A Crazy Kind of Love

by Maureen Child

  That was so sweet of him, to think her belly looked like stars. Weird. But very sweet. Who would have guessed when she’d stumbled across him almost three months ago that she’d love him? That she’d have his baby inside her?

  Who would have guessed that things could get so weird so fast?

  Shaking her head, she stepped into the alley, saw Jo’s truck and the ladder propped along the back wall of the shop.

  Something gross was in the nearby trash bin and Mike’s stomach did a quick flip and wild slide. Oh, this was gonna be a thrill ride. Nine months of this and she’d be insane or something.

  Nine months.

  Ohmigod.

  Pregnant.

  Cradling the coffee tray in one hand, she used the other to grab hold of the ladder as she started to climb.

  Jo’s and Sam’s voices, arguing, naturally, drifted down to greet her and Mike smiled.

  The lattes smelled great and the higher she climbed away from that trash bin, the better she felt.

  Hmm. Latte. Should she drink it? Was it okay for a baby?

  “Hey, it’s my baby, right?” she muttered. “And it’s probably expecting its usual jolt of caffeine.”

  Her baby.

  Oh God.

  She poked her head over the edge of the roof and the first sister she spotted was Jo. “Hey, give me a hand, here,” Mike called.

  Jo whipped her head around, narrowed her eyes and snapped, “Where the hell have you been?”

  “For God’s sake, Jo,” Sam yelled from higher up on the roof, “I told you like twelve times Mike went to the doctor. She’s been sick.”

  “Still am,” Mike said as she handed off the tray to Jo and climbed the rest of the way onto the roof.

  From the peak of the building, you could see up and down Main Street. Cars clogged the narrow road, and the sidewalks were thick with tourists. The Autumn Festival was in full gear and the town’s cash registers were ringing like an orchestra.

  Out on the meadow at the edge of town, local craftsmen and artisans set up booths to showcase the jewelry, paintings, and carvings they’d made during the rest of the year. Tour buses filled with people looking for autumn beauty ended up going home with gift bags piled high with earrings, birdhouses, handblown glass vases, and God knew what else.

  It was a yearly tradition around here, and Mike smiled at the thought of teaching her own kid about Chandler. Taking her—okay, or him—to the summer carnival, watching the street carolers during Christmas week, and oh God.

  There were so many things she wanted to teach her. Him.

  Whoever.

  “You don’t look sick,” Jo said flatly as she gave her a quick once-over. “You look . . . spooky.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Thanks for the coffee.” Sam inched along the shingled roof on her butt and got close enough to snatch one of the lattes out of the tray. “What’d the doctor say?”

  “Yeah, Shelley said you’re okay to work, right?” Jo asked, waving one hand at the only partially finished roof. “Because they say there’s another storm due in day after tomorrow and I want to get as much of this done as we can before then—”

  Mike took a breath and blurted, “I’m pregnant.”

  Stunned silence pretty much described the situation.

  Mike’s nervous gaze snapped from Sam to Jo and back again. She gulped at her latte and winced as the hot liquid singed her throat.

  “You’re—” Sam started.

  “Pregnant.” Jo finished.

  “Yep.”

  “You’re sure?”

  She looked at Jo. “Way sure.”

  “How?”

  She looked at Sam and lifted an eyebrow. “Did you see a star over the house?”

  “Right.”

  “Lucas?” Jo asked.

  “Of course Lucas,” Mike said. “What am I, the Happy Ho?”

  “How do you feel?” Sam stared at her.

  “Amazing.” She shrugged. “Scared. Happy. A little pukey.”

  Jo gaped at her, amazement clear on her face. “I thought they said you couldn’t—”

  “Shelley said that it was possible. It was just a four percent chance of happening—”

  “Man, you beat some serious odds.”

  “Yeah.” Mike took another drink. “I can’t believe this.”

  “What’d Lucas say?” Sam asked.

  “Haven’t told him yet,” Mike admitted and looked down at the white plastic lid of her latte.

