Another Man's Child

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “DAMN!” MARCUS SWUNG the Ferrari around and headed back toward home. He’d forgotten the marketing textbook he’d promised to bring with him when he met with George Blake later that day. Impatient with his lapse, with the lack of concentration that had been plaguing him all week, he pulled around the circular drive to the front of his house, barely looking at the lushly landscaped lawn in front of him. Although fall used to be his favorite time of year, this year the leaves had changed colors without him even noticing. The crisp October morning was wasted on him.

  Work had always been able to distract him, if not heal what ailed him. But ever since Lisa had asked him to accompany her on her first prenatal checkup, he’d been eaten up with corrosive emotions. All of a sudden the pregnancy was a reality, something he could no longer ignore.

  He hated the anger that burned within him—and the panic. Lisa was going on with her life without him, and there was nothing he could do about it, no way for him to catch up. He knew it and she knew it. She watched everything she said around him these days, choosing her words so carefully it made him ache. He could feel their closeness deteriorating, knew they were in danger of becoming nothing more than wary housemates and yet was powerless to prevent that from happening.

  Because he couldn’t involve himself in Lisa’s changing life. He was already so plagued with if onlys he wondered sometimes if he’d ever again know peace of mind. He might just as well have gone with her to the damn doctor’s appointment the day before. He’d done nothing but sit in his office and torture himself with wasted dreams the entire time he’d known she was there.

  Lisa’s pregnancy had become a constant reminder to him of everything he’d always wanted, everything he could never have. He was so damn envious he couldn’t think straight.

  And he was scared to death that Lisa’s baby was going to look nothing like Lisa.

  Unlocking his front door, he hurried into the office he shared with his wife, hoping to be in and gone before she heard him. He made it a practice to leave the house before she was up and around these days. It was just easier that way. Easier to keep his emotions under wraps, easier to ignore the changes in his wife’s body, his wife’s life.

  He hadn’t made love to Lisa, either, not since the day she’d told him she was expecting a child. He didn’t trust himself to touch her. He was afraid of what might happen if he let his guard down, if he let himself be vulnerable, if he let himself feel everything he always felt when he made love to her. He wasn’t sure what other emotions might be unleashed or what he might do if they were.

  He was also unsure how much lovemaking she could do in her condition, and he didn’t want to ask. It just seemed better not to talk about that.

  Grabbing the textbook from a shelf behind his desk, he was on his way out the door when he heard the sounds of retching upstairs. Lisa was sick.

  Taking the stairs two at once, he made it up to the master suite just in time to hear Lisa throw up a second time. How long had she been suffering like this?

  Without thought, Marcus dropped the textbook on his dresser, tore off his jacket and hurried into the bathroom. He wet a washcloth at the sink, then crossed to her and hunkered down, wiping her face and forehead, holding her hair back when the spasms came again.

  “I’m sorry,” she finally said, tears wetting her lashes. She took the cloth from him and buried her face in it.

  Marcus rubbed her back, admiring her strength. He knew how frightened she was of being sick to her stomach. “Shh. You don’t need to apologize, Lis. It’s me, remember?”

  She nodded, saying nothing, only looking at him. He hated the uncertainty he read in her eyes.

  “This happen often?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Not so far.”

  But maybe later. As her pregnancy progressed. There it was again. The wall he slammed into every time he was with his wife these days.

  “Are you gonna be okay now?” he asked, feeling awkward. After all, this had nothing to do with him.

  Lisa nodded.

  Marcus got to his feet. “I, uh, guess I’ll be going then. I just came back to get a book I forgot.”

  Lisa stood up, as well, and moved to her sink. “Have a good day,” she said, reaching for her toothbrush.

  Marcus stood there for a second longer, wishing there was some way he could make everything right again. He missed her so much. “Yeah, you, too,” he finally said, stopping in the bedroom to shrug back into his suit jacket.

  “Marcus?” Lisa poked her head around the bathroom door.

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks.”

  Marcus nodded and left, his day suddenly a little brighter.

  LISA WAS SICK again that evening after dinner, and several more times during that next week. The violence and frequency of her vomiting started to alarm Marcus. He’d been waiting to leave with her in the mornings since the first time he’d found her sick, and after the fourth morning of nausea in a row he was an old hand at soothing her through the episodes. But while he quieted her fears, his own grew. It seemed to him that these bouts of nausea were far more than normal morning sickness.

  “I want you to talk to Dr. Crutchfield today when you get to the hospital, Lis,” he said on Wednesday morning while they both got ready for work. It was the middle of the last week in October, Lisa’s ninth week of pregnancy. “You’re sick all the time now.”

  “It’s perfectly normal,” Lisa said, chuckling. She opened her eyes wide to apply her mascara.

  He couldn’t tell, looking at her now, that she’d been so violently ill only half an hour before. She looked healthy. Better than healthy. She was glowing. Still…

  “I can’t believe that every woman goes through this every time she’s expecting, Lisa.”

