Having The Soldier's Baby (The Parent Portal Book 1)

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  “It’s not fair to her,” he added, lest the woman think he’d developed a selfish streak during his time in pseudo-captivity. “I am not the man she married. She wouldn’t love the man I’ve become. Trust me on this. I know her. She’d grieve every day, living with me. It’s much kinder to let her make a new life for herself.”

  “She’s not a woman who knows her own mind?”

  “Of course she is. Completely. Emily knew when she was fourteen that she was going to be my wife. And she knew we had to have college degrees before we married, too,” he said. “She’s been with the same firm since graduation and has quickly climbed the ranks to senior account executive. Because she knows what she wants and goes after it.”

  “But you don’t love her anymore.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Let’s just say...my feelings have changed. Period. Across the board. I don’t love anything in the ways I used to. For God’s sake, I lived in hell for two years. I’m affected by that, okay? But not in any way that will prevent me from being a damned good MA.” Master-at-arms—naval military police. The one thing he knew for certain he’d be good at.

  “Of course you’re affected. That’s why you’re here.”

  If his hour were up, he’d be leaving. But it wasn’t. So he sat. Appeared relaxed. Thought about pulling on his beard. He knew the drill. Had lived it every day for the past twenty-four months. He was there because he had to be. No less. No more.

  Five minutes of silence passed. Six. Then seven. Relaxing became more real than act. Silence was a friend he trusted. Within the silence he could hear.

  Think. Prepare. Protect.

  Within the silence he could be whoever he wanted to be. Think whatever he wanted to think.

  “Here’s what I believe.” Dr. Adamson ruined the moment. “I believe that your six-month sabbatical was ordered to give you time to heal. And since we both know that, physically, you could pass any test today, your superiors must believe you need time to heal mentally. Or emotionally. Or, more likely, both.”

  “Could also be that having been in captivity for two years earned me six months of leave.” Not that he was expecting the immediate future to be a vacation. He’d be debriefing with select, hand-chosen individuals. Two years of information collection was filed in his brain. No one asked him to collect it. But since he had, they wanted it. About as much as he wanted them to have it.

  “The order isn’t written as vacation leave time,” she said, looking down as though rereading what she’d probably already committed to memory.

  Semantics. He said nothing. Didn’t move. Or drop his gaze from hers. Bring it on. Whatever she had to dish out...he could take. And then some.

  “Your superiors think you need my help,” Dr. Adamson said, closing his file and leaning her forearms on her desk over it as she looked at him. “In order to survive, you built defenses. Exactly what you’ve been trained to do.”

  He gave her a bit of a shrug. Probably of acknowledgment.

  “Your task now is to let some of them go. That takes time. You know what you know. I’m not debating that. Or even saying it’s wrong. But if you’re going to be of any further service to the United States, to the navy, you need to figure out which of those defenses no longer serve you and lose them.”

  Right. Fine. He probably didn’t have to listen to every conversation in the next room anymore as a way of watching his back. Or sleep a few hours every day in the bunker he’d dug so that he could stay awake during the night when others thought he was asleep. He didn’t need to watch his back quite so much now that there were others around who’d share the burden while he watched theirs. Maybe he didn’t need to control every single thought he had.

  He’d already reached these conclusions. Didn’t need her telling him what he already knew. But he needed her signature, releasing him.

  If she wanted him to spell things out, he would. But only if it came to that or no signature. His thoughts were the one thing no one had taken from him.

  “What you do is your choice, of course. Always. But for me to be able to release you back to active duty, in any capacity, I’m going to need some specific things from you.”

  His arm dropped from the back of the couch as he leaned forward. Ready.

  “I’m going to need to see you at least twice a month over the next six months.”

  He’d been prepared for twice weekly. He hid a smile as he mentally applauded her good judgment. “Done.”

  “When you return, two weeks from today, I’d like you to have a more permanent place to live.”

  He was fine in the barracks. But...he could easily afford an apartment, too. He nodded.

  “And I need you to go see your wife. If you want someone to prepare her ahead of time, let her know that you’re still alive, I can see to that.”

  Had she listened to anything he’d said? The muscles in his jaw tensing, Winston clamped his jaws together. Took a long, slow breath. Reminded himself that he was an officer in the United States Navy.

  “Whatever arrangements the two of you make are up to you, but you have to make them. With her. Or her lawyer.”

  Her lawyer? As in divorce?

  He supposed, if he was going to be alive to Emily, divorce would come, but...

  “Let me get this straight. Before I can go back to serving my country... I have to hurt my wife? Make her suffer more than she already has?”

  “You have to learn how to interact with people in a more normal interpersonal way, Officer. Your wife has a mind of her own. You don’t have the right to take her choices away from her. Or her suffering, if that’s what’s to come her way. It’s also important that you be capable of handling life’s emotional ups and downs rather than running from them, but first and foremost, you can’t go through life, at least not navy life, thinking that you know best for everyone else.”

  She was staring straight at him and one clear fact hit so hard he almost physically cringed. The navy had given her a charge. She could only release him back to them if she could confidently assure them that, in her opinion, he could, and would, follow orders.

