“Do you know this woman?” Philippa demanded.
“She’s the receptionist in my office,” he said.
“Fire her,” she said.
Angela looked stricken. “You won’t tell Dad, will you?” she asked Barry. “I didn’t mean to get Chelsea in trouble.” Tears glistened in her eyes.
“Chelsea hasn’t done anything wrong,” he assured her. “Nobody’s getting fired.”
“If you were my daughter, I wouldn’t let you run around town with a receptionist who dresses like a hooker,” snapped Philippa. “I’d see that you were raised properly.”
Barry’s grip on his temper began to fray. “You’d see that she was raised properly by her nanny,” he said. “Isn’t that what you told me?”
“You can’t be taking her side!”
“You’re the one who lit a cigarette,” he said. “That caused a lot more distress to the other diners than Miss Menton’s little performance. Or her friend’s choice of clothing, either.”
“Fine!” Philippa smacked her hand on the table, setting the fine china rattling. “Enjoy your dinner, Doctor. I’ve lost my appetite.” She grabbed her purse and departed.
Barry watched her go without even a twinge of regret. “Would you two mind if I join you?”
Angela let out a whoop, then clapped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she told the other diners, then added more sedately, “We’d love to have you.”
After canceling the order for lobster, Barry enjoyed the rest of his meal at the other table. He and Chelsea kept the conversation general and avoided meeting each other’s eyes.
Even so, his body tingled whenever their legs accidentally bumped under the table. They laughed a lot, although later he couldn’t remember what they’d said. It was a lovely evening, but not, Barry reminded himself firmly, a date.
Afterward, the pair dropped him off at Philippa’s house to get his car. Fortunately, he didn’t see the woman around.
Barry drove home with the pleasant sense that the evening hadn’t been such a loss after all.
7
“I CAN’T STAND that woman,” Angela told Chelsea on the way home. “Barry deserves better than her.”
“I hope you weren’t trying to fix us up,” Chelsea said. “He’s my boss.”
“I wasn’t! Honest!” The innocent facade held for a moment, then crumpled. “Maybe a little.”
“Never try that again.”
“Okay. I promise. And I’ll tell the whole story to Mom myself. Maybe she’ll finally realize what a snob Philippa is,” Angela said. “Mom tends to see people’s good side. Especially when they’re big supporters of the arts.”
“I’m sure your parents meant well when they arranged the date,” Chelsea said.
“Yeah,” the girl grumbled. “They always mean well.” Then she grinned. “Grandma will get a laugh out of it.”
During the next couple of months, Chelsea treasured the memory of that evening. As woman after woman finagled, begged or otherwise snared a date with Barry, she reminded herself of how much more fun he’d had with her and Angela than with that awful Philippa.
Still, she wished him luck with what, she was beginning to realize, was a genuine search for a soul mate. Yet she experienced a stirring of relief each time it became clear that a first date had also been a last date.
Chelsea had no regrets about having called it quits with Barry. Okay, maybe a few. There were lonely nights when she wished she could wrap her arms around him and they could nestle together in bed. Sometimes it was hard to keep her distance in the office, when they would joke together and she’d feel a spark and know that he felt it, too.
But he was so proper. So perfectly starched, so correct in his professional behavior, so critical when he caught her playing horsey with Tisa and Laryssa in the waiting room. Her explanation that the girls had demanded a repeat performance from their last visit had brought only a stern reminder that this was an office, not a playground.
He needed an equally stuffy woman. Someone who would allow him to boss her around or, hard as it was to imagine, who shared his rigid view of life.
At those unguarded moments when Chelsea caught a glimpse of tenderness in his gaze, she reminded herself of how she’d fallen for the same aura of sweetness a few years ago when she agreed to marry Gene. He’d turned out to be a big disappointment.
Although Chelsea hoped someday to meet the right man to marry, she was in no hurry. Since she didn’t particularly want children, she had all the time in the world.
