead was after Mom. He didn’t want to go to the friggin’ United Arab Emirates and he sure as hell didn’t want to go to Fort Worth. But did he have a choice? No, he was just the kid. The victim.

He slammed the back door on his way to his room. Divorce sucked.

GRANT USHERED the smilingly officious woman out the front door, closed it and sagged against it, the headache he’d had all day continuing to play racquetball against his temples. How many applicants was this? Seven? Two who spoke minimal English, one who smoked like a chimney and had insisted she be allowed to bring her bulldog with her, two who claimed they’d had no idea he actually expected them to stay over the weekends, and one—the only real possibility—who wouldn’t be available until at least November.

He walked toward the kitchen, wiping his palms on his pants, aware of a buzzing in his ears and an uncomfortable shift in his stomach. He was running out of ideas, and he had to let Shelley know something by Friday. Before the upcoming Labor Day weekend. Because, if all went well, Andy would arrive Labor Day evening. And school started the day after.

But all wasn’t going well. He’d interviewed everyone who’d applied through the agency or the newspaper ad. Texas Christian University and U.T. at Arlington had both been dry holes. So where did that leave him?

Desperate.

He reached in one of the cupboards and pulled out the aspirin bottle, shook out two tablets and chased them with a glass of water. He had so much riding on this year with Andy. Although he knew he couldn’t make up for all the time he’d missed, he hoped to God they could build their relationship. The boy needed a family. Stability.

A family. It had all been so promising in the beginning. Sure, he and Shelley had been young and naive, but when Andy was born, he’d been certain they could raise a fine son, have more children. Live happily ever after.

But that hadn’t happened. He could never please Shelley. And Andy, poor kid, had been the one who’d suffered most. Damn.

Grant had to do something. He couldn’t let this opportunity pass him by.

A family. More than anything, that’s what Andy needed.

Prickles cascaded down Grant’s spine. A hammering sensation reverberated in his chest. No. It was a crazy idea.

Lunacy.

Grant raked both hands through his hair. But if…?

Pros and cons rocketed through his brain. He shook his head. “Crazy” didn’t even begin to get it.

Somewhere outside a neighbor’s dog barked. The air-conditioner compressor cranked on. But Grant didn’t move. Maybe, just maybe, it could work.

He turned and grabbed his car keys from the counter and, before he could reconsider, strode toward the garage.

Hell, what did he have to lose?

PAM SAT on her living room floor, the multiple pages of her senior English syllabus spread all around her. Collating was hard work when Viola and Sebastian insisted on regarding the papers as playthings. Finally she’d had to close the cats in the utility room. She compiled one complete set, tamped it on the coffee table, then stapled it. As she gathered the next sheets, she deliberately avoided looking at the headings, especially those for second semester. It hurt too much to realize that someone else would be teaching the Romantic poets, Thomas Hardy and Wilfred Owen.

Sorting and stapling, she mentally reviewed her search through the Sunday want ads. There were openings for secretaries, of course, and receptionists. She’d thought about real estate, but what would she live on while she took the licensing course and established her clientele? College teaching might be a possibility, but openings were scarce.

She sighed. Tomorrow teachers’ meetings started. And after that when would she have time to follow up on job opportunities? She’d read in the pregnancy book that the lethargy she was experiencing was common in the first trimester. How ironic that when she most needed her energy, she was so bummed out.

She scooped up the collated syllabi and got to her feet, feeling oddly top-heavy. Eventually she’d have to tell her father she was pregnant. Although he might not approve, she knew he’d stand by her. That’s just the way he was. She smiled fondly. He’d be the greatest grandpa. Soft-spoken Will Carver had a heart as big as the West Texas skies.

In fact, it would be far easier to tell him than her sister, twelve years older than she and impossibly narrow-minded and sanctimonious.

Barbara, who’d always blamed her for their mother’s death. No doubt her sister had suffered a devastating loss at an impressionable age. But Pam had never understood how she could continue to hold an infant responsible for the difficult delivery, the hemorrhage, the loss. Barbara had, though, apparently steeling herself against any show of affection for her baby sister. Finally Pam had had to make up her mind not to let her sister’s indifference matter. But it still hurt. Big time.

Overwhelmed with helplessness, Pam set the syllabi on the counter. She’d never know the comfort of a mother’s love and advice during this pregnancy. Or a sister’s.

Maybe it would be a blessing when her condition became known. She hated hiding things. Perhaps from her friends would come the support Barbara couldn’t give. Above all, Pam didn’t want the baby to suffer—not from lack of affection and certainly not from stigma. Whatever it took, she’d protect this child.

She liberated the cats from the utility room, then changed out of her jeans into her pajamas. She wanted to get to bed early. She’d need all her strength for the teachers’ meetings tomorrow—and for the days ahead.

Curling up on the sofa with a copy of the English lit text, she yawned as she reread—as she did each fall—the introduction to the first unit of study. Keeping her eyes open was a challenge, and the book slid out of her lap.

When the doorbell rang, she reared up, looking around dazedly. What? Who? Had she fallen asleep? The bell pealed again.

She tiptoed to the door, amazed to find Grant Gilbert standing outside. Again? She reached for the robe lying on the back of the sofa and, glancing in the hall mirror to be sure she was presentable, opened the door.

Whatever Grant had intended to say had been lost apparently. “Oh. I…I’m sorry. You were in bed? I’d better leave.”

She checked her watch. It was only eight-fifteen. “I was planning an early evening, but not this early. Please come in.”

He hesitated. “You’re sure? I don’t want to intrude. I should’ve called first.”

She hid a smile. It amused her to see the normally self-possessed Grant flustered. She resisted the impulse to take his face between her hands and tell him it was all right. “Please. Come in.”