  “Some women just have it worse than others,” she said, continuing with her lashes.

  Why was she taking this so lightly? Few things in life scared him, but the thought of something wrong with Lisa, seriously wrong, scared the hell out of him.

  “I’d still feel better if you talked to the doctor,” he said.

  Lisa met Marcus’s gaze in the mirror, her eyes amused. “I am a doctor, if you…” She stopped midstream when he stared, stone-faced, back at her. “You’re really concerned, aren’t you?” she asked, surprised.

  “Yes,” Marcus admitted, refusing to apologize for that.

  “I’ll stop by and see her this morning, Marcus. I have office visits until eleven, but I’ll go over straight after. Okay?” She smiled at him, looking about sixteen in her slip and bare feet, with her makeup only half-on.

  “Okay.” Marcus smiled back. God, how he loved her.

  “IF LISA CALLS, put her right through, no matter what,” Marcus told Marge as he walked into his office later that morning.

  “Nothing’s wrong, is there?” Marge asked, getting up to follow him. She stood in his doorway, a mother’s worried frown on her brow.

  Marcus had not yet told anyone about Lisa’s pregnancy. He hadn’t wanted to face the inevitable questions, the role he’d have to play in order to protect his wife’s privacy. And his own.

  But no matter how much he resented the position Lisa had put him in, her condition wasn’t something he was going to be able to hide much longer. “No. As a matter of fact, she’s pregnant,” he said, trying to sound happy about the situation.

  Marge was so effusive in her congratulations Marcus felt more like a fraud than ever, but he accepted them because he had no other choice. He tried to measure up to her expectations of a happy father-to-be. And by the end of the morning every other member of his immediate staff had been in to congratulate him. He found it increasingly wearing to keep up the pretense, but it warmed him to see how much genuine affection his coworkers seemed to have for Lisa and him. He hadn’t expected everyone to be so excited. His paychecks guaranteed their loyalty. Not their well wishes.

  It warmed him far more when, shortly after eleven, Lisa called to say that eve
rything was just fine with the baby and her. He brushed right by the part about the baby, giddy with relief to hear that Lisa was in perfect health. He’d been more worried than he thought.

  He forgot himself long enough to go out and share the good news with Marge.

  “It sounds to me like you need to read up on the next seven months, Marcus, if a little morning sickness throws you so off kilter,” Marge said, grinning at him.

  Marcus considered her suggestion. Maybe he should find out just what the next months were going to bring. He’d had nothing to do with creating Lisa’s condition, but her bouts with morning sickness had brought home to him how precarious an actual pregnancy could be, the risks it posed to the expectant mother’s health. Lisa’s health. He wanted to know more about it.

  “Could you recommend some good books about it?” he asked his secretary. Having something to concentrate on, something positive he could contribute, something he could do, felt good.

  Marge picked up her purse and headed for the door. “I’ll stop at the bookstore when I’m at lunch,” she said, still smiling at him.

  Marcus grinned back. Finally. He had a purpose, a way to regain some of the inner balance he’d lost when his wife had become pregnant with another man’s child.

  BETH KNEW where Oliver lived. She wished she didn’t. That it wasn’t so easy for her to find him on this, the darkest of days, made even darker by the Thanksgiving holiday that followed so soon after.

  It wasn’t right that she reach out to him this way. Lisa would probably be expecting her to call, maybe even expecting her to spend the day with her as she had the year before and the year before that. Nothing had been said this time. But Lisa knew.

  Beth almost turned her BMW around to head back to New Haven. It was a gorgeous Indian-summer day, a gift she should be thankful for. She could drive up to East Rock, spend the day at Eastrock Park, as she used to do all those weekends when John was glued to textbooks. Surely she could outdistance her memories among the 650 acres of gorgeous Connecticut countryside. She had no business dropping in on Oliver. None whatsoever. Except that she was certain he could make her feel better. Beth’s eyes blurred with tears. She blinked them away so she could see the road in front of her.

  When had she come to rely on Oliver for her emotional equilibrium? How had she come to need him without even knowing it? And could she take comfort from him without making a mess of things?

  She turned into the neighborhood where Lisa had grown up, finding the rambling house easily. She’d been there last Christmas, guests of Lisa and Marcus. It had been then, celebrating that emotional holiday, that she and Oliver had first connected. They’d both been celebrating with only half a heart, having lost a part of themselves when they’d buried their spouses.

  Which was why, on this day in particular, Beth was drawn to her best friend’s father for comfort Oliver wouldn’t just sympathize, he’d know.

  Pulling up to the garage behind Oliver’s house, Beth parked, grabbed her purse and got out of the car. There was nothing wrong with her coming here like this. It meant nothing more than a person seeking comfort from a friend who understood.

  So why had she not told Lisa where she was going? Why had she purposely not gone home to change after church in an effort to avoid Lisa’s phone call? And why had a swarm of butterflies taken up residence in her abdomen?