Even so, March and April dragged by with little to break the monotony. In early May, Myrtle the hamster escaped from her cage. On her way to the bathroom the following night, Chelsea stepped on something that crunched, and for a terrible moment she believed she’d killed Myrtle.
The victim turned out to be a leftover Easter egg that had rolled out from under a cabinet. The next day, Myrtle turned up in Chelsea’s closet, nibbling on an old shoe.
At the office, the cold and flu season slacked off. Thank goodness she didn’t have to keep working patients in and throwing off the schedule, Chelsea reflected the Friday before the Friends of the Opera and Ballet press luncheon.
Tomorrow, Angela would perform her solo. Chelsea was as nervous as if she herself were scheduled to dance. For days, her stomach had churned with excitement.
Barry poked his head into the reception bay. “Don’t tell me we’re actually caught up. Nobody waiting?”
“It’s lunchtime,” Chelsea said. “I’m afraid I have some bad news, though.”
His eyes darkened with concern. “What’s wrong?”
“Not a single lady brought you a casserole. Not even a sandwich,” she said. “You’ll have to provide your own lunch. You can have a stick of my chewing gum, though, if you ask nicely.”
He grinned. “I can’t believe I’ve run through the entire female population of the office building that quickly.”
“Shall I put up fliers down the block?”
“Spare me.” He started to beat a retreat, his usual tactic whenever they had too much fun talking.
The waiting room door opened. Chelsea was about to inform the new arrival that they were closed for lunch, when she saw that the sixtyish gentleman didn’t have a child with him.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I just wanted to see the place.” With his shock of white hair, thin face and scraggly white beard, the man reminded her of Colonel Sanders. Fried chicken, Chelsea thought, that’s what she wanted for lunch.
She heard Barry’s swift intake of breath. “Dad!” He hurried into the waiting room. “You should have told me when you were arriving!”
“I flew standby. Didn’t want to waste your time hanging around the airport.” The older man clapped his son on the shoulder. “Man, you look great. Living on that island agreed with you.”
Beaming, Barry addressed Chelsea. “Dad’s a doctor in Colorado, the old-fashioned kind who treats the whole family and makes house calls. He knows more about kids than most pediatricians.”
“And more about mothers and babies, too,” announced Barry’s father. “Over the years, you develop a sixth sense about what’s wrong—or right, as the case may be. Congratulations, young lady.”
“On what?” Chelsea asked.
The elder Dr. Cantrell surveyed her knowingly. “On your pregnancy, of course. Who’s the lucky father?”
ASTONISHED, Barry stared at Chelsea. Surely Lew must be mistaken. If she were pregnant, she’d have told him.
Judging by the blank expression on her face, this was news to her, too. “I’m not. I mean, I don’t think I am.”
“There’s a glow about you and a kind of hormonal hum in the air. I can sense that sort of thing,” said Lew.
“My stomach’s been bothering me because of Angela’s ballet solo tomorrow,” Chelsea said. “I’m sure I’m not…well, almost sure.”
“When was your last menstrual period?” asked Lew.
“I don�
�t remember. They’re irregular.”
“Irregular?” Barry said. “You told me it was the wrong time of…”
He stopped. Too late.
“You’re kidding,” said his father. “My noble son, the savior of Prego Prego, has been—pardon the expression—boffing the receptionist?”
Chelsea burst into laughter. “It wasn’t like that.”
“It must have been something like that, or you wouldn’t be pregnant,” said Lew.
Barry couldn’t begin to sort out his reaction. He wanted children. He really liked Chelsea. Yet it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. They weren’t supposed to happen. He didn’t want an odd-couple marriage like his parents’ twenty-year train-wreck-in-progress.
“You need a pregnancy test.” He knew he sounded like an insensitive clod. At a time like this, though, surely such a procedure was the logical way to go.
“I saw an obstetrician’s office down the hall,” his father said. “We’ll go there.”
“We?” said Barry.
“I’m not going to miss this.” Lew opened the exterior door. “Isn’t anyone going to congratulate me?”
