Becca's Baby

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  Becca’s Baby

  Shelter Valley Stories

  Tara Taylor Quinn

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE STICK HAD TURNED blue. Another mistake in a day that seemed to be full of them. The stupid thing wasn’t supposed to turn blue.

  At forty-two, Rebecca Parsons had firmly believed she was on her way into early menopause. A welcome relief from the monthly inconvenience she’d endured for thirty years. For many, many of those months, the inconvenience had been accompanied by bitter disappointment—not pregnant—until she’d eventually given up hope. She’d accepted a life without motherhood. A life with other compensations. And now…

  She’d only bought the dumb test to prove to herself that she did indeed have cause to celebrate the departure of monthly cramps, weight gain and irritability. To prove that she’d missed her period because she was menopausal.

  “Dammit, don’t you know anything?” she swore at the stick. She tossed it into the bathroom trash and proceeded out to the kitchen to prepare Friday night’s dinner. She’d been in committee meetings all day and Will would be home soon with only half an hour for his evening meal. Becca intended to make sure he enjoyed it.

  No idiot stick was going to get in her way.

  HIS THICK DARK HAIR silvered at the temples, Will looked as handsome as ever when he strode through the door a little while later, depositing his briefcase on the counter before he came over and gave her a kiss. Becca deepened the kiss.

  “Mmm,” he murmured, the sound vibrating against her lips. Beginning an intimately familiar dance, his tongue met hers, mingled. His arms went around her and he pressed his hips to hers.

  Becca moaned, and begged with her body, suddenly desperate to be lost in Will’s lovemaking.

  “Hold that thought,” he said, giving her one last kiss before he stepped away. “I have to be back at the U in twenty minutes.”

  Becca wished she could go with him. Not because she had any interest whatsoever in the Friday-night National Honor Society awards ceremony he, as president of Montford University, had to attend, but because she wasn’t looking forward to an evening at home with her own thoughts, her own pile of work to get through.

  Oh, yes, it had been a bad day.

  Pulling a casserole, one of Will’s favorites, from the oven, she joined him at the table. They were both still dressed in their sleek business suits, Becca’s shoulder-length dark hair styled as though she’d just stepped from a fashion magazine, Will’s looking as though he’d run his fingers through it more than once. They were the epitome of the successful, happy couple.

  “How’d things go with Mayor Smith today?” Will asked. He barely glanced over at her as he devoured two helpings of the casserole.

  “Worse than we expected,” she said. “The guy’s a butt.”

  Stopping in midbite, Will raised his eyes. Her less-than-flattering description brought a frown of commiseration to his face. It touched her familiarly. Warmed her up a bit.

  “That bad, huh?” he asked.

  “Everyone who voted for me, everyone in town, knew I was running for city council to see this Save the Youth program born,” Becca said, putting down her fork as she stopped pretending to eat. “Now that I’m elected, our dear mayor tells me he doesn’t intend to part with one dime of city money to help fund the program.”

  Will swore. Checked his watch. And swore again. “So you’ll fight him, honey,” he said, standing. “You’ve got a lot of strong supporters.”

  Yeah. She did. But… “Do you think I’m thinking with my emotions, Will? That I’m being illogical?”

  “Hell, no!” He carried his plate to the sink, rinsed it and dropped it in the dishwasher. “The town of Shelter Valley owes it to its teenagers, dammit. We have to educate our youth about the dangers of alcohol and drug use, give them other options, provide them with support. To continue pretending that teenage pregnancy and drug abuse don’t exist here is ludicrous. Don’t let that weasel make you second-guess yourself, Bec.”

  “He claimed that I’m only fighting this battle because of Tanya.” Becca almost teared up when she thought of her young beautiful niece—her sister’s only child. The promising life cut cruelly and senselessly short by a teenage drunk driver.

  Will leaned against the counter, drawing her attention to thighs visibly muscular even in the dress slacks he wore. Distracting her again. At forty-two, Will’s body was still as lean and virile as it had been at twenty-two. And still had the power to make her forget everything but making love with him.

  “Tanya’s death certainly opened your eyes to the need for the type of program you’re proposing,” Will said. “But don’t forget that’s how most great programs get started. Because someone saw the need. And unfortunately that often requires a tragedy.”

  He was right, of course. Will usually was. Which was why she valued his judgment so much.

  Glancing at his watch again, he pushed away from the counter, grabbed his briefcase, then approached the table. “Gotta run, honey. See you tonight.”

  Lifting her mouth for his goodbye kiss, Becca wished she could entice him to stay.

  When they were twenty-two, she would’ve been able to.

  OUT ON THE GOLF COURSE the following Wednesday afternoon, Will was feeling pretty pleased with himself. Mid-March, and the Arizona afternoon was near perfect. Clear, seventy degrees, the desert air so fresh he’d be richer than Bill Gates if he could bottle it.

