The Wedding Plan

by Abby Gaines

  Her purse was on the kitchen table. He went straight for the zip pocket, pulled out the single remaining condom. He peered at the expiration date embossed on the foil wrapper.

  “A year ago,” he said, disgusted. “And it’s been in your purse, rather than somewhere cool and dry. Don’t you read instructions?”

  He was close to shouting. He consciously reined it in.

  “What…” Her voice shook. “What difference does it make if it’s expired?”

  “It’s more likely to break.” Which hadn’t happened that night. Lucas tried to recall all the locker room horror stories he’d heard, and the cautionary tales from the navy’s health professionals. “I think when the latex wears out, there can be microscopic holes.” That sounded all too possible.

  She pressed her hands to her face. “Lucas, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s my responsibility, too,” he said. “I should have checked the date.” Dammit, he should have. If he’d taken that simple step—which she’d been in no shape to do, regardless of her contrition now—they would have avoided this whole situation.

  He ran a hand through his hair. “So, you’re definitely pregnant, with my baby.”

  She nodded.

  He drew a long breath. “I never thought I’d say this, but I guess it’s a good thing we’re married.”

  “Huh?” She gave two short, sharp head shakes. “I’m having trouble processing anything beyond I’m pregnant. What do you mean?”

  “We’re going to be parents,” he said. “Raising a child together.”

  “You want to be involved?”

  Lucas wasn’t sure which one of them wasn’t talking sense. He’d never felt so befuddled in his life. Pregnant. A baby.

  “Of course I want to raise my child,” he said. They were standing on opposite sides of the kitchen table, which didn’t bode well for any discussion.

  He walked around and pulled out a chair for Merry. “Take a seat.”

  “I can get it.” She pulled out the chair next to the one he’d chosen, and sat.

  Lucas had no idea what that gesture was intended to say. He settled next to her, forearms on the table, hands clasped. “When would the baby be due?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.” She glanced down at her stomach, as if there might be some clue.

  “It’s got to be nine months, give or take,” he said. “So maybe August next year.”

  “You’re getting ahead of yourself,” she said with a visible effort. “Pregnancies often don’t go the distance. I could miscarry.”

  What should have been a relief turned Lucas’s insides cold. “We’ll deal with that if it happens,” he said gruffly. “For now, let’s assume there’s going to be a baby, and it needs two parents.” It. Would it be a boy or a girl?

  “Of course you could see as much of it as you want,” she said.

  “See as much—” He broke off with a curse. “Merry, I’m the father.”

  “Which is why I wouldn’t make any major decisions without consulting you,” she assured him. “But there’s no reason we can’t file for divorce when you’re back with your unit, as we planned.”

  “My child won’t be born illegitimate,” he said.

  Which was sufficient reason in itself.

  Merry traced a groove in the pine table with her fingernail.

  “I want my child to have a full-time father, married to its mother,” Lucas said. He was making this up as he went along. He’d never thought about this stuff, beyond an instinctive decision that he hadn’t wanted to be a sperm donor when that girlfriend had asked. An equally instinctive certainty backed him up now.

  “Lucas, thousands of kids, millions of kids, are brought up by divorced parents.”

  “But not my kid,” he said. “I take that responsibility seriously. I want to look after you and the baby.”

  He could see from her guarded expression he’d made a mistake, though he had no idea what it was.

  “I don’t want to be looked after,” she said. “I want to be loved. I want my child to be loved.”

  “Our child,” he said. “Are you suggesting I wouldn’t love our child?” And why couldn’t he do both—the looking after and the loving?

  Her forehead creased. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. But you and I see love differently. Your idea of love is about protection and practicalities.”

  “And yours is about what? Fairy-tale happy endings?”

  “My idea of love… If I love someone,” she said, “I love them because of who they are, not because they have a position in my life that means I’m required to love them.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You have a baby sister,” she said, “whom you would probably say you love.”

  “Of course I love Mia,” he replied.