“On what?”
“I’m going to be a grandfather!” crowed his father, and ushered them into the hall.
CHELSEA REGARDED the ultrasound image in a blur of disbelief. The obstetrician, Dr. Keller, had not only been willing to see her at once but, in deference to the two anxious physicians accompanying her, had arranged for an immediate sonogram after a quick test confirmed she was pregnant.
“There’s definitely two.” Dr. Keller pointed to the tiny squirmy black-and-white figures on the TV-type screen. “Active little critters, too.”
The pair, in their separate sacs, wiggled and tussled like roughhousing children. Which, Chelsea realized with a start, was exactly what they were.
“Twins?” She could hardly speak through her clogged throat. “I’m having twins?” The last word came out as a squeak.
“Two of them?” added Barry.
“That’s what twins usually means,” chirped the small, rotund obstetrician. “Unless there’s three. Let’s take a closer look—no, I don’t see a third one.”
Chelsea’s head swam. What would she have done with three? On the other hand, what was she going to do with two?
“Can you tell the sex yet?” asked Lew.
Although it felt odd to have this complete stranger taking part in the most intimate discovery of her life, Chelsea found the elder Dr. Cantrell’s presence a relief. At least he served as a buffer.
She couldn’t even imagine what thoughts were generating those storm clouds in Barry’s eyes. Well, she had no sympathy to spare for him.
It was Chelsea, not Barry, who had these cute but intimidating little persons tumbling around in her midsection. She was the one who needed to make the tough decisions. If there had been a way to transfer them to Barry, she’d have voted for that option, but there wasn’t.
How could she keep them and raise them alone? Her parents had never been reliable, even with their own daughter, so she couldn’t look to them for help.
She didn’t want to depend on a man, either. Especially not Barry. He would want to call all the shots. Pick out names like Alphonse and Hermione. Dress them in frills or tiny business suits. Teach them algebra before they were three.
Chelsea wasn’t going to let him run her life, and that was that, she thought a few minutes later as she got dressed. Before she knew it, she had made a follow-up appointment and was exiting with an armful of brochures and vitamins.
“Let’s go eat lunch!” Lew rubbed his hands together cheerily. “My treat.”
Alarmed, Chelsea checked her watch. “We have to get back to work.”
“Would you mind bringing us some sandwiches, Dad?” Barry asked. “That would be great.”
“Sure thing.” His father patted Chelsea on the shoulder. “Welcome to the family, young lady.”
After he disappeared down the elevator, she asked Barry, “Does he assume we’re getting married?”
“I doubt it. Now let’s go talk where it’s private.” Barry guided her into their suite through the back entrance. There was no one around, although Chelsea could hear Helen and Sandy chatting down the hall.
They scooted into Barry’s office. When he closed the door, she realized how small the place was. The diplomas on the walls looked impressive up close, she thought.
So did Barry, tall and broad-shouldered and brooding. With a pang, Chelsea realized how much she missed touching him.
Someone ought to muss that too-perfect dark hair and kiss him fast, then dart away so he would advance and pin her against the wall. When he bent over her to claim another kiss, she ought to unbutton his shirt and run her hands over his firm chest. It would be much more fun than standing here preparing to discuss deep issues when she didn’t know what to say.
“What are you going to do?” Barry asked.
“About what?”
“Chelsea!”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Any suggestions?”
“We could get m…” He seemed to choke on the next word.
“Migraines?” she suggested. “I don’t need one. I already have a stomachache.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t suspect you might be pregnant,” he said.
“I guess I was in denial,” Chelsea admitted. “Besides, my periods are often irregular. I sometimes skip one entirely when I’m under stress, like when Starshine is late with the rent. She’s been doing that a lot recently.”
“Well, now that you know, how do you feel about having twins?” Barry asked.
“Not just twins. Kids of any sort,” she said. “I didn’t plan to.”
“You didn’t?” He stared at her in dismay. “But you like children. I’ve seen the way you play with the patients.”