  He was paying for his choice to act of his own accord. His choice to go rogue.

  And that, he understood.

  Wednesday. June 19. He left Dr. Adamson’s office, after one hour to the minute, having agreed to her demands.

  All of them.

  Chapter Four

  She’d had the home pregnancy test for a week. Had carried the box in her bag for the first couple of days, then moved it to the cupboard by the toilet in the master bath.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t want to know. She just didn’t want to get her hopes up, or dashed, with false readings. The doctor had said two weeks.

  So there she was, in a short gray skirt and matching short jacket, with three-inch heels and a silk blouse, dressed for her noon business meeting in LA, sitting on a plastic chair in an examining room at the Elliott clinic, having just peed in a cup. She’d given blood the day before.

  She’d deal with facts. She just couldn’t tolerate any more doubt-induced head games. Either she was, or she wasn’t. If she was...then...

  Tears spurted up out of nowhere and she took a deep breath.

  And if she wasn’t, she’d try again.

  If she couldn’t ever get pregnant... If the problem had been her all along... If there’d been a problem other than timing or over-trying...

  The door opened and a doctor she’d never met before walked in. She could have received the news over the phone. The protection of the sterile little brick-walled examination room, with a calm professional discussing options, had seemed more doable to her.

  “Well?” she asked, before the woman could even introduce herself. Dr. Hamilton, her tag read. Did it mean something that a doctor and not a PA had come to see h
er?

  “Is something wrong?” she blurted. “I was expecting the nurse, or...”

  “Christine asked me to speak with you.”

  Heart thudding and dropping like lead weight in her stomach, she straightened her back. “Something’s wrong.”

  “No.” The blond-haired woman, in dark pants and a purple short-sleeved blouse, pulled a stool over to sit in front of Emily. Close. Too close. The doctor smiled.

  “You’re pregnant,” she said. “Due March 14. Christine thought you might have some questions.”

  Pregnant? She was pregnant? As in... Winston’s child was right there, in the room with them, inside her, growing into life?

  “I’m going to have a baby?” She couldn’t make out Dr. Hamilton’s features clearly. Tears blurred her vision. Trying to brush them away with a shaking hand, she shook her head. Wanted to apologize. Was afraid if she spoke, sobs would erupt.

  Oh, good God, she was pregnant? After all those years of trying. Of disappointment.

  “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” The doctor’s voice reached her as though from afar. Because Emily had been far away—in other doctors’ offices, in another room in that very clinic, with Winston, needing their baby so badly...

  “Oh, yes!” she said, sniffling. Kind of giggling. “Yes, God, yes! I just... I guess I didn’t really believe it would happen! I’m actually pregnant!” She grinned. Sniffled again.

  Dr. Hamilton grinned back at her. “You’ll have appointments to schedule, and we’ll be prescribing vitamins and tests along the way, but for now, all you have to do is celebrate.”

  And buy a nursery. Call her mother. And Winston’s parents. Or...

  Maybe not yet. The nursery, okay. But the parents?

  Lord knew she didn’t want them descending on her. And they would. All the way from Florida—and most certainly from San Diego.

  Besides, what if she...

  “Am I at more risk for miscarriage? Since I was inseminated? And struggled to get pregnant to begin with?” She stared, solemn-faced, at the friendly doctor. Who was already shaking her head.

  “The first three months are your highest risk, of course. But there’s no indication in your history to lead me to think that this will be anything but a normal pregnancy. We’ll do an ultrasound at sixteen weeks, or sooner, if you’d rather, just for your own peace of mind, but truly, the best thing you can do right now for you and your baby is to just be happy. Don’t worry. Eat healthy, no alcohol or smoking, of course, and otherwise live your life as you normally would.”

  She nodded. She could do that. “Thank you,” she said, grinning—and crying again, too. She was guessing it was too soon to blame that on hormones.

  “Of course,” Dr. Hamilton said. “If you have your own obstetrician, you’ll need to schedule an appointment, but if you’d like us to continue to follow you, we’ll get you scheduled for everything now.”

  They both stood, Emily on weak knees. “I’m staying here,” she said. There’d never been any question on that one.

  Dr. Hamilton opened the door, led the way down the hall, and for a second there, as she followed the woman, Emily hugged herself.

  Wednesday, June 26. Winston’s baby was growing inside her!

  She prayed that wherever he was, he knew. And was smiling, too.

  * * *

  He’d been by the house twice. Once when he’d first arrived in San Diego. He’d rented a car and driven up to Marie Cove just to see the home he and Emily had purchased together. To see if he could tell if she was still living there.

  The curtains had been the same—which didn’t say a lot. The yard had been manicured in a way that pleased him—which was saying a lot, but not that she was still living there. He hadn’t hung around long enough to notice anything else. Where she was hadn’t mattered. What mattered was knowing she was okay.

  He’d requested that someone he trusted on base ask around for him. And had toasted her with a few beers when he’d heard that she was still at the same firm, with the same home address. He knew nothing more than that. Hadn’t wanted to know.