  He might have known that in Merry’s world that would be the wrong answer. “Why?” she demanded, way more assertive than the question required.

  “Because…because she’s my sister.”

  “Exactly. You don’t know her—don’t love her for anything that’s about her.”

  Mia was a year old! How was he supposed to know her? But Lucas realized that to ask that question would reinforce Merry’s prejudice.

  “Are you saying I shouldn’t love my sister?” he said. “If, say, I knew her and didn’t like her?”

  “No.” Merry’s fists clenched on the table. “You should love Mia because she’s your sister, naturally. But there should be another side to it as well, one that’s all about the person she is, good and bad. I love Dad because he’s my father, but I also love the way he gets halfway through the punch line of a joke and forgets the rest.”

  Sounded damn annoying to Lucas.

  “I love that he sings Italian love songs when he cooks spaghetti. I love his artist’s eye.”

  “Okay,” Lucas said. “I get it. Of course there will be things that I love about our child.”

  “There’s no ‘of course’ about it,” Merry retorted. “I’ve known you a long time, and I’ve never seen you give yourself emotionally.”

  “That’s garbage,” he said. Whatever giving himself emotionally was, he’d done it.

  She bit her lip off to the left side in that way of hers. “Lucas, obviously neither of us intended a baby to come from—from what was frankly the worst sex ever.”

  He winced. He hadn’t thought about that aspect—they’d made a baby without a shred of enjoyment in the process. We won’t tell the kid that.

  “Two wrongs can’t make this right,” she continued. “I don’t love you, you don’t love me—we’re getting a divorce.”

  Even though he’d sensed he wasn’t making much headway, her words were a shock.

  He stood, shoved his hands in his pockets. His voice was rough as he said, “I think you’ll find a divorce isn’t quite so simple once there’s no mutual agreement, and once there’s a baby involved.”

  Her eyes widened, and Lucas wondered if their child would have those same gray eyes. He shut off the thought, because sentimentality wasn’t going to fix this.

  “You say we’re getting divorced, Merry, but I say we’re staying married. We’ll see who’s right.”

  * * *

  JOHN SKEWERED A PIECE of baitfish on the hook, then cast the line over the side of the Sally Sue. Nothing like the fancy yacht he’d designed and created for Dwight, it was the first boat he’d built. Despite sleek lines and a cedar trim, the Sally Sue was essentially just a motorized dinghy.

  A labor of love, named for his one true love.

  Cathy had noticed the name—how could she not?—as they approached the boat across the pebbled sand. She hadn’t commented.

  John liked that she was a woman of few words. Although she could be moody, she was undemanding. She didn’t expect him to shower her with attention, but seemed comfortable just to be in his company. He was enjoying not doing everything on his own, and he liked that nothing about Cathy r
eminded him of Sally, from her closemouthed smile to her middle-aged buxomness to her sturdy ankles.

  All that explained why he was still spending time with her, despite the absence of any romantic feelings. That, plus it wasn’t so easy to tell her he didn’t want to see her again.

  “Here you go.” He handed her the fishing rod. “Just hold it steady and enjoy the sunshine.”

  “How soon will I get a bite?” she asked.

  She took everything seriously and she liked direct answers.

  John shrugged. “Maybe five minutes, maybe never.”

  She pursed her lips, but didn’t say anything. He baited his own hook, then cast his line the other side of the boat from hers. He sat in the stern facing Cathy, who occupied the center bench. They’d dropped anchor a hundred yards from the cluster of rocks locals called Jonkers Island, in a place where he’d had some good fishing a couple of months ago.

  They fished in silence for a while. Sunlight filtered through high clouds to dapple the water with shades of blue and gray. John let himself be lulled by the lap of sea against the boat, the cry of the gulls. His mind drifted like a piece of flotsam on a slow tide.

  “John, I love this,” Cathy said, jerking him back to the moment.

  “Love what?” He glanced around, looking for a source of such pleasure.

