Becca's Baby

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  He wasn’t sure of her anymore. But how could she blame him when she was having so many doubts herself? This was an answer she knew for certain, however.

  “Of course we are.” She’d determined that when she’d opted not to terminate her pregnancy.

  “We need the ultrasound, though, and all the bloodwork, plus the diabetes test,” Will said.

  “I agree.”

  “Do we want to know the sex of the baby?”

  “I don’t.” Becca had already given that some thought. She wanted to do this the old-fashioned way. To be surprised. “Unless you do?”

  She wasn’t sure of him, either.

  “No, I’m happy to wait,” he said.

  They drove in silence for a while. “Still no calls on the baby furniture?” Will asked about five miles down the road.

  “Nope.” Becca shook her head. “Other than to say it was back-ordered. I haven’t heard from them since.”

  “I’ll give them a call tomorrow.”

  “Thanks.”

  Until they knew when the furniture was coming, Becca was still using her office as an office. No point impinging on Will’s space until she had to.

  Another ten miles whizzed by. Becca could smell Will’s aftershave. It made her look forward to that night, when the lights were out. When they’d said their good-nights and he reached for her across their big silent bed.

  “We should probably look into signing up for those childbirth classes the doctor mentioned,” Will said.

  Becca nodded. “I’ll call tomorrow.”

  THE BABY’S FURNITURE finally arrived, three weeks late, on the last Thursday in June. Becca, just home from the day care when the delivery company had called to say they’d be there within the hour, had phoned the high school for help moving her office furniture out of the nursery. Within fifteen minutes she’d had ten boys from Save the Youth on her doorstep. She ordered pizza for all of them.

  By the time Will got back from the state Higher Education Administration luncheon he’d been attending in Phoenix, the work was done. His home had a nursery.

  “The furniture looks great, just like we envisioned,” he told Becca, standing beside her in the doorway of the room. “But the walls sure look bare, don’t they?”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” she said. “What do you think—wallpaper, paint or just some colorful balloon appliqués? Fabric ones,” she added. “Maybe with sequins.”

  “I’ll bet we could hire some of the kids who’ve been working on The Hero sets to come over and paint.”

  Becca nodded. “And then put up some appliqués?”

  “Sure.” Glancing around, Will shrugged. “Are they something we can just go buy?”

  “Probably.” Becca walked farther into the room.

  “But what I’d really like to do is make them,” she admitted, a little embarrassed. Busy with her civic and charitable duties, she’d never really been the homemaking type. An occasional afghan was all she ever managed.

  Will’s face was relaxed; he seemed pleased by her suggestion. “Will you have the time?” he asked. “I sure don’t want you overextending yourself.”

  Warmed by his concern, Becca smiled. “I have a feeling that by the end of the summer I’m going to have more time to sit and sew than I know what to do with.”

  ALMOST AS IF BY DESIGN, they both turned away from the nursery and moved down the hall, through the formal living room, to Will’s office on the other side of the house. Will left long enough to exchange his suit for some gym shorts and a T-shirt, and with little disagreement, he moved furniture around until they were both satisfied. They each had a personal workspace, enough privacy for phone conversations taking place at the same time, and the room still looked coolly elegant.

  While Becca rearranged her files, Will sat down at his desk, intending to get through the day’s mail. And found himself watching Becca, instead. There were still some things he could predict. The way she kept her pens lined up in a desk drawer, instead of in a holder on top of the desk. Her preference for index cards, rather than notebooks.

  He knew that she preferred baths to showers, that Cheerios was her favorite cereal. That the only chocolate she liked was Hershey’s milk chocolate. None of that fancy stuff for Becca. He knew lots of little things about her.

  He just didn’t know what she wanted out of life.

  “How much thought have you given in, say, the past ten years, to my goals in life?” His words dropped into the silence that had fallen.

  “What?” Becca looked up, perplexed.

  Will repeated the question, his tone not accusatory, just curious.

