Accidental Life

by Pamela Binnings Ewen

  She sat down in her chair again. Peter slouched in his, legs stretched before him, elbows on the armrests, chin on his knuckles as he looked over her shoulder at the treetops and beyond that, the water. “The one you’ve been worrying about all week?”

  He turned his eyes to her. “You noticed.”

  “Sure. Tell me.”

  He nodded and looked off again as he told her about the Chasson case, what Mac had found out so far. Immediately, when she heard about Glory Lynn hearing the infant’s cry right after birth, she crossed her arms and rested them over the little bulge. And then she listened, remaining quiet as he told her of his fear that this wasn’t an isolated case, his face taut with strain as he glanced at her then and wondered aloud how this could possibly be true.

  And yet.

  She listened, and she asked a few questions, offered a few words, trying to comfort him. But this case had struck Peter in some deep place and her words had no effect. Prosecutors were used to dealing with unthinkable crimes against innocent people, she told herself. Day after day they faced such horrors.

  “It’s all just so sad,” he said.

  She knew her decision to wait until the afternoon to tell Peter the news was the right one. There should be space between the Chasson infant case and her news. The two subjects should not be intertwined.

  In the afternoon, after the call with Sydney was done, Rebecca and Peter wandered through Positano, trudging up and down the winding steps that spread in every direction through the village, while elderly men and women, locals used to the terrain, walked briskly by. Gradually Peter seemed to pull out of the earlier melancholy mood he’d sunk into after that phone call. Once, on a pathway, they stopped to admire an especially pretty view of the dancer’s island, and Rebecca found herself wondering whether they’d have a little girl who would love to dance. The thought caught her off guard, surprising her. Pondering this new perspective on life, she linked her arm through Peter’s and they walked on.

  Yes. She decided. Something told her the baby was a little girl.

  They went into a pottery studio and Rebecca fell in love with the large hand-painted urns. She ordered two. They could be shipped, the clerk assured. It would take three weeks.

  They were almost back at the cove when Rebecca pulled Peter aside to admire the window display in a small shop. There were some pastels painted in the area that she pointed out to him, and straw hats and silk scarves, and a corner boutique of tiny, hand-embroidered dresses, and little playsuits, blankets, bonnets, and infant hats. After a moment, with a quizzical look, Peter tugged on her arm. She relented, walking on with a new spring in her step. Because, at last, a spark of excitement had taken hold, controlling Rebecca now. This was something new; something she could never have imagined. She was a mother.

  She picked up her pace, swinging along, feeling revived, anticipation pumping fresh energy through her veins as she thought about how, and when, she’d break the news to Peter. She would take her time. It would have to happen in the perfect place, someplace completely unconnected with work, or indeed the outside world.

  Smiling up at Peter, she thought how foolish she’d been to think a child would ruin her life, her career. She could make this work. With good help, she could have it all, she knew. It was only a matter of planning and coordination.

  Yes. She could make this work.

  They turned to the left this time, following the stairs out onto the beach where the open-air café stood. They’d enjoyed sitting here watching the scene on their last visit. The place was really no more than a roof and a floor, with wooden partitions waist high on three sides, separating rough-hewn tables and benches from the sand. The fourth wall backed up to the cliff and there was a long bar against that wall where you could order sandwiches and drinks and take them to the tables.

  Peter ordered Coca-Colas—no Tab, the proprietor said in an irritable tone when Rebecca refined the request. No ice, either. But the bottles were cold. Peter carried them to the table beside the partition facing the sea, where Rebecca waited. There he sat down and handed her the drink, keeping one for himself.

  The sand on the beach glistened in the sunlight. They drank the Cokes, taking in the scene. Forty yards offshore a large sailing yacht was anchored, and they watched people diving from the deck into the clear, blue water. He pointed the Coke bottle toward the pier where the catch was weighed and told Rebecca they should rent a skiff tomorrow afternoon. He wanted to paddle around the island and see what was on the other side.