  The morning’s business had been good, productive beyond his tentative hopes. As an architect, John Strickland was the best. The plans he’d drawn up for Montford University’s new “signature” building were downright impressive. A brick exterior that would blend with the hundred-year-old buildings surrounding it and an interior that made superb use of space and offered a calm atmosphere conducive to learning.

  As a golfer, John Strickland was better than average, but Will, even with a good five years on the other man, could still beat him. Will’s shot was on, his putting accurate. Life was good.

  “We’ve never done a college building before,” Strickland said, aiming up for a difficult putt on the eleventh green.

  Will watched the other man prepare, admiring his slow controlled movements as he stepped up to the ball, pulled back on the club, and then gently tapped the ball at enough of an angle to take the roll.

  “That’s an asset in my book,” Will said, watching it fall in the hole. Maybe his easy win wasn’t going to be quite so easy, after all.

  “You mean the putt?” Strickland asked, rubbing in his expertise with a grin.

  “No—your inexperience,” Will grunted. Strickland’s experience was legendary. The man was one of the leading commercial architects in the country. Will considered himself fortunate to have snagged him for the project that was so important to Montford’s future.

  Lining up for his own putt, one just as challenging as Strickland’s and a little farther from the hole, Will said, “We need a fresh vision if we’re going to stand out above the rest.” He tapped the ball. Felt a thrill of satisfaction as it disappeared into the hole.

  “And why is that so important?” Strickland asked.

  “In today’
s world, university enrollments are market-driven. That’s just a reality—all academic institutions have to face it. If we want to attract the best students, we have to be able to compete with the best schools. And image, unfortunately, still remains more important than it should. All the big schools have their signature buildings. Their library or auditorium that proclaims innovation, success, money.” Will fished his ball out of the hole. “Montford needs to look just as good.”

  “So why not build a new library or auditorium?” Strickland asked, picking up his bag as he followed Will to the twelfth tee.

  “Because we have a beautiful old library that will still be standing long after we’re dust. The auditorium is only ten years old. And we need more classrooms.”

  Strickland nodded, glanced up the comparatively short fairway. “What do you think, a seven iron?”

  “Sure.” Will nodded, then pulled out a five for himself. Let John try to make it with a seven.

  Watching him, John Strickland let his seven iron fall back into his leather golf bag, taking out a five, instead.

  Eighteen holes of golf, a round with one stroke between the winner and the loser, and Dr. Will Parsons figured he might just have found himself a new friend. Which was kind of a rare occurrence in a town the size of Shelter Valley.

  He noticed the wedding band on the other man’s hand as John raised a juicy steakburger to his mouth in the club’s popular grill. “What’s your wife think of you traveling so much?” he asked, curious. John designed buildings all over the country. He’d been places Will hadn’t even heard of.

  Other than vacations with Becca, Will had spent his entire life in Shelter Valley.

  And was happy to have it that way.

  “She’d hate it if she were still alive,” John said. His eyes clouded briefly, then quickly cleared. “She was killed in a car accident three years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.” There was nothing more Will could say.

  But he meant it in the deepest sense. He couldn’t imagine a life without Becca. Turned cold just trying to do so.

  And John was a genuinely decent guy. He deserved to be happy.

  “You have any kids?” Will’s question dropped quietly into the silence that had fallen. Both men were holding their half-eaten burgers. Neither was eating.

  John shook his head. “We were both too busy with our careers,” he said softly, looking out the wall of windows to the golf course beyond. Following his gaze, Will couldn’t help but think that Arizona’s perennially blue skies and bright sunshine suddenly seemed out of place.

  “Meredith was a stockbroker.”

  “Commercial or independent?” Will asked.

  “Independent.” John smiled. “She was damned good, too.”

  Even after such a short acquaintance with John, Will would have figured that much.

  “We were waiting until we were more established before starting a family. Meredith wanted to be a stay-at-home mom, working out of our house, and she needed enough steady clients to be able to do that.” John paused, his gaze returning to the bright green lawns, surrounded by desert. “We waited too long.”

  John’s heartache, his regret, was almost tangible. “Life loses something without kids,” Will said, commiserating with the other man. He still had a hard time accepting that he was going to grow old without ever having known the joys—and trials—of parenthood.

  “You don’t have any children, either?” John asked, glancing over in surprise. “Considering your education background, I figured you had a houseful of them. Seems to be the thing to do here in Shelter Valley.”

  If the reminder wasn’t still a painful one, Will would have smiled at how quickly John had picked up on Shelter Valley culture. Of course, Will had sent him a demographic study of the town when he’d first approached him for a bid on the Montford project. And then there was their breakfast conversation with the expansion committee this morning, which had revealed that three of the four other members came from large families and had gone on to have their own.

  “Becca and I spent twenty years trying. Just never succeeded,” Will admitted. It was something he rarely talked about.

  Something he tried not even to think about any more. At least not any more than he could help.