  “Well,” she said, frowning. “I guess not much.” She looked over at him, her eyes filled with apology.

  “I guess, when I think about it, I’m not really even sure what they are, other than to do well with Montford—and to have a baby, of course.”

  “Things anyone in town could tell you,” he replied, still not with accusation. But with sadness.

  “You’ve given thought to my goals?” Becca asked softly.

  “No.” He shook his head. “And that’s the point.”

  He debated telling her something and decided to do it. “Sari called the other night after you were asleep,” he said.

  “Which night?”

  “The day she found out about the baby.”

  “Oh. You should have woken me.”

  “She called to talk to me, Becca. She told me why you wanted the abortion, about being afraid of loving and losing.”

  Becca stared down at her desk. “I’d rather she hadn’t done that.”

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Being a coward is definitely worthy of shame,” she told him, her voice tinged with disgust.

  “You didn’t do it, honey.”

  Becca made no response. Will had the feeling she wasn’t being easy on herself.

  “What’s happened to us, Bec? I had no idea you were afraid of anything. I’d have said, if anyone could handle this, it was you.”

  “I don’t know what happened.” She shook her head. “Maybe we got lazy.”

  He nodded, picking up a pen only to throw it down again. “The relationship I thought was so close was merely drifting along, existing out of habit?”

  Had the love he’d felt for her all these years been merely a habit, too? Something he was supposed to feel, programmed to feel? An emotion that lacked depth, maybe wasn’t quite real?

  “I thought we were close, too,” she said, her voice low, defeated. “But it was all just going along with the flow, doing what was expected of us, wasn’t it? We didn’t really know each other at all.”

  No! His mind immediately dismissed her words. Yet weren’t they exactly what he’d been wondering himself?

  “So where do we go from here?” he asked.

  Becca pushed away the files she’d been sorting through. “I don’t know,” she said. “I guess we have to figure out why this happened. Do we just not care enough? Or were we too comfortable, taking each other for granted?”

  He nodded, thinking she made good sense. He just wasn’t sure where to find those answers. “Maybe it goes deeper than that,” he offered, thinking out loud. “Maybe we first need to decide, individually, what it is we want out of life.”

  She looked across at him, her features reflecting her pain. “I guess we do.”

  Which left them right back where they’d started. Traveling through a rocky relationship with no clear destination in mind.

  WILL WASN’T BIG on celebrations, especially the day-long-and-into-the-night kind. Maybe if he’d been able to melt into the crowd, to be anonymous, affairs like this wouldn’t be so bad—but he didn’t think so. Crowds and endless hours of making merry exhausted him. They always had.

  But this year, accompanying Becca to Shelter Valley’s Fourth of July festivities, he discovered that the day wasn’t as bad as usual. In the first place, he was taking a long hard look at the town he’d always si
mply accepted and finding many things he liked. And in his spare time, he was too busy keeping an eye on his wife to be bothered by all the people scurrying around him.

  Dressed in deference to her position, she was wearing one of her dark-colored maternity dresses and pumps. He’d done his darnedest to get her to dress more comfortably. Was even wearing shorts and sandals himself to help her out, but she’d have none of it. At least the dress was sleeveless. And the pumps were low-heeled.

  Watching her with her constituents, smiling, finding something nice to say to everyone—and knowing that she meant everything she said—made him proud of her. Her presence seemed to be magic as she smoothed away worried frowns, solved problems at booths that weren’t set up according to plan, found ice when a delivery wasn’t made, designed a makeshift table skirt out of a table runner when one went missing, filled in when a worker didn’t show up. Witnessing it all, running errands for her, filling in at the balloon booth when the helium tank was delivered late, he found it hard to recognize this woman as the one he’d discussed with Sari a couple of weeks before. The woman who considered herself a coward.

  The woman who was afraid to love in case she lost.

  This Becca, the one who could handle anything and make it look easy, was the woman he’d always known. The one he’d always thought he loved.

  “You okay?” he asked her when he’d finished with the balloons and sought her out.