  “There’s nothing there at all,” Rebecca said, smiling. “Like the moon.” She gave him that look that he loved, a sleepy, heavy lidded look that said perhaps it was time to go back to their rooms.

  As they rose, leaving the bottles on the tables, and walked toward the opening onto the beach, a tall lean man sitting on a stool at the end of the bar, a man with graying hair who’d been watching them, took note. He’d recognized the red-haired woman, although he couldn’t remember her name. It had been five years. The man, in his mid-to-late sixties, was muscular, in the kind of good health that comes from living in mountains and near the sea. He wore a loose white linen shirt, pressed, with short sleeves, and white linen pants, sharply creased, and an old, weathered, wide-brimmed straw hat. Once when Rebecca glanced back over her shoulder, as if sensing his presence, he tipped the hat down over his face.

  “Aldo.” He turned, motioning to a man sitting nearby. He spoke in Italian, the local dialect, but with an American accent.

  Aldo turned his head and looked at him. “Do I look like a waiter to you?”

  “I want you to look at someone.” He nodded his head in the direction of Rebecca and Peter. “Do you know them? Ever seen either of them around before?”

  Aldo turned to look, then shook his head. Turning back to the counter, he picked up his beer. “American tourists,” he said, shrugging. He lifted the beer and took a gulp. “With that hair I’d have noticed her if they’d been around before. Every tourist shows up here sooner or later. Must have just arrived. Why do you want to know?”

  “Just wondering,” he said. They were out on the sand now, near the water’s edge. He tipped the hat to the back of his head again. For a few minutes he watched as the couple wandered across the beach, tapping a rhythm on the bar with his fingers. Then he glanced at his watch. “When does the next ferry arrive?”

  Aldo shifted his eyes to his friend. “For Capri? How would I know—do I look like the time-keeper?”

  “Help me out. I never go back this time of day. Don’t know the afternoon schedule.”

  Aldo lifted a shoulder and said that in half an hour or so the ferry would arrive. The man thanked him and, sticking his hands in his pockets, walked through the framed opening facing the water and out onto the sand. He would go down to the pier and wait for the ferry, he decided. Just in case; it was best to be cautious.

  15

  She’d figured out when she would tell him.

  So with patience, she waited. They slept late the next morning. For lunch they ate gnocchi, Sorrento style with tomato, basil, and Parmesan, and the cheese was so sharp and crunchy that they ate chunks of it alone, too. Positano is famous for its bread, and tearing off big pieces, they dipped the bread in local olive oil while they ate.

  After lunch they rented a small boat and motored out about a quarter mile, near the island, but not too close. Peter anchored on the other side and shut the outboard off. The sudden silence was peaceful. The boat rocked gently, barely disturbing the sea. The sun beat down. They’d worn their bathing suits under their clothing, and Peter said he would like to swim.

  Rebecca agreed, lazily swishing her hands through the water on each side of the skiff, watching the spray sparkling in the sunshine. But inside excitement, and joy, and terror whipsawed because this was the moment she’d set to tell him. And because she knew that by telling him she was sealing the deal, and
underlying everything, floating amoeba-like through her subconscious was the glittering image of Mangen & Morris and her career, not necessarily one and the same, and all the unanswered questions that a child would bring to that mix. After all, who knew what might lie ahead if she worked smart, and hard enough. But with a baby?

  Well, all of that had yet to be figured out. And the other worry shadowing her mind was this: men had choices, too. Yes, she’d been the one to set the ground rules before they’d married, no children. But that was several years ago. Perhaps Peter was happy with that arrangement. What then?

  They stripped down to their bathing suits, and Peter wondered if anyone was on the island today. The shore of the little island was about fifty yards from where they’d anchored, and the only sound they heard was birdsong. There was a narrow strip of beach, and then a forest, thick with undergrowth. She knew there was a house on the island, but from here it was well hidden by the trees.