  IN THE FIVE DAYS since she’d taken the pregnancy test, Becca had managed to get herself firmly in hand. Anxiety attacks were unacceptable. Worrying, while unavoidable in the dark of the night, could be curtailed by keeping shorter nights and longer days. She worked like a madwoman, researching funding alternatives for her Save the Youth program. Spent so many hours at the library she’d missed the pastor-parish-relations committee meeting at church.

  But she didn’t miss her weekly lunch at the Valley Diner with her sisters—Sari, Betty and Janice—and her mother. She might have herself under control, but she still hadn’t wanted to risk their barrage of questions if she missed Wednesday’s lunch. Sari, her younger sister by a year, would worry. Betty, the oldest sister and organized to the point of driving them all insane, would insist on either an explanation that suited her or an overhaul of Becca’s schedule—which would no doubt include more pressure on Becca to quit her volunteer work at the day-care center. Janice, the second-oldest sister, would be avidly curious. Only their mother would have let Becca get away with it. Rose Naylor was so scatterbrained the girls sometimes wondered if she even noticed that the house had been minus Mr. Naylor—who’d died suddenly of a heart attack—for almost ten years.

  Becca could have handled the questions, fielded them without making any of her family suspicious. There was nothing to be suspicious about, she reminded herself frequently, since those home pregnancy tests weren’t as reliable as a doctor’s visit…were they? The sticks lied now and then…didn’t they? Things went awry. For all she knew, she’d stuck the wrong end in the cup.

  But there was no point in raising any questions in their minds, putting herself under the family microscope, having them all on the lookout for any changes in her. She just didn’t need that right now. Not if she wanted to keep panic at bay.

  Lunch had been the usual pleasant couple of hours, she reflected later that afternoon. It was a constant in her life, that once-in-a-week exchange of news and views. Being with her mother, her sisters, joining in the familiar, funny, irritating and completely wonderful conversation, had helped her more than they’d ever know. She’d needed them and, as always, they’d been there for her. They always were. She and her sisters and her mom, no matter how well they knew one another, how irritated they got, how different they were, could always be counted on to offer support.

  Besides, they were all helping her with another project that was very dear to her. A civic project that was long overdue. They were researching the biography of Samuel Montford, the founder not only of Montford University, but of Shelter Valley itself. Some of the basic information about their founder was general knowledge, like the fact that he was originally from Boston, that he came from a wealthy family. That he’d lived with some Southwestern Indian tribes for a time. That he’d founded the town almost a hundred and fifty years before. But there was so much more they didn’t know. Like why he’d left Boston to begin with. Where he’d met his wife. Why he’d chosen Shelter Valley as his home.

  The man had been an enigma, protecting some aspects of his past with a vengeance that nearly equaled the intense love he felt for his family. But as the future descended on Shelter Valley with frightening speed, Becca felt a desperate urge to remind the town’s residents of their roots.

  Before they’d left for an extended stay in Europe, the current Montford heirs—parents to Samuel Montford the fourth—had lifted the family’s ban on the personal details of the first Samuel Montford’s life, allowing Becca to pursue a more thorough knowledge of the man and his town. They even turned over some journals that had been locked in a vault in their private library.

  Shelter Valley meant everything to Becca. Home. Family. Security. Love. Everything that mattered was righ
t there in that town. She was planning to reaffirm Shelter Valley’s sense of itself and its history with a big Fourth of July celebration that would culminate in the unveiling of Samuel Montford’s statue.

  And thinking of the celebration, she had to start tracking down the founder’s namesake, Samuel Montford IV. He’d left town in disgrace almost ten years before, but surely by now everyone would be willing to accept him back. She knew his parents would be overjoyed—might even come home themselves if Sam was here. In any case, the man should be there for the unveiling of his great-grandfather’s statue. If she—

  “You can get dressed now, Mrs. Parsons. I’ll see you in my office in a couple of minutes.”

  Becca was brought back to her present surroundings, ones she’d been trying to avoid, with a jolt. The words were the first the doctor had spoken since she’d asked Becca a battery of questions before the exam. The lunch Becca had shared with her mother and sisters several hours before had settled like a rock in her stomach.

  Well-versed in the techniques of not panicking, Becca remembered to breathe, slowly and deeply. She nodded and slid off the examining table. Early menopause was all it was. She knew that. So why was she feeling so much anxiety where there was no need for it?

  Not for the first time that Wednesday afternoon, she wished her husband was with her.

  He would have been, too, if she’d told him she’d made this appointment with a Tucson gynecologist.

  She’d decided not to go to her own doctor in Phoenix. There hadn’t seemed any point in involving anyone who knew her—or her medical history. Anyone who might not understand that early menopause could be a good thing.

  Changing quickly into the red business suit she’d worn for a meeting at the city offices that morning, Becca shivered. Everyone was saying the weather was unseasonably warm for mid-March, but everyone was wrong. Becca was cold.

  Pulling on her jacket, she freed her hair from the collar, glancing around for a mirror. Tongue depressors, cotton swabs, innumerable scary-looking things, but no mirror.