by Liz Talley
Shelby’s sculpted eyebrows lifted. “Oh. Thank you for apologizing.”
“I know this is a hard situation. I’m not asking you to do anything other than stay a day or two so we can figure some things out together. Obviously, you’ve been carrying this burden by yourself. Maybe you could use my help. Maybe fate threw us together and gave us, uh, a baby for a reason. So whether you wanted me involved or not, I am.”
Shelby looked annoyed. “You’re making this complicated. It’s not. I’m pregnant. I’m having a baby. I’m making the decisions. You provided the sperm. Job over.”
“No. It’s not that simple and you know it. I’m not going away just because you want me to. You’re not being fair.”
“What? I’m being more than fair. I flew down to tell you. I didn’t have to do that.”
“But you did. It was the right thing to do, and you can’t legally keep me out of the child’s life. I’m the father. You said so yourself.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you doing this? I live thousands of miles away. I can’t give you what you’re asking for.”
“Well, I’m not satisfied being a phantom figure who mails a check once a month. Is that what you thought I would do? Never want to see my child?”
Anger burgeoned in her eyes. “I shouldn’t have come.”
“But you did.”
“So you keep reminding me,” she said. “I only wanted to tell you about the baby. I didn’t want anything else from you...not even a check.”
“Too bad.” John stood and scooped up her cup. He walked to the counter and set the half-filled cup in the depths of the scarred farm sink. His feelings were twisted into a giant ball of so many emotions he couldn’t begin to identify them, but in the midst of the disappointment, regret and anger was something that surprised him.
Joy.
Seemed impossible, since he hadn’t felt an inkling of happiness in well over a year. But despite feeling out-and-out terror, inside John thrilled at the warm thought of a child in his life. “We made a mistake a few months back. Not you. Not me. We. Which means going forward is something we’ll do together.”
Shelby eyed the empty spot where her tea had been. “Why did you pick up my tea? And why do you think you have the right to decide anything about my future?”
John eyed the cup in the sink before turning back to her. “Sorry.”
She glared at him.
“You’re carrying something inside of you who is as much a part of me as you. You would deny me the right to know my own son or daughter?”
Shelby paled but said nothing.
For a few minutes, they stared at each other, once strangers with a compulsion...an urge to feel something that dark September night, now tied together by the tiny life growing within Shelby.
“I need to use your restroom before I head back to Baton Rouge,” Shelby said, her voice firm and teacherlike. She seemed set on ignoring his last question. As if she could make him go away.
John studied her, seeing too much or maybe not enough of the woman beneath the highlights and sophisticated clothes. The woman beneath the expensive leather boots and jewelry that probably cost more than his broken-down truck. This was a woman nothing like his wife. But this was a woman he wasn’t going to run from this time. He conceded the battle, but the fight wasn’t over. “Down the hall to your left.”
She stood up too quickly and hit the table with her thigh. His beer fell, emptying its contents on the table he’d inherited from his grandmother May Claire. He scooped the bottle from the table, droplets of yeasty beer mixing with the scent he remembered from that night long ago—a sultry warmth that belonged to a woman he’d never thought to see again.
A scent that belonged to a woman who carried a part of his future.
John grabbed a dish towel and wiped up the spilled beer, wishing he could fix his world as easily.
* * *
SHELBY WALKED QUICKLY down the dim hallway, looking for the bathroom...looking for an escape.
God, why had she come?
Of course, she knew why. She’d put herself in the shoes of a man who’d had a one-night stand and convinced herself she would at the very least want to know she had a child out there somewhere. Seemed ethical. The right thing to do.
But now she wished she hadn’t said anything.
I’m not satisfied being a phantom figure who mails a check once a month. So what did that mean?
All the doors on her left were closed. Shelby tried the first one, but it was an office, desk cluttered with paper and somehow lonely in the afternoon shadows dancing against the pale wall. Shelby closed that door and found the small bathroom next to it.
Twisting the antique crystal handle, Shelby closed herself in the narrow gray half bath and bolted the door. Silly, but she felt better having a locked door between her and the man she’d paid her ex-boyfriend’s sister-in-law three hundred dollars to find.
Irony was such a bitch.
The bathroom showed a woman’s touch. Embroidered antique towels hung on a ring and a pewter picture frame sat on the vanity. Shelby picked up the picture of the happy couple on the sugar-white beach. John was nearly unrecognizable with tan skin and a huge grin. The wife he held in his arms was small, brown and pretty in a wholesome way. Happy times for a couple that no longer existed.
Shelby set the picture down next to a small carving of a pelican perched in the corner. From the top of the pelican sprouted cattail and tumbling Spanish moss. The braided rug looked handmade in tones of blue and moss-green. Tasteful and simple. Most likely decorated by the woman in the picture.
Shelby sighed and ran water into the sink, blinking at herself in the mirror. She’d eaten her lipstick off long ago, but still looked much the same as she had earlier. She didn’t look like a half-panicked pregnant woman. She looked, well, prettier than normal if not a little pale after having to impart the news to the man clacking around in the kitchen, cleaning up her spill.