  “Fishing. It’s so restful. It’s beautiful out here.” Her cheeks had pinked up in the sun, and the light bouncing off the water seemed to brighten her brown eyes.

  “The fish aren’t biting yet,” he reminded her.

  That closemouthed smile made an appearance. “I don’t mind. Can we do this another time?”

  “Sure,” he said, before he realized she’d done it again. Every time they went out, he’d planned to tell her this was the last. Every time, she somehow got him to commit to another date.

  Ah, well. Hard to complain about a woman who didn’t mind sitting in a boat fishing all afternoon.

  “It is beautiful out today,” he said, agreeing with her earlier comment. He slid his rod into one of the holders on the side of the boat. “I might just do me a little sketch.”

  His pencils and notebook were in a waterproof pouch in the backpack he’d stowed in the bow. He scrambled past Cathy to reach them, rocking the boat dangerously.

  She gave a small gasp—a more excitable woman might have squealed—and clutched a fistful of his anorak. “Don’t go overboard,” she said.

  “Not likely.” Not impossible, though. “I’ll be careful,” he promised. He pulled the waterproof pouch from the pack and moved more carefully back to his seat.

  Cathy didn’t ask him what he was drawing, nor if she could see it, which he appreciated. He did a rough sketch of the seascape to get the proportions, then flipped to a new page to record a more detailed impression of the water and the play of light, and of the shore beyond. He would rely on this sketch, and his memory, when he started painting. It would be nice to start tonight, but most evenings he found he was tired early.

  John turned the page in his notebook and began to sketch Cathy. He was no good at portraits, so he wouldn’t paint her. But her stillness and quietness were a nice contrast with the perpetual noise and movement of the water.

  “Would your sister have enjoyed this?” he asked, as he drew.

  She darted him a smile, appreciating the chance to talk about her twin. “Rue was more sociable than I am. Her idea of a boat trip was a five-star cruise ship with plenty of friends and plenty of wine.”

  “So you weren’t that similar.”

  “In a lot of ways we were,” she insisted. “But we had— Oh!”

  Her fishing rod jerked in her hands.

  “You’ve got a live one.” John stuffed his notebook and pencil back in the pouch. He stowed it away, then moved to help her. “Hang on tight.”

  “Of course I’m hanging on tight. Do you think I’m a moron?” she growled, and he chuckled.

  “Okay, now you want to reel him in.” It was easiest for John to reach around her from behind, placing his hands on hers so he could guide her movements. She softened against him for a moment, which wasn’t altogether unpleasant. Then she focused on the business of reeling in her catch.

  It was a snapper, about five pounds, John guessed. “Not bad,” he said, as he removed the hook and dropped the fish into the cooler he’d filled with sea water.

  “I like fishing even more now,” Cathy said, and her smile widened slightly.

  Briefly, he considered kissing her. No. Best not to complicate things.

  They stayed out another hour. John caught a bluefish, just a three-pounder. He’d told Stephanie he hoped to bring home dinner. Luckily, she had some steaks in the refrigerator as backup.

  After they motored in, Cathy said, “I don’t think your daughter likes you seeing me.”

  “Merry likes the thought of me staying loyal to her mom’s memory.” He liked that thought himself, but he was tired of the loneliness, so was trying not to think too hard. “It might take a while, but she’ll get used to me dating other women.”

  Cathy didn’t look happy about his use of the plural. But she didn’t try to pin him down, and they talked casually about his work at the boatyard as they drove to Dwight’s place.

  “Enjoy your snapper,” he said, as he got out of her car.

  “Why don’t we swap?” she suggested. “I’ll never get through such a big fish, but you and your friends will.”

  It was a kind offer.

  It highlighted what a jerk John was being.

  “Only if you join us,” he said. “I should have spoken sooner, but it’s not my house, so I didn’t think to invite you.” When she demurred, he insisted. “Stephanie and Dwight are great company.” Well, Stephanie was. Fond though he was of Dwight, he knew his friend was an acquired taste.