  Peter was ready before her, so he lounged back in the boat, arms spread across the stern, closing his eyes and turning his face to the sun. Ready at last, Rebecca perched on the little seat across the bow with her back to the sea, hugging her knees. Now was the time.

  She looked at him and whispered, “Peter?”

  He opened one eye, half-smiling.

  “I’ve got something to tell you.”

  The eye closed. “Good news, or bad?”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Because if it’s bad news, just save it, Beauty. This day’s too beautiful to spoil.”

  “Well.” She tilted her head and her heart raced. “I guess that’s going to be up to you.”

  He opened his eyes. Then bracing his weight on his elbows, he lifted his head and shoulders, looking at her. He’d heard something in her tone. She recognized that look of his, the dawning suspicion of a prosecutor facing a witness possibly turning hostile on the stand. “What’s up?” he said. His tone was cautious as he smiled up at her, hand over his eyes shading them from the sun.

  She took a long deep breath and rose, standing now, causing the boat to list slightly starboard. “I’m pregnant,” she said. “We’re going to have a baby.” And then, without thinking, she twisted to her right, lifted into the air and dove, barely leaving a ripple behind as she entered the water, letting it stream over her, cool, soothing. Peaceful. She swam for a few seconds, then turned, arching for the surface, kicking up and up and up.

  When she broke through, she tread water, shaking her head. Then she wiped her eyes clear and got her bearings, and turned her head, looking for Peter. She found him, staring, wide-eyed, straddling the middle seat in the boat, leaning toward her. Turning, she swam toward him. Then she grasped the side of the boat and looked up.

  “Did you just announce that we’re having a baby and then jump in the water?” he said.

  “Yes. That’s what I did.”

  “Well.” He paused looking up, inspecting the sky for a moment. Then he looked back down at her. “Is it true?”

  With water streaming down her face, she nodded. “It’s true.”

  In the silence she gripped the boat and waited.

  “Are you certain?” he said at last.

  “Yes. I saw a doctor on Tuesday, this week.”

  “Well, I’ll be.” Seconds passed. Then, “Are you happy?”

  She smiled. “I’m so happy, Peter.” She lifted a shoulder, just a bit. “At first, not so much. But now . . .”

  Before she could finish the sentence, he arched back his neck, looked at the sky, and roared. When he stood, the boat rocked and she hung on, and then he jumped in, too. Hanging on with one hand, she turned, waiting for him to surface. And when he did, he swam back to where she waited and caught her in his arms.

  She let go as he grabbed the boat with one hand, and held her close with his other arm. His face was inches from hers as he looked down, his eyes shining. “Are you all right? Are you healthy, how old is he and when is he due?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she said, laughing. “But he’s a she, and she’s arriving in December. I think I’ll call her Daisy for now.”

  “December.” Seconds passed as he absorbed this news. “Daisy as in Gatsby?” And then, “How do you know we’ve got a girl?”

  She smiled. “Mothers know.”

  “Is that what the doctor said?”

  Rebecca laughed; she arched and pulled back, splashing him. “No.”

  And then she moved close again, and lay her head in the curve of his neck, and he said, in a tone of sheer wonder, “We’re going to have a child.”

  We. He’d said “we.”

  That evening, with bells ringing, they attended mass at Santa Maria. The small Baroque church was narrow inside, white and gold, with high arches overhead. Originally this was the abbey of a Benedictine monastery in the tenth century. Golden cherubs above the arches watched as Peter and Rebecca knelt to pray. Behind the altar was an icon, black and gold, of the Madonna and her child.

  The service was similar to their own Methodist church at home, Rebecca thought—Rayne Memorial—although the liturgy was in Italian. She knelt when Peter knelt, and stood when everyone stood. Peter bowed his head in prayer; Rebecca bowed her head too. From her inner depths she thanked Peter’s God for the baby, and for Peter’s love, and for everything that was good in her life, all the while wondering, as always, if anyone was listening.

