The Baby Gamble

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  Annie repeated the conversation she’d had with her young neighbor at school earlier that day.

  “She’s seen Shane over here often enough with me,” Becky said. The women frequently had Sunday dinner together.

  Becky, who was the daughter of River Bluff’s sheriff, had been raised by her father’s exceedingly strict mother, and she was sometimes as eager as Annie to escape family get-togethers.

  “Guess that’s why she’d assume you’d know,” Becky was saying now, but she was frowning, and she seemed to be thinking about far more than that.

  “Could also be that we live in the same town we grew up in and everyone knows we’re best friends,” Annie teased, wiping crumbs off the counter. “So what’s up? Why would a popular girl like Katie be looking for a guy three years younger than she is?”

  “I have no idea, but I intend to find out.”

  “If it’s a romantic thing, I doubt your son is going to open up to his mother about it,” Annie observed.

  “Of course it isn’t romantic.” Becky’s voice became more adamant with every word. “He’s barely fifteen years old,” she added, as if that explained it all. “Girls like Katie Hollister go for football captains and college guys, not younger boys.”

  Unless the boy in question had great muscles and a gorgeous face like Shane Howard’s? Annie sure hoped not. The last thing Becky needed right now was problems with her son. And the last thing Shane needed was to be led off track by hormones and a slightly wild older woman. He was a good kid, with decent grades and a plan for his future.

  ANNIE FOLLOWED BECKY back out to the car to retrieve her bike.

  “You call me the second you hear from Blake,” her friend demanded, closing the back of the Tahoe.“I’m not going to hear from him.”

  Becky’s expression was firm as she stood there, shoulders back. “You might, Annie. You need to be prepared for that.”

  No, she didn’t. But she’d be fine, either way.

  “Have you thought about what you’ll do if he says yes?”

  “He’s not going to say yes.”

  Becky’s keys dangled from her fingers as she put her hands on her hips. “I hope you’re right.”

  Annie knew what Becky was trying to do here. She wanted Annie’s eyes wide open so she wouldn’t be blindsided—and get hurt. “Remember last New Year’s Eve?” she asked.

  Shane had been at a party hosted by the town council for all the local teens. They’d been locked in at the high school. And Becky and Annie had spent the night in Annie’s newly empty house, grilling steaks, drinking wine and thinking positively about the life ahead of them.

  “Yeah,” Becky said slowly.

  “We said we were going to keep our thoughts on the things we want. And that we weren’t going to worry about things that haven’t happened—most particularly, when they probably won’t happen.”

  “We were talking about getting cancer or being hurt or…”

  “Blake saying yes to fathering my child.”

  “Oh, honey, bless your heart,” Becky said, as she saw the tears in her eyes.

  “He did that once, you know.” Annie’s voice was little more than a whisper.

  And then he’d left the country on business, even though Annie had begged him not to go, and she’d miscarried, and he hadn’t come back….

  CHAPTER THREE

  “THANKS FOR SEEING ME, Mr. Smith. I brought a copy of my résumé for you.” The twenty something, smartly dressed young man seemed to have enough energy for the two of them Friday morning. A damn good thing, as Blake had slept little in the two nights since his ex-wife’s invasion of his life.

  “I’m sorry if Marta gave you the impression I’m hiring,” he said now, taking the linen-covered portfolio he’d just been handed. “I’m a one-man show in here and my secretary’s got all of the administrative duties covered.”“She did relay that information,” Colin Warner said, his slightly spiky hair bringing an inward grin to Blake’s rather bleak state of mind. He tried to picture any of the Wild Bunch showing up at the poker table with similar hair—or any kind of styling, for that matter. “I’d still like to speak with you, if I may.”

  Better that, Blake told himself, than think about friendships and impossible requests from determined women.

  “Marta said you have a proposition for me.”

  “I do—an investment.”

  Eyes narrowed, Blake shifted in his chair. “Go on.”

  “Just not your usual sort.”

  “How do you know my usual sort?” If he had one, he didn’t know about it.

  “Everyone has his or her own unique signature, a personal collection of habitual actions, with which he leaves an individual mark on the space he occupies.”

  In theory, Blake agreed.

  “You, for example, tend to buy based on three things—global use, word of mouth and thorough financial analysis. You’ve been in business for two years, you’ve dealt mainly in real estate and insurance, though there’s the half interest in Cowboy Bob’s….”

  A steak franchise that one of his uncle’s former clients had brought his way.

  “Land, peace of mind and food—things everyone needs. You buy only when you’re approached, and you’ve made a profit on every single transaction to date.”

  Did this kid know Blake was set to clear close to a quarter of a million this year, too?

  Did he know what kind of toilet paper Blake used?

  Because he prided himself on giving everyone a shot—and was in need of a diversion—Blake continued to listen.

  “What I have to offer you fits only one of those three models.”

  “What do you have to sell?” Blake asked, wishing he’d taken a moment to look over Warner’s résumé. The kid was entertaining, if nothing else.

  “Me.”

  “You.” He’d just said he wasn’t hiring. The income he’d earned this past year could just as easily be cut in half if he made a bad choice. But Blake could take that risk when he had only himself to consider.