  She was manning the Shelter Valley Information booth while the mayor’s secretary ran to the portable bathrooms set up on the outer edge of the town square. “I’m fine,” she said, smiling at him.

  She looked happy. And tired.

  “Don’t overdo things, Bec,” he warned. Not just for the baby’s sake. Or even just for her physical health. But for her peace of mind, as well. He knew now how much she feared losing this baby. He was going to do everything in his power to see that didn’t happen.

  “I won’t.”

  “Yes, you will.” He stood his ground. “You’ve been running nonstop since six o’clock this morning, and it’s 110 degrees out here.”

  “I’ve been in the trailer a lot,” she told him. The town had an air-conditioned mobile office and firstaid center stationed in the middle of the carnival. “They’ve got Krispy Kremes in there.” The glazed doughnuts were made in Phoenix and were becoming world-renowned for their sinful sweetness.

  “Your face is flushed.”

  “Quit nagging.”

  He leaned his hands on the table, shoving his face directly in front of hers. “I’ll make a deal with you.” She smelled damn good—inciting a brief flash of her moving silently on top of him the night before.

  “What deal?”

  “I’ll quit nagging if you’ll agree to go home for at least an hour this afternoon and have a nap.”

  She frowned, stacking brochures that were already in neat rows. “I have to be here for the unveiling of Samuel,” she said.

  The statue, still in its crate, was holding the place of honor in the middle of the town square.

  Another council member waved as he passed the booth. Becca waved back.

  “That’s not until four o’clock,” Will said. “I promise to have you back by then.” And before she could protest further, he added, “Don’t worry about the play. Martha’s got everything under control, and it doesn’t start until seven, anyway, so if there’s a last-minute problem, you’ll be back in plenty of time to fix it.”

  Becca’s face wore a saucy grin when she looked up at him. “Did you know John Strickland’s in town for the holiday?”

  “No.” But he was damn glad to hear it.

  “He’s helping Martha move the sets.”

  Rose walked by, a foot-and-a-half-tall Follies hat on her head, the perfect complement to the red silk flapper dress she was wearing. She was busy talking to the ladies on either side of her and didn’t even notice Becca and Will.

  “She’s looking good.” Will smiled.

  “With two babies on the way, she’s happier than she’s been in years,” Becca agreed, smiling, too.

  But Will wasn’t going to be sidetracked. “Is it a deal?”

  “You’ll come with me?” Becca asked.

  “Yes.”

  Will was kind of pleased that it mattered. He’d intended to stay with her, anyway, to make sure she did indeed get some sleep. He had reading he could catch up on while she rested.

  “Okay.”

  RELAXED AND GLOWING from the success of Samuel’s unveiling, in spite of the absence of all three of the living Montfords, Becca looked beautiful to Will as she slid into her seat beside him just before the curtain rose on The Hero. Wearing a sleeveless denim jumper and tennis shoes, she could have passed for one of the students about to perform. Except for the belly.

  That made her Will’s.

  “They’re ready to go backstage,” she whispered. “Martha’s running around like crazy, but the props are in position and all the kids know their lines. They’re really excited.”

  They weren’t the only ones. She could barely sit still.

  Glancing down at her, Will placed her hand on his thigh. He could feel her warmth through the thin cotton of his shorts. She’d redone her hair, too, drawn it back on both sides with small silver combs.

  This entire production rested on her shoulders. If it was a bomb, not only would she face tonight’s disappointment, it wouldn’t bode well for her Save the Youth program, either. Yet she didn’t seem fazed by that.

  There was no tenseness around her mouth. No strain in her eyes, worry lines around her brows. She was just plain excited.

  Which was exactly what he would have expected of her. If the play was a bomb, Becca would find a way for the bomb to explode with dollar bills.

  And yet—despite her strength, her resourcefulness—she was terrified to have a baby. Terrified to the point of almost robbing herself of something she needed more than anything else in life. Becca the powerful, Becca the weak; he could hardly believe the two women were one.