When he stepped across the threshold, Viola emerged from under the couch and twined herself between his feet, purring audibly. The look on his face was priceless. Pam chuckled. “You’re not much of a cat lover?”

“Does that make me a bad person?” His features relaxed into a sheepish grin.

“Not exactly. But you’ll have to demonstrate other redeeming qualities.”

He studied Viola, who refused to budge. “I would if I could move.”

Scooping up Viola and cuddling her, Pam settled cross-legged into the armchair. “There. You’re free. Have a seat and tell me what brings you out on D-Day eve.”

“D-Day?” He plopped onto the sofa. “The invasion doesn’t really start until next Tuesday when the students show up.”

“Okay, then. D-Day minus seven.” Despite the bantering, he seemed uncomfortable, crossing and recrossing his legs, then stretching them out in front of him, his arms spread-eagled along the back of the couch.

“Did you get to the doctor?”

“Not yet, but I will. Soon.”

“It’s important to take care of yourself.”

For some reason, he seemed nervous, plucking the sofa fabric between his thumb and index finger. Surely he hadn’t come over merely to inquire about her health. “How’s the interviewing coming?”

“You don’t want to know. ‘Disaster’ about sums it up. Nannies expect babies, not a hormone-driven fifteen-year-old.”

She leaned forward, clutching her knees. “So what are you going to do?”

“Throw myself on Shelley’s mercy, I guess. Unless…” He shifted his weight and turned to look directly at her.

“Unless what?”

“I don’t quite know how to suggest this.”

“Spit it out, that’s how.”

He rose to his feet. “Nah, it’s a crazy idea. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

She went to him and guided him back to the sofa, then settled beside him. “Get it off your chest, Gilbert.”

“I didn’t want to do it like this.” He looked miserable.

“Do what?”

He lifted her hand, studying her fingers, then said in a hoarse voice, “Propose.”

Her ears echoed with the word—a preposterous word. Propose? “Come again?” She leaned forward to be sure she had heard correctly.

“I should get on my knees, present you with a rose or something,” he went on lamely. “Isn’t that how it’s done?”

She held up her hand, as if asking for a time-out. “Wait a minute. Are you actually suggesting we get married?”

“I told you it was a crazy idea.” His shoulders slumped. “But I thought maybe we could work out some sort of arrangement. You need a father for your baby, I need a housekeeper. I know it wouldn’t be easy, but…”

Chaotic thoughts whirled in Pam’s head. “Marriage? That’s a pretty extreme solution.”

“It was just a thought.”

For one idiotic moment Pam actually considered the idea. “Why would you be willing to marry me?”

“You’d be a great influence on Andy. Not a housekeeper, really. But Shelley would be off my case. Besides, if we were married, you could keep your job and you’d have a name for your baby’s birth certificate.”

She sat speechless, skeptical, but helpless to ignore the benefits of his idea. Marriage was sacred. It was about much more than mutual convenience.

“We’re friends,” he continued.

“That’s a start,” she conceded.

“I’m suggesting a kind of open-ended arrangement, but it would help me out if we could agree to live together for at least a year. After that, Andy’ll go back to his mother. So, come September, we can terminate our formal relationship. You know, we can—”

“Divorce?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know, Grant. It’s a drastic step.” Just then, he put his arm around her shoulder. The embrace made her feel warm, protected—and unexpectedly fluttery, like when she was in junior high and the boy she had had a crush on smiled at her.

“It would be what we make of it.”

She looked up into his eyes, so serious yet hopeful. “Even if I were to entertain the notion, how would we ever carry it off?”

“You’re the drama teacher. The imaginative one. Surely we could think of something.” He massaged the sore spot between her shoulders as he went on speaking. “Somehow we’d have to convince everyone at school that we’re so in love we acted on impulse.”

“What do you mean?

“It would make sense for us to be married this weekend. Before school starts. Before Andy comes. We could pass it off as a whirlwind courtship.”

“But…but…”

“You’re right, they’d suspect. It’s not like we have a dating history.” His hand stilled on her back.

“Weren’t you here in town all summer?” She couldn’t help herself. She was actually playing out the scenario in her mind.

“No. I attended a three-week coaches’ clinic in Austin the end of July and the beginning of August.”

Pam studied the ceiling, wondering why fate was playing into their hands when she desperately needed a reason to say no. “I was there, too,” she said quietly.

“In Austin?”

“For summer school.”

He smiled for the first time since he’d arrived on her doorstep. “Do you think we might have fallen in love there?”

Her heart thudded. “It’s possible,” she found herself whispering.

“I don’t want you to think I’m using you. I would never do that. I would genuinely welcome your baby for whatever time we’re together. In fact, if the kid needs a father—” He stopped as if he’d realized he was presuming too much. “I mean, well, my name would be on the birth certificate.”

Pam studied his face—the plane of his cheeks, the set of his mouth, the depth in his eyes. Implicitly she knew he would never hurt her or her baby. Outlandish as it was, his offer was tempting. A momentary panic fluttered in her stomach. She needed time. “You’ve given me a lot to consider.”

He smiled. “Then you’re not rejecting the proposal outright?”

“I should.” She took a deep breath. “But I can’t.”

“If we’re to pull this off, we don’t have much time.”

“I know.”

“Tomorrow evening, then?”

Twenty-four hours to make a life-altering decision? Impossible. “Okay.”

He nodded thoughtfully, then excused himself. She trailed him to the door, her emotions in turmoil. Before leaving, he paused to say one last thing. “I would take good care of you, Pam.” Then he was gone.

She wandered back to the sofa, pulling the throw around her as a shield against all the doubts, anxieties, questions.

She had some serious thinking to do. Fast.