  And Marta. While most of Smith Investment’s profit went back into the business, Blake could afford one decent salary.

  One. Not two.

  “I’ve got a bachelor of business administration in finance from Texas A & M, with a specialization in investment analysis and valuation.”

  Blake wasn’t surprised.

  “In two years you’ve more than doubled your initial investment, Mr. Smith,” the younger man said, leaning forward, almost as if his eagerness might launch him across Blake’s desk. “You’re ripe for growth. Yet you wait for people to come to you with opportunities.”

  Blake didn’t like the way that sounded. He chose to do business as he did for two reasons, he reminded himself. First, because he was still, after four years locked up in a hole, rediscovering his financial legs. A lot had happened with the Internet, and with the economy, in the time he’d been gone. And second, with his and his uncle’s old business contacts, there were enough opportunities to keep him busy.

  “I have no money to invest, but I have the skills and interest required to seek out potential buys—to do all the tedious research needed to put you in the driver’s seat on any deal you choose to pursue,” Colin continued, apparently undeterred by Blake’s silence.

  Which kind of impressed Blake. Or maybe he was just grateful to the kid for interrupting his life. A life that had suited him fine until he’d gone to play Texas Hold’em the other night.

  “I can’t afford another salary yet.” He figured Colin already knew that—it wasn’t hard to figure out if he’d followed Blake’s investments and knew the profit margin on them. “I started with a chunk of money I inherited, and I’ve done well enough, but I’ve not been at this long enough to be certain that my good luck will continue.”

  “Your decisions rest on more than luck, Mr. Smith. That much is obvious.” Colin’s sincerity was beginning to verge on hero worship.

  And Blake, in his current state, wasn’t entirely immune
to that.

  “Luck only works a percentage of the time,” Colin added. “What I’m proposing is this. You take me on as part of the company, providing the usual benefits, which you can get at a decent cost because you own part of a growing insurance company. And I’ll work strictly on a commission basis. Any deal I find for us that you close, I get five percent of the profit.”

  Intent now, Blake studied the young man. “How do you live, in the meantime?”

  “I’ve got about a year’s worth of living expenses saved. If I don’t do something for us in a year’s time, I’m not as good at this as I think I am, and I need to move on.”

  “Do you smoke?”

  “No.”

  “Have any preexisting conditions I need to be aware of?”

  “No.”

  It was just going to cost him the insurance premium on a healthy, fit, low-risk male.

  “You’d also have to be willing to handle any day-to-day follow-up and phone calls for me, if I need to be out of the office for any reason.”

  Blake hadn’t had a vacation since his return home. And certainly not in the four years before that.

  “Does this mean you’re investing in me, sir?”

  “You a Cowboys fan?”

  “Isn’t everyone?”

  “Ever heard of Brady Carrick?”

  “The wide receiver who busted his knee, had to retire and ended up losing a fortune in Vegas?”

  “That’s the one. He’s recently moved back to the area and is looking for a horse.”

  “You know him?”

  “He’s a friend.”

  “And you want me to find him a horse?”

  “Brady’s family owns the Cross Fox Ranch in River Bluff. You may have heard of it.”

  “Can’t hardly be from around here and not hear of them, can you? At least not if you watch the news. They train serious money-making, winning-circle horses. I saw a shoot of the Cross Fox once when I was doing a livestock research analysis for class. They’ve got this thirty-six-stall stable that looked more elegant than the place I was living.” The young man’s enthusiasm just didn’t quit. “They ship to racetracks all over the South and Southwest. You want me to find that kind of horse for Brady Carrick?”

  “If you think you can.”

  “So this means I’m hired?”

  Blake smiled for the first time that morning. “I guess it does.” It might be good to have a permanent diversion around the place, someone to discuss sports with, and to share the obligation of listening to Marta go on about bridge or food or shopping.

  “Thanks, Mr. Smith. You won’t be sorry.”

  Maybe not about the acquisition of Colin Warner. But Blake had a feeling he was going to regret, for the rest of his life, the next deal he was planning to close.

  “HELLO?” Annie had turned from her laptop but had made herself wait three rings while she cursed herself into steadiness.

  “Annie?”Deflated, she plopped back into the beanbag chair that doubled as couch and all other seating possibilities in her living room. “Hi, Mom.”

  “I read your column yesterday and really liked it,” June Lawry said. “You make good points about honesty and self-awareness.”

  In spite of all the years in which their ability to communicate had been limited, Annie smiled in response to her mother’s praise.

  “I’m glad you liked it.”

  And did you perhaps gain from it?

  A few years ago, she wouldn’t have had the audacity to hope that her mother might someday be strong enough to take control of her own life.

  But today Annie saw the world differently.

  “I like all of your columns, honey,” her mother said softly, leaving the sentence hanging at the end, as though she could have added more.

  Annie let the moment pass, as well. The fewer expectations she had, where her mother was concerned, the fewer disappointments—and the fewer reasons to be upset or feel hurt.