  “I wish we could’ve gotten hold of Sam Montford IV,” she whispered to Will. “Dammit, he should’ve been here.”

  “When’s he ever done what he should?” Will whispered back. The man had been unfaithful to his young wife, then abandoned her to face the tragedy he’d left behind. Why, after almost ten years, did Becca think they needed him here? He’d not only betrayed his wife, he’d deserted Shelter Valley. Although he hadn’t told Becca, Will had been rather glad she hadn’t been able to track the man down.

  AS THE CURTAIN ROSE on the portable stage they’d built beside Samuel’s statue, Will put his arm around Becca and pulled her close.

  Thanks to the outdoor misting system the town had had set up around the temporary seating, Becca could snuggle into Will’s side without getting too hot. Or making him too hot, either. Sari and Bob were sitting on her other side, and they were doing the same thing, with Bob’s arm around Sari, her head on his shoulder.

  Becca envied them their happiness.

  She’d seen Randi in the audience as she hurried in. Will’s younger sister was sitting with a group of her friends from the college. Janice and Betty were there, too, with their husbands and kids. And Rose and her friends. They all waved at her, giving her a thumbs-up for luck.

  Becca and Sari both cried when Samuel’s Clara and baby boy were murdered.

  “I’m sure glad we don’t live in a time that would condone such behavior,” Will leaned over to whisper. And in spite of the sad story, Becca felt a little smile inside as he confirmed what she would automatically have assumed six months ago—that her husband was compassionate. Not just judgmental.

  Becca tensed as Samuel began his dangerous trek across the plains.

  Will rubbed her shoulder. “You okay?” he whispered for at least the tenth time that day.

  “Fine,” she whispered back. And for that moment, her answer was true. She was completely absorbed in the play, its characters as real to her as people she knew.<
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  Even Will was sitting rigidly when gold fever hit Shelter Valley, bringing violence and greed into Samuel’s little town. And then in the late 1880s another tragedy struck. The second-born child of Samuel and Lizzie—a daughter, Elizabeth—disappeared. At fourteen, she’d been spending a lot of that summer off wandering on her own, according to her mother’s diary. And one day she just didn’t come home. Samuel spent the rest of his life searching for his beloved little girl, but she’d vanished without a trace.

  The town—even Lizzie—eventually accepted the fact that she’d had some kind of accident and eventually been consumed by unforgiving desert life.

  “What do you think it could have been?” the teenager up on stage whispered, conveying the stark terror and grief Lizzie must have felt back then.

  The old sheriff shrugged sorrowfully. “A mountain lion perhaps, coming down for water,” he told the girl’s distraught mother.

  Lizzie nodded in resignation, and Becca could hardly stand to watch.

  “Or maybe a javelina,” the sheriff said.

  Thinking of the 450-pound wild pigs that roamed the desert—even now—Becca shivered, tears streaming down her face. Will squeezed her hand with his free one, pulling her more snugly into his side.

  “Want to go?” he whispered.

  Yes. But she couldn’t. Becca shook her head.

  Samuel Montford went to his grave believing that his little Elizabeth was still alive.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  WITH THE FOURTH OF JULY behind them and her Save the Youth program such a rousing success, Becca had more time on her hands. Time to worry. To think. To rest.

  John Strickland was in town for most of July, and when Will wasn’t occupied with other university responsibilities, John kept him busy with plans and meetings—and on the golf course, as well.

  “I’m going to shoot six under par by the end of the summer if it’s the last thing I do,” Will said one morning on his way out for a round of golf with John.

  Becca waved him off from her half-reclining position on the leather sofa in their peaceful, window-enclosed family room. Sewing sequins to a silky appliqué, she pondered Will’s parting remark. She’d had no idea he felt such passion for his performance on the golf course. She’d known he enjoyed the game, of course. How could she not, considering the number of times a year he played? She’d just never realized his actual score was important to him. Or what under par meant, for that matter.