  “Why the hell not?” Jo took a gulp herself. “You’re going to, right?”

  “Yeah. I am. I’m just . . .”

  “Nervous?”

  “Good word. Another word is—Never mind. ‘Nervous’ works.”

  “What’re you waiting for?”

  She looked at Jo. “He’s not gonna believe me. I told him I couldn’t get pregnant.”

  “Why wouldn’t he believe you?” Sam demanded.

  Mike blinked at her. “Hello? Paying attention? Pregnant here.”

  “Yeah, but you don’t lie.”

  Mike smiled at Jo. “Thanks. I know that. You know that. But how does he know that?”

  “We can go with you. Like character witnesses,” Sam offered.

  Mike laughed shortly. “Thanks, but I don’t really want my sisters there while I break it to Lucas that he’s about to enter the Daddy Zone.”

  A wind straight off the ocean blew at the three of them, lifting their hair, twining around them, as if trying to bind them even closer together.

  “Whoa, what’s Papa gonna say?” Sam wondered suddenly.

  “Oh man . . .” Mike hadn’t even thought about breaking this to her father. Unmarried and pregnant is not most fathers’ dream for their little girls. Although, she might have timing on her side. How much could he say when they’d all just discovered the existence of Jack?

  “Don’t worry about Papa,” Jo said, not surprisingly, “what do you want to do?”

  Mike held her latte in one hand and braced her other, palm flat, against her belly. “I want to have a baby. You guys,” she said on a soft breath of wonder, “I never thought this would happen to me. I mean, I was okay with being the really cool aunt, but deep down, it hurt. Knowing I could never have what most women take for granted.”

  “Oh, Mike . . .”

  “Don’t cry,” Jo told Sam gruffly, “your vision’ll blur and you’ll fall off the roof and then what’ll I do for help?”

  “You’re so sentimental,” Mike said wryly.

  “I’m plenty sentimental.” Jo smiled and held out her right hand. “I’m Italian. We’re all about sentimental. And the shouting.”

  “Goes without saying,” Sam said with a sniff and a smile as she laid her right hand on top of Jo’s.

  “I’m gonna be a mom,” Mike said and dropped her own right hand on top of her sisters’.

  Jo grinned. “God help us all.”

  19

  Lucas felt like he’d been dragged behind a Porsche for a couple of miles, then run over just for fun.

  He was tired, pissed off, and on edge. Watching his brother die was eating away at him and he couldn’t find a cure. He should have told Justin about the baby. Should have given the man at least that. But since he’d promised Bree, he couldn’t.

  Damn it, Justin deserved to know.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, he headed for his office. With Bree and Justin sitting out on the back deck, Lucas figured he could take an hour or two. Lose himself in some dry clinical research. Research on nanotechnology. The thing he knew would one day save patients just like Justin.

  Only it wouldn’t be in time to save his brother.

  Watery winter sunlight slid through the tall, narrow window at the end of the hall, lying across the dark red tiles, making them shine. Lucas hardly noticed. As he stalked along the hallway, frustration kept pace with him.

  It chewed on him, reminding him that he hadn’t been smart enough, or fast enough, to make the technology of the future availa
ble today. If he was so damn smart, why hadn’t he worked harder? Faster? Why couldn’t he do something? Why did he feel so damn helpless?

  “Lucas?”

  He stopped fast, his running shoes squeaking on the tiles. Looking through the open door to his bedroom, he spotted Mike, watching him. God. Everything in him relaxed. When had she become the barometer of his emotions? How had she gotten so completely under his skin that one look into her pale blue eyes could ease tension or fire desire?

  Office forgotten, he stepped into the room and frowned as she backed up a step. Although she was silhouetted by the afternoon sunlight streaming in through his bedroom window—she’d been right about that “solar flare” thing, too—he could still see that her features were taut, her eyes wary.

  Instantly, he went on alert. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she said, and her tone convinced him she was lying.