Cleaning up her spill.
Yeah. Story of Shelby’s life.
Stay a couple of days. Let me help you figure things out.
John’s offer was tempting to a degree. She had hated being back in Seattle. The summer had been long and rainy, spent waiting on Darby. Then fall had come, along with the news Darby was in love with his...well, wife. Things had unraveled and hadn’t gotten better. Her relationship with her parents was as strained as ever, so in one way not being in Seattle was fine, but she hadn’t wanted the complication of John in her life.
So why did you fly down here to Louisiana?
She had no delusions of some sort of relationship with John Beauchamp. God help her, but she’d had enough of emotionally unavailable men, and one look at the dossier prepared on him paired with the memory of his eyes that night, and Shelby knew he still loved his dead wife. And even if he were available, there would be no time for romance between pregnancy and her teaching career. Besides she hadn’t come down here wanting to be rescued. She’d meant it when she said she didn’t expect anything of him. She didn’t have a permanent job, but she had a solid bank account, and if all else failed, there was her inheritance. Money had never been an issue for her family.
No, coming down to Louisiana had allowed her to escape the reality of Seattle if only for a few days...and delay the ensuing disappointment and scandal she would heap on her accomplished family.
Again.
Once the black sheep, always the black sheep. She seemed destined to stay in the role she’d assumed long ago.
Sighing, Shelby hiked up her dress and tugged down her tights. Might as well—how had John put it? Oh, yeah. Tee-tee. Long drive back to Baton Rouge. She wasn’t staying here in Magnolia Bend any longer than she had to. If John wanted to talk about the future of their child, he’d have to—
Shelby’s last though
t disappeared as she caught sight of the blood in the crotch of her brown ribbed tights.
She jerked her panties down and sank onto the porcelain toilet seat. Heavier smears of blood in her panties. Frantically, she grabbed some toilet paper and wiped.
More blood. Fresh.
Oh, God. She was bleeding.
Why had she climbed in that damn rattletrap mule? Bumping over those huge ruts in the field couldn’t have been good for the baby. And all this drama and stress hadn’t helped, either. She’d put her baby in jeopardy, and now she was having a miscarriage right there in a dead woman’s guest bathroom.
Jesus.
And suddenly she, who’d hated the life growing inside of her for nearly a month, who’d penciled in an abortion on her calendar, who didn’t even know the father of her baby beyond his birth date and occupation, knew beyond all else she wanted to keep the small miracle housed within her body.
She stood, tugged up her underwear and tights, squeezed her legs together as if that could stop the bleeding and called, “John!”
Shelby heard the pounding of his boots and slid the lock open, pushing back the door.
“What is it?” he asked, wiping his hands on a towel, looking alarmed.
“I’m bleeding,” she said, trying to stay calm despite the fear clogging her throat. Rough unshed tears made her hoarse.
John took her arm and pulled her gently from the bathroom. “It’s okay. I’m going to call Jamison French. He’s a doctor and one of my closest friends. He’s not far away.”
Shelby nodded, for the first time glad John stood beside her, glad to have someone to lean on. She didn’t want to need him, but her mind felt frozen and all she could think about was keeping the baby inside of her. “I’m scared.”
John escorted her to the chair she’d left moments ago and grabbed the cordless phone sitting on the kitchen counter. “I know you are, but I’m going to take care of you.”
Shelby sank into the chair and tried not to cry. She wanted to be strong, but at the moment doing so seemed impossible.
John barked some things into the phone, softening his tone with an apology. Shelby didn’t pay attention to who he talked to. She concentrated on telling her body to stop bleeding, to stop trying to eject the small life she’d glimpsed on the ultrasound.
“We’re going to my truck, okay?” John said, grabbing a set of keys. “Jamison’s at the hospital, but he’s going to meet us at his office. We’re going to go in the back door.”
“Oh, God,” Shelby breathed. “I didn’t want this to happen. Why is this happening?”
“It’s okay,” he breathed, helping her rise, smoothing her hair back.
“You say that a lot.”
“Maybe we’ll both believe it.”
Shelby closed her eyes. “I hope that’s true.”
John opened the back door, pushing Bart out of the way and flipping off the lights. “No matter what happens, Shelby, hold on to the thought everything will be okay. I’ve forgotten how to do that, but suddenly it feels pretty damn important.”
And when Shelby glanced over at him, she believed him...but that didn’t stop the fact she felt dampness in the crotch of her panties.
CHAPTER FOUR
DR. JAMISON FRENCH’S office looked nothing like her doctor’s office in Seattle. The walls were a bright blue and the hot-pink chairs looked like something in a funky designer’s office rather than an obstetrician’s. The navy chevron-patterned changing curtain and a funny picture of kittens playing on the ceiling above the exam table seemed to make pelvic exams fun...uh, almost.
Dr. French rolled his stool over to where Shelby lay on the exam table, paisley paper gown open to reveal her white belly. The tech rolled the ultrasound transponder around in the gook on her stomach while the doctor focused on the soft lub-lub of the heartbeat on the monitor.