  If she was remarried, living with someone, it was none of his business. He wished her well from the bottom of his heart. Needed her to be happy.

  The second time he drove by, he’d meant to stop. In light of the agreement he’d made with the naval psychiatrist, he’d asked if he could be the one to let his wife know he was still alive. After all, he wasn’t assuming a new identity. Which meant that they had to divorce for her to be free to continue living her new life. No one but him was going to be able to convince her of that. And her seeing what he’d become, understanding from the moment she heard he was still living that her husband was never coming back, was mandatory for her well-being.

  But that Wednesday in June, a week after his first meeting with his shrink, he drove a different rental car right by the house he now knew to still be Emily’s home, without even slowing down. Thing was, it struck him, turning onto that street, that the house was still his, too. His name was on the title.

  Which made things messy. He didn’t do messy these days. His life had one dimension left, and messy didn’t compute there.

  So he drove on by.

  * * *

  There were just too many cribs in the world. And not enough to choose from in the stores. Pulling into her driveway Saturday, just before noon, Emily barely noticed the car parked out front. Her mind was on the four-in-one convertible crib she’d seen online—the one with the drawer underneath and the far side that was taller than the others, like a headboard. She’d hoped to find it that morning, to have a chance to make sure in person that it was easy enough for her to manipulate alone before she purchased it. And she wanted it in white. Or brown. Half of what she’d seen was gray. As popular as the color was apparently becoming in the home design world, she just couldn’t bring more gray into her life. And most particularly not into the nursery.

  It wasn’t until she’d pulled into her garage, pushed the button to close the door behind her, entered in through the kitchen and heard a knock on her front door that she thought of the car out front. A dark, expensive-looking sedan. In the back of her mind she’d figured it belonged to someone visiting the family across the street. The Bloomingtons had a lot of extended family, and an endless number of weekend get-togethers. They had a lovely backyard pool. Had invited her over a few times...

  Reaching for the front door handle, she wondered if the visit was just that—another Bloomington family invitation. It was June, soon to be July. Warm and sunny. Made sense they’d be having a pool party...

  Stopping just short of unlocking the door, she peered out the peephole.

  What?

  She knew the white dress uniform of the naval officer, thought maybe she recognized the female chaplain who accompanied him. And maybe the other guy looked familiar, too, a medical something or other. The team that had come within a day of Winston going missing two years before had looked eerily similar.

  With a sick feeling, she stood still for a moment. Even with a mental rundown of every loved one she could ever remember having, she couldn’t come up with someone they’d be there to tell her about. She’d already lost the only navy officer she’d ever loved.

  Were they there about the baby? Winston’s heir? No. She shook her head. That made no sense. But thinking of the small life inside her gave her the strength to straighten up and open the door.

  “I’m Senior Chief Petty Officer Greg Hall...” The man introduced himself and the chaplain and medic with him. She stood frozen. “May we come in?”

  Standing back, she let them enter, closed the door, showed them to the couch in the living room. Two years before, she’d brought them to the dining room table. And had had trouble eating at the table for weeks after they’d left.

  She didn’t use the living room much anymore. She was always in her offi
ce, where she had a comfortable lounger and television, or going to bed, when she was at home.

  That would change, though. Now that she was going to be a family.

  And then it hit her.

  “I already got the letter,” she said, before Officer Hall could do more than settle on the edge of the chair across from them. “I know Winston’s been proclaimed dead.”

  “That’s what we need to speak with you about, Mrs. Hannigan.” Officer Hall, a man looking to be close to forty with a hint of silver at his temples, spoke as his small team watched her.

  They were ready to react, she supposed, to needs she might express. Whether emotional or physical. Nice of them, really. But quite unnecessary at this point.

  She’d held it together the last time a team had visited her, too. Back then she’d been certain that Winston would return to her.

  “That letter... I don’t quite know how to express this...it’s unusual, to be sure...”

  She waited. Felt for the guy. What, her death benefits weren’t going to be as described? She could tell him she didn’t care, but knew that the navy had its protocols. That there was probably a manual description Officer Hall was attempting to adhere to. Protocols were there for good reason, Winston always used to tell her.

  Chaplain Blaine, her tag read on the navy blue jacket, leaned forward, almost reaching out a hand that, instead, landed on her own knee.

  Hall coughed. “Are you here alone, ma’am?”

  “Yes.” If you didn’t count the baby.

  “And, since your husband was declared dead, are you in a relationship...?” He cleared his throat. “Is there anyone else who could or should be here with you?”

  Frowning, Emily looked from one to the other of the three of them. All in their uniforms. Looking so...uncomfortable. She didn’t get it. She’d already been told Winston was dead.

  What could they tell her that would be worse than death?

  “I don’t need anyone here with me,” she said. “I live alone. And no, I’m not in a relationship, though what that has to do with anything...” She let her words trail off as she heard the defensiveness in her tone. They were good people doing their jobs. Apparently a very difficult one that morning.