  “When did you get home?” Home. Jesus. When had he started thinking that his house was home to Mike? About the time the rest of his world fell apart?

  “Just got here a few minutes ago,” she said and took another step back, around the end of the bed.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I—we—have to talk.”

  “Ominous.”

  “No, it’s good.” She grinned quickly, briefly, then waved both hands as if she didn’t know quite what to do with them. “At least,” she continued, “I think it’s good. Great, really. Although you might not think so, and by the way, I’d totally understand if you don’t, but the not knowing is why I’m a little shook here. Well, that and the pukey thing is back—”

  “You’re still sick?” he asked, concern ripping through him at light speed. Nausea might be nothing. But it could also be the forerunner of a lot of somethings, too. And with Justin . . . “What’d the doctor say?”

  “Well, that’s why I’m here.”

  She’d come directly from work, as always. Her jeans were faded and torn at the knee. Her boots were dry and cracked and the letters of MARCONI CONSTRUCTION were peeling away from her dark blue T-shirt. Her blond hair was in its familiar braid, but her face was pale and her sky blue eyes looked . . . worried.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I went by Papa’s house before I came,” she said, and waved one hand at the bed. “Wanted to get my medical records to show you.”

  Only then did he notice the stack of manila envelopes, loose papers, and a small, three-ring binder. Confusion had him shifting his gaze to her. “Why do I need to see your records?” Something cold fisted around his heart. “Is there something seriously wrong with you?”

  “No, not at all. Not wrong. Really, really right.”

  “I’m confused.” He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and waited.

  “Yeah, I’m getting that.” She grinned again, then wiped the smile away with one hand. “Okay, the best way to do this is to just do it. Like pulling off a Band-Aid, right? Fast.”

  He took a step closer to her but she held up a hand to keep him at bay.

  “Lucas, I’m pregnant.”

  Blood roared in his ears. His mouth went dry and he tried hard to swallow. Something a lot like panic coiled in the pit of his stomach, but Lucas ignored it. For the moment.

  “Pregnant?”

  “Yeah.” She grinned again, then folded her arms in front of her. “Shelley says I’m just barely pregnant, but little whozit’s in there all right.”

  “Shelley.”

  “Baker. My doctor.”

  “Right.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” he said and scrubbed both palms over his face. He’d just been hit in the head with a metaphorical two-by-four, but yeah. He was great. Shooting her a quick look, he said, “But you said you couldn’t get pregnant. Because of the accident you told me about.”

  “I know, I know.” She shook her head wildly enough to send her braid flapping back and forth. “Hey, I was as surprised as you look, believe me.”

  He found that hard to believe.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said slowly, keeping her gaze fixed on him.

  “Oh, I doubt that.” Hell, even he didn’t know what he was thinking.

  “I brought all my medical stuff over so you could see that I didn’t lie to you before. There really was almost zero chance of me getting pregnant.”

  “And yet . . .”

  “Yeah.” A short laugh shot from her throat and she dropped her arms to her middle and gave herself a hug. “Guess your little guys are like commandos or something,” she said, dropping her hands to her sides, then shoving them into the front pockets of her jeans. “The little buggers just stormed through and set up camp.”

  “My little guys.” This was the most bizarre conversation he’d ever had.

  “I didn’t lie to you, Lucas,” she said and pulled her hands out of her pockets before folding them at her waist. “If you’ll just look at the records . . .”

  “Don’t have to,” he said, still trying to think. Trying to figure out what the hell to say—to do. “I believe you.”

  “You believe me.”

  “Yeah.” He looked at her and shrugged.

  “Just like that?”

  “You are many things, Michaela Marconi—but you’re not a liar.”

  “Thanks.” She blew out a breath and gave him a staggeringly wide smile. “It means a lot that you trust me on this.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “God, I’m glad to hear you say that,” she said. “I was so worried you’d be all pissed off and crabby.”

  She bent over the bed and gathered up all the files, shoving loose papers into folders, stacking envelopes. “It’s like a miracle or something, Lucas.”