Feeling like she might heave up the oatmeal cookie she’d scarfed down hours ago, Shelby watched the small screen and the mass of...something that caused the swooshing noises. The panic inside subsided as she listened to the telltale sound of her baby’s heartbeat.
“I’m not seeing anything that concerns me here, Shelby,” Dr. French said, his blue eyes intense behind his artsy glasses. Pointing to the screen he continued. “Heartbeat’s strong for an eleven-week fetus.”
“So why am I bleeding? Was it riding in that stupid mule?”
Dr. French nodded at the technician, who removed the roller-ball thing and handed Shelby a few tissues to wipe off the lubricant.
“No, your baby is safe in your womb and hitting bumps or getting jostled shouldn’t cause any harm. About twenty percent of women experience spotting in the first trimester of pregnancy. Usually caused by implantation of the fetus, but since you’re past that point of your pregnancy, I don’t think that’s the issue.”
“Oh.” Dread knitted inside her. What was wrong with her? Had she done something wrong? She’d had some wine and, oh, hell, a couple of vodka martinis before she knew she was pregnant.
“When was the last time you saw your doctor?” Dr. French asked, noting something in the thin folder before setting it on the counter by the sink. The technician left, shutting the door softly, and the pretty nurse who’d taken her blood pressure slid inside the examination room and with a warm smile, started doing whatever it was nurses did behind the exam table.
“Two weeks ago. Uh, when I had the pregnancy confirmed.”
“And did he or she do a vaginal exam?”
“Yes.” Shelby sat up and wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing her arms. She didn’t want a vaginal exam. She couldn’t handle something that made her any more vulnerable than what she currently felt. Tears sat on the horizon waiting for an excuse to make a debut.
“Hmm.”
“What’s that mean?” Shelby tried to not sound panicked. Her life had been flipped topsy-turvy, and the ground beneath her feet felt as thin as the paper gown she shivered in. Dear Lord. How did single mothers do this and not lose their minds? She felt out of control...and there was no one to hand the reins over to.
On her own.
Dr. French lifted his head from the chart and gave her a sincere, comforting smile. “Relax, lots of changes are going on in your body—like the alteration of pH levels, which can allow yeast to flourish. Any disruption of the cervical cells, like having intercourse, can cause those inflamed cells to bleed.”
“I haven’t had sex. Um, since that night.” Shelby looked at the closed door. John sat right outside in the small waiting area. Did Dr. French suspect John as the father?
Silly, Shelby. Sure, the good doctor had question marks in his eyes when John hurried her in the back door like it was some secret abortion clinic and he was the preacher’s son, but that didn’t mean he suspected his friend of being the father.
“We’ll take a look and see if that’s what’s going on. A woman’s body during pregnancy is a mysterious thing.”
Shelby stared blankly at him.
“If you’ll just lie back and scoot your bottom right down here,” he said, flicking on the gigantic lightbulb at the foot of the table.
“Oh, God,” Shelby breathed.
The nurse placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay, Shelby. Try and relax.”
At this Shelby laughed...almost hysterically.
Yeah, sure.
Five minutes later, Shelby stood inside the small curtained dressing room, hands trembling and stomach pitching. As she pulled on her wrap dress, she beat back the self-pity threatening to wash over her.
Never had she felt so alone.
And there had been plenty of times in her life she’d stood by herself—the time she’d gotten lost as a child while on vacation, the time she found out her first love had only used her for sex, when she moved to Europe not know
ing a soul and most recently in a bathroom at Boots Grocery. But enduring a pelvic in an unfamiliar office with the stranger who knocked you up standing outside scraped the bottom of the you’re-so-alone barrel.
Shelby curved her hand over her still-flat stomach, imagining she could feel the heartbeat beneath her hand.
Still with me.
Tugging on her boots, she whisked back the curtain and cracked the door so the doctor would know she was dressed. Sinking on the funky pink chair beside the wall of cabinets, Shelby pulled her purse into her lap and pretended she couldn’t hear the conversation between Dr. French and John.
“How do you know this woman again?”
Long pause. “I told you. She’s an old friend.”
Shelby almost snorted. Yeah. Two and a half months of old friendship.
“Her patient information sheet says she’s from Seattle.”
“Yeah.” Aggravation in John’s voice.
“I’m not trying to pry.”
Another long pause.
“Okay, maybe I am. You call and say it’s an emergency of the female variety, bring in a pregnant woman I’ve never seen before and then expect me not to ask any questions? I’m an old friend, too.”
More long silence.
A sigh.
“Fine.”
John’s voice again. “Is she okay?”
“Sorry. Patient confidentiality,” Dr. French quipped. A door shut and then Dr. French stepped into her exam room, annoyance in his eyes fading as he smiled. As the door clicked shut, he picked up her chart and grabbed a pen from his scrub pocket. Clicking it, he grabbed a prescription pad. “The good news is that at present, you’re not losing the pregnancy. I checked your blood work and you have a slight infection. Here’s a script for a cream that can help.”
Shelby opened her mouth to ask—
“No, it won’t hurt the fetus.”