  In the end, Cathy came in, Stephanie cooked the fish and they had a perfectly pleasant evening. John caught Dwight looking at Cathy once or twice with slight puzzlement, as if he wasn’t sure what John saw in her, compared with Sally. But John didn’t need his friend’s approval. Like Dwight, Cathy was an acquired taste.

  She didn’t outstay her welcome, rising to leave around eight o’clock. John was tired after the day, and he didn’t try to detain her.

  He accompanied her out to the porch.

  “That was nice,” she said. “The fishing and the meal. Thanks for inviting me.”

  “My pleasure.” He meant it, he realized. “Good night, Cathy.” He leaned in to kiss her cheek, but she turned her head so that he met her lips.

  Surprise froze him in place for a fraction of a second. Then, well, it didn’t make much sense not to finish the kiss, so he did. Her mouth was firm, but pleasant. The kiss was chaste—both mouths stayed closed—but curiously intimate. The connection sent a tingle through him that he hadn’t felt in a long time.

  She pulled away first. “Good night, John.”

  She seemed to step more lightly down the front walk. When she reached the car, she lifted a hand in a half wave. Then she was gone.

  John ran his thumb and forefinger across his mouth, aware of the lingering sensation of her kiss.

  An acquired taste, indeed.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE DOORBELL OF JOHN’S COTTAGE rang at eight o’clock on Sunday morning. A full hour before Lucas had expected it, but he was ready.

  He opened the door to Stephanie. With all the stuff piled around her on the porch, she looked as if she was moving in.

  “I would have helped you get this out of the car,” he said.

  “No problem.” She thrust Mia into his arms.

  About to ignore his half sister, beyond the obvious requirement not to drop her, Lucas thought better of it. “Hi, Mia.”

  No answer. See, this was why they didn’t have much of a relationship.

  “This here’s the travel crib.” Stephanie pointed to an oblong of pink-and-gray nylon. “And that’s her clip-on high chair, next to the stroller—it works with John
’s kitchen table. I brought the stair gate, if you’d rather not have the hassle of watching her around the staircase all day. Diaper bag and changing mat—” she indicated a brightly patterned satchel “—food, bottles. Drinking cup, if you can bear the mess. Toys, books. If you get desperate, there’s an Elmo DVD.”

  “We won’t get desperate, will we, Mia?” Lucas said heartily. The child gave him a doubtful look. “You’ll be back tonight, right, Stephanie?” Because it looked as if his stepmother and Dwight were planning to skip the country, rather than drive to Old Saybrook to go sailing with friends.

  Lucas picked up the travel crib with his free hand.

  “No later than five,” she promised. “You sure you’ll be okay?” She followed him into the house, bringing a couple of the nursery items with her.

  “Merry’s still asleep,” he warned her over his shoulder, keeping his voice down. He didn’t know how soon pregnancy tiredness kicked in, but it was easy enough to see that arguing back and forth since Friday night, with neither of them budging from their respective positions, had been as exhausting for Merry as it had been for him.

  Another couple of minutes and they had all of Mia’s gear inside.

  “Is there a schedule somewhere among all this?” Lucas asked.

  “No, but it’s pretty straightforward. She’s already had breakfast. Give her a bottle at ten and put her down for a nap. Lunch around midday—a cheese sandwich or something will be fine, but use soft bread. Another bottle and a nap around three, and offer her water in her cup in between.”

  The naps sounded good. Lucas checked his watch. Eight-ten. “What does she do between now and the first nap?”

  “She’ll play with her toys or follow you around. Whatever. She can do her own thing, but of course you’ll need to keep an eye on her. Toddlers can be inquisitive.”

  “I’m on it.” He’d already identified a bunch of hazards and taken steps to eliminate them before Mia arrived. “And…how does the diaper routine work?” Lucas recalled the stench his sister had managed to produce the day he’d arrived back in town.

  “Change her before her naps, and whenever the diaper starts to seem heavy or smelly.” Stephanie grinned. “You don’t have to carry her, you know.”