  “Yeah,” he murmured. “So I guess there really is something in the water.”

  She straightened up, and looked at him cautiously. “I know this is really new for you. I mean, I only found out an hour or so ago and I’m a little shaky with it myself, but I’m really excited, Lucas. Really. I’m gonna have a baby.”

  “Yeah.” He walked to the edge of the bed and sat down. Looking up at her, Lucas could almost see exhilaration rippling off her like waves crashing against the shore. She practically glowed.

  A baby.

  He was going to be a father.

  “I don’t know what to say to you,” he said.

  She laughed shortly, and if it sounded a little strained, Lucas figured she had reason. “Look, you don’t have to say anything. You don’t have to do anything.”

  “What?” Her words pinged around inside him like steel balls ricocheting around the inside of an empty can.

  “I’m telling you because you have a right to know—” she said. “Not because I expect anything from you.” She pulled in a breath and kept going before he could say anything.

  “I’m going to have this baby, Lucas.” She covered her belly with one hand as if she could protect it from hearing anything it shouldn’t. “Because for me, this is a one-in-a-million chance. This baby is alive inside me and she’s—he’s—it’s going to stay that way.”

  Slowly, Lucas stood up and looked down at her. “Did I say anything at all about you getting rid of my child?”

  “No,” she acknowledged, “but just in case you were thinking it, you can forget about it.”

  For the first time, a flicker of anger sputtered to life inside him. Not surprising, really, since so much of his time around Mike was spent being mad. “And what have you decided is my part in all this?”

  “No need to get pissy now,” she said, planting both hands on her hips and staring up at him through narrowed eyes. “I’m trying to be nice here.”

  “Doing a helluva job.”

  “Well, it’s not easy being nice to a dumb ass.”

  “Most of the scientific community considers me a genius,” he pointed out. “And the mother of my child calls me a dumb ass.”

  She sucked in air and then paused, holding it in and
tapping the toe of one boot heavily against the floor. He was willing to bet she was counting to ten.

  “Fine, you’re not a dumb ass. But the point is, I’m the one who’s pregnant and I’m the one who’s going to call the shots. Starting with—” She walked to the other side of the bed, picked up her packed duffel bag and swung it around to drop onto the mattress.

  “What’re you doing?” He had a bad feeling about this.

  “I’m moving out of your house,” she said, as she stuffed her medical records into the open bag and then zipped it closed.

  “What?” He grabbed her arm and turned her around to face him. “Why? Why now?”

  “I’m pregnant now.”

  “So?”

  “So, it’s not . . .” She hissed a sigh, looked embarrassed, and then blurted, “We can’t be living together, okay? I’m gonna be a mother. What kind of example is that for the baby?”

  He laughed, loud and long, hearing his own voice echo in the cavernous room. Mike’s eyes narrowed on him while the laughter rolled out around her, but she didn’t try to shut him up.

  “Finished?” she asked at last.

  “Mike,” he argued when he found his voice again, “the baby’s the size of a rice grain at the moment.”

  She scowled at him and slapped one hand protectively against her still flat abdomen. “But she’s—he’s—there and her, his—damn it, its—mother is not going to be living in sin.”

  “Sin?” For the second time in ten minutes, she’d stunned him flat. “Thought you didn’t go to church anymore.”

  “I don’t,” she admitted, scowling. “But trust me on this, when you least expect it, Catholic guilt comes roaring out of the shadows and slaps you back into line.”

  She meant it. She was leaving. He watched her finish zipping the bag, then fold the Velcro handle closed over the twin straps. She’d been here, in his house, for more than two weeks and now he couldn’t imagine not having her here.

  He was used to hearing her voice in the night. Watching her in the kitchen as she leaned over that first cup of coffee in the morning. He liked watching her at the lake’s edge, tossing bread slices into the water for the ducks. He enjoyed hearing her talk about what she did all day and looked forward to having her curl up against him at night.