“Some of them are cute.” Not as cute as the two little figures rollicking around inside her, either. Still, Chelsea had to stick by her convictions, one of which was that if she couldn’t keep her rodents from running away, she might have the same problem with her children. “There are a lot of families who desperately want kids. Think of the joy we could spread.”
His eyebrows knitted themselves into a fierce line. It was quite a trick. Chelsea wondered how he did it.
“Unlike you, I do want children,” Barry said, “although I believe they have a right to grow up in a two-parent family if possible.”
“So we’re in agreement?” she asked.
“About what?”
“Adoption.” As she spoke the word aloud, Chelsea wondered how she could go through with it. In principle, she admired birth mothers who gave up babies they weren’t prepared to raise. In reality, her heart ached at the prospect.
“I never said that.” Barry glared at the door, which someone was knocking on. “Yes?”
Helen stuck her head inside. “We have some patients waiting. Oh, dear. Am I interrupting anything?”
“We were trying to figure out whether to put our children up for adoption,” Chelsea said.
“Excuse me?”
From the corner of her eye, she noted that Barry had blanched. It was amazing how pale a man could look under a tan. “I’m pregnant with twins.”
“You and Barry have been…are a couple?” The nurse uttered a little gasp. “I was hoping, I mean, Dr. Cantrell, I know you and my daughter didn’t fall madly in love on your date, but I thought things might work out in a year or two when she’s a little more mature.”
“What’s going on?” It was Sandy, edging into the doorway beside Helen. When she heard the news, she frowned. “Louise will have a hissy fit. She said she plans to claim you for her groom if she has to hog-tie you and hold a shotgun to your head. I don’t know what she’ll say about this.”
Barry’s dismayed look gave way to alarm. “Your sister isn’t actually dangerous, is she?”
“Just very determined,” the office manager assured him. “I’m certain she didn’t mean t
he part about the shotgun. I’m not so sure about the hog-tying.”
“Are we having a conference?” Andrew’s voice carried over the intervening bodies, which parted to let him into the doorway.
“It’s the babies,” Helen said.
“Chelsea’s having twins,” Sandy added.
“And Barry,” said Helen.
“She’s having Barry?” Andrew asked.
“I’m afraid she already had him,” Sandy said.
Andrew’s eyebrows did their own thing, which was to form a peak in the middle like an inverted vee. “Barry?”
He nodded.
Andrew scowled. Chelsea wondered if her boss was about to chew out his cousin for misbehaving with the office staff.
Instead, Dr. Menton said, “Cindi will be furious. She’s got dates lined up for you through July, at least.”
It was on the tip of Chelsea’s tongue to say that Barry could date anyone he liked. A little thing like a pregnancy didn’t have to tie him down, or her, either.
For once in her life, she decided not to blurt out the first thing that came into her mind. It wasn’t that she’d suddenly learned discretion.
It was that she heard the front office door opening and inhaled the smell of pastrami sandwiches as Lew’s voice called, “Anybody home?”
A mother had to set priorities. Chelsea’s was lunch.
ALTHOUGH THE OFFICE didn’t schedule regular appointments on the weekend, it opened on Saturday mornings to treat patients who’d fallen ill. Barry arrived at eight and was able to get away by ten o’clock. He hurried home to dress for the press luncheon.
As he struggled to knot his tie, he asked himself for the thousandth time why he hadn’t come right out and asked Chelsea to marry him yesterday. He wanted their children, and, quite frankly, he wanted her.
None of the other women he’d dated remotely appealed to him. He’d had no desire to take any of them to bed. Even the few good-night kisses he’d exchanged had been perfunctory.
The memory of that night at Chelsea’s apartment burned in his blood. His body remembered every passionate interchange and reacted with a will of its own every time she came near.
In his heart, though, he knew a marriage between them wouldn’t last. Such a volatile relationship would devastate them both and leave their children on shaky ground.
The Doc's Double Delivery & Down-Home Diva Page 8