  June Lawry was a kind woman with a good heart, and she did her best with what she had. It wasn’t her fault that her best had often left Annie’s needs unfulfilled.

  “Even the agricultural analyses?” Annie teased her now.

  “I read them.”

  “You never told me that.”

  “You never asked.”

  Her mother’s reply took her right back to those expectations again. Were there other things she’d missed, where June was concerned, simply because she’d failed to look?

  A flashback to her fourteenth birthday, home alone caring for a sick twelve-year-old brother while her mother attended a Bible study and social at church, quickly confused Annie’s thought process.

  “The community church’s annual holiday bazaar and toy drive is coming up at the end of next month,” her mother was saying, and Annie only half listened, picking up her laptop from the floor beside her. Mention of the church that had taken so much of her mother’s focus at a time when Annie—and Cole—had really needed a mom, still put her on edge, even after all these years.

  “I have a job that you’d be perfect for, honey, and I was hoping you’d…” June’s voice trailed off.

  “Sure, Mom.” Annie took up the slack—out of habit, and because she couldn’t not. Just as she hadn’t been able to turn her back on the responsibilities that should have been her mother’s all those years ago. After Tim Lawry’s suicide, the entire family had fallen apart. Unable to handle her personal devastation alone, June Lawry had turned to the church. Which had brought a semblance of peace—but also dependence—to her broken and fearful heart.

  In many ways, Annie had, at thirteen, become both mother and father. Despite her own grieving and fearful heart.

  But that was long ago. And she’d moved on—they all had.

  “What do you need me to do?” she asked now, scrolling through a growing list of potential sperm donors, assembled from responses to the letters she’d sent out.

  “I was wondering if you could write a series of human interest articles. We’d have to figure what they’d be about, but the general idea is to raise interest in the bazaar.” June’s voice gained strength as she continued to outline her idea, and Annie wondered again if there were things she was missing about her mother—changes, perhaps growth she’d been too blind to notice because of her old assumptions.

  The idea made her hopeful—and uncomfortable, as well.

  BLAKE FOUND HE HAD several things to take care of after Colin Warner’s departure on Friday. They just kept popping up, demanding his attention. An e-mail in-box to clean out. A list of to-do items for Marta.

  There were stocks to check. A callback to make. And some figures to analyze for Monday’s meeting with the potential seller of an apartment complex he was interested in buying and renovating into luxury condominiums. Developers had been making a mint on the practice for years in California.He’d had Marta collect contractor bids, most of which had come in within the budget he’d projected.

  “It’s five o’clock, Blake. Mind if I take off? Bob and I have a dinner engagement tonight.”

  Glancing up at the sharply dressed mother of three teenaged girls, Blake thanked her for her day’s work, wished her a good weekend and helped himself to a weak glass of Scotch and water.

  Enough to take the edge off, but not enough to tempt him to spend the rest of the evening in a state of forgetfulness—as he’d done a time or two after he’d first opened shop again, two years before.

  And then there was no further excuse for procrastinating. The workday was done.

  Grabbing his cell phone, Blake hit the last number on his speed dial. For the first time ever.

  He switched ears when he heard her answer. But didn’t consider hanging up.

  “I’d like to stop by, if that’s okay,” he said shortly.

  His request was met with silence. But then she replied, “Stop by River Bluff, thirty miles outside San Antonio—on your way where?”

  “Are you going to be home tonight?”

 
“Yes.”

  “Do you have plans?”

  There was another pause. “I was going to cut wallpaper.” And then, as if she was worried he’d feel sorry for her, alone on a Friday night, she added, “Becky’s at the game. Shane’s playing.” And high-school football was a constant in River Bluff, whether you had a kid in school or not.

  “May I come over?” If anyone had told him three, four, even five years ago that he’d be asking that question of Annie, he’d have known they were crazy.

  These days he wondered if he was.

  “I guess.”

  “Give me an hour.”

  Blake rang off before she could ask him questions he wasn’t prepared to answer over the phone. Or worse, before she could change her mind. He had to get this done. He couldn’t take another day like today.

  SHE TRIED TO EAT DINNER but the food stuck in her throat, so she put it outside for the stray cat, instead. The darn thing didn’t seem to realize that cats were supposed to be finicky eaters. Scrambled eggs were just fine with her.

  But entering a house wasn’t. As many times as Annie had tried over the past year to coax the bedraggled thing inside, it continued to refuse her invitations.She heard Blake’s car door and reached for the cat, wishing for something warm to hold. But it darted across the yard and into the Friday evening darkness.

  Annie went back inside, locking the kitchen door behind her. Grabbing the glass of wine she’d poured, she slipped on her sandals, pulled down her T-shirt over the low-cut waistband of her jeans, and went to open the front door, flipping on the porch light.

  She needed to be on the offensive, but she could handle this. Blake felt honor bound to explain, in person, why he couldn’t father her child. She understood.

  He was a respectful kind of guy. And this entire strange episode between them was mostly about his relationship with Cole. It had nothing to do with her.

  “Hi,” she said through the screen door, fumbling with the lock. If he talked fast, he could be done and gone before she even got it open.