  How she wished that he was real, and that he was her God too. Still, she thought of the intricate pictures she’d seen in her book at home, the artist’s renditions of the baby’s growth week by week, and something stirred. She slid her hand over the little bulge, and looked at the painting over the altar, feeling a connection while Peter prayed.

  He coddled her the rest of their time at Positano until she finally begged him to stop. She was fine, she told him. The baby was fine. She was perfectly able to walk up and down the steps of Positano by herself, she insisted. She could still swim, she could dance.

  “Pfft,” she said at last. “I’m fine; stop all that.”

  16

  Back in his office in Gretna the next week, Peter looked out over the river. He had a trial in one week and needed to focus all of his attention on that case. And yet, the case of Baby Chasson was interfering with his thoughts. Even with his excitement over the news of their baby, the Chasson case haunted him.

  He looked around his office, so different from the one that Rebecca inhabited downtown. It was a small office, but he had earned it. Next to Rebecca, and now the baby, his work was his life. Peter had made his choices early on, before he’d even entered law school he’d known exactly what he wanted to do for the rest of his life. Peter was passionate to his bones about his work.

  And he was passionate about his marriage and that’s what he was thinking about right now. Through the glass window panes he gazed out over the levee and the river, reflecting on the new turn of events. In Italy, he and Rebecca, drifting in sweet anticipation of their coming child, had not once talked about how a child was going to impact her career. Or his. Unspoken between them was the assumption that Peter would continue prosecuting in the district attorney’s office just as always. And also left unspoken was any mention of the conflict between the inevitable needs of the baby and the long hours that Rebecca worked downtown, the travel, and her driving ambition.

  Usually a glance at the busy river would have made him feel good, like he was on top of the world. But nothing—not the impending trial, not the colorful river traffic, not thoughts of the baby, nor of Positano and Rebecca, none of that pulled his attention from Glory Lynn Chasson’s complaint.

  With resolution he turned his eyes back to his desk and looked at the files that Molly had stacked on the corner of his desk last week before he’d left for Italy, cases to be closed and sent downstairs to the archives. Work that would keep him busy without requiring much thought. Pullin
g the files toward him, he picked up the one on top and set it down before him. Nothing went into archives until he’d reviewed the file and signed and dated it.

  The intercom on his desk buzzed, Molly’s line. Her voice was grim. “Did you forget the bail hearing this morning?”

  He started, and then groaned. Glancing at his watch he saw that he had ten minutes to get downstairs to the courtroom.

  “I’ve pulled the file,” Molly said. “You’ve got Judge Benson.”

  “Thanks.” Peter hung up the phone and headed for the closet for his jacket. Slipping it on, he hurried through the door.

  Across town, in the conference room on the eighteenth floor of Mangen & Morris, Rebecca leaned back in her chair, balancing a pencil between her fingertips as she listened to Case Roberts, the Chief Operating Officer of Roberts Engineering, describing the company’s problem. Beside her sat Bill Brightfield, a senior partner in litigation with Mangen & Morris. Roberts was interested in investing in a gold mine, Nevada Auriel, located in the Sierra Madres just over the California border in Nevada. But Auriel was involved in some ongoing litigation that worried him. He wanted Brightfield’s opinion on the potential liability in that lawsuit, and he wanted Rebecca to head up the joint venture team if he moved forward.

  Case Roberts looked like he’d just ridden out of the Sierra Madres and hadn’t quite settled into city life yet. He’d worn a suit for this meeting, but when Rebecca first met him at a party thrown by some of Peter’s friends, he’d worn old jeans, albeit with an expensive looking white dress shirt, and cowboy boots. His hair was brown, with flecks of gray, and his skin was tan and weathered and his eyes held a permanent squint from looking into the sun. Thick gray brows bristled over his eyes. She could almost see the dust rising up around him when he’d introduced himself at that party.