  “Beth! What a wonderful surprise,” Oliver said when he answered her knock. “I was just deciding what to fix for lunch. Come join me.”

  That was it. No questions asked.

  Following him back to the kitchen, she dropped her purse on the counter, then looked over his shoulder as, together, they inspected the contents of his refrigerator. She felt better already.

  Deciding on cheese-lettuce-and-tomato sandwiches, they prepared lunch together and ate it out on his covered patio, enjoying the unusual warmth of the day. The lush green acre of his backyard, lined with the spectacular autumn foliage of dogwood, was enchanting. In the spring the yard was filled with the pink and white blossoms of mountain laurel, as well as colorful rhododendron shrubs, the perfect accompaniment to the orchids that had been Barbara Webster’s pride and joy.

  “This was just what the doctor ordered,” Beth said, finishing the last of her sandwich.

  “Kind of convenient, don’t you think, to be able to give your own orders?” Oliver smiled at her.

  The pleasure he was taking in her presence was almost enough to soothe her tattered emotions. Almost.

  “John was killed six years ago today.” The words came out of their own accord, as if they’d been fighting for release. And she supposed maybe they had, going by the number of times they’d repeated themselves over and over in her head since she’d awakened, alone, early that morning.

  “Ahh.” Oliver’s expression, his voice, was filled with instant understanding, and warmed with a huge dose of empathy. “I remember when we got the call at the university…Come.” He reached for her hand. “Why don’t we sit in the gazebo. I go there sometimes when I’m feeling blue. It seems to help.”

  Beth walked with him to the gazebo in one corner of his backyard. She’d been there before, of course, but always with Lisa. Surrounded with flowers except in the cold winter months, it had a slatted roof open to the sun and to the many birds that came to perch on the feeders Oliver had built. It was the most peaceful place Beth had ever been.

  “Were you with him when it happened?” Oliver asked, sitting with her on one of the benches along the inside of the gazebo. Though the little building allowed in the sun’s warmth, Beth’s hands were cold, and Oliver rubbed them gently with his.

  She’d had no idea how much she’d needed the contact, the touch of another person. “Uh-huh,” she said, watching a couple of birds hover around one of the larger feeders hanging from the ceiling of the gazebo, but seeing, instead, her husband’s blood on the tile floor of the hamburger place. They’d only stopped there for a quick bite before heading out to the country to look at homes. That day had been filled with sunny promise, too, just like this one.

  She could still hear the shrieks of the women and children around them, the shouts of the men who’d tried to help, still feel the frantic flurry as everyone ran, trying to escape the gunman’s next bullet. They needn’t have worried. He’d turned the next one on himself.

  Beth hadn’t even realized she’d been speaking out loud until Oliver put his arm around her, pulling her into the comfort of his embrace. “I’m so sorry, my dear, so sorry. Shh. Don’t cry.”

  It had been a long time since Beth had been cuddled, since she’d had someone to lean on. Burying her face against the solidness of Oliver’s chest, she clung to him, allowing the sobs she’d been holding in check all day to burst free. The nightmare of that day would be with her always, but it almost felt as if she’d be able to bear it as she sat there with her head against Oliver’s chest, listening to the strong steady beat of his heart.

  “Thank you,” she said, pulling away just enough to lift her head, to gaze into his warm brown eyes.

  “Hush.” He placed a finger against her lips. “You don’t need to thank me. You’ve helped me more than I can ever say.”

  His gaze left hers to travel down to where his finger was still touching her lips. With no thought to what she was doing, Beth wet her lips, tasting the saltiness of his skin.

  She saw the look in Oliver’s eyes change, recognized the intentness of his gaze. Dazed, she watched his head lower and knew only that she wanted him to move closer, that nothing had felt so right in years.

  Still, she was shocked by the first touch of his lips, by the warm connected feel of a man’s mouth against her own, caressing her own. It had been so long. Too long.

  Unable to deny him, to deny herself, Beth parted her lips to his. Her heart beat a passionate tattoo, and her belly flooded with wanting. Losing every ounce of the maturity of her thirty-eight years, she felt like a teenager again.

  She gave kiss for kiss, clinging to
him as he caressed her back with sure hands. Her senses swam with the taste of him, the bristly feel of his beard against her skin, his musky scent.

  She wasn’t ready when he slowly pulled back from her.

  “I’m not going to apologize,” he said, looking into her eyes, desire smoldering in his.

  Beth melted under that gaze, felt cherished and alive. She wanted to lean her head against him again, but wasn’t sure she should.

  She shook her head, instead, bringing herself back to reality. “You don’t have to apologize,” she said, surprised to hear how breathless she sounded. “I needed comfort. You offered it.” She told herself that was all it had been. That was all it could be. They’d both already given their hearts—to someone else.

  “And I’m almost old enough to be your father,” Oliver said, setting her away from him. “I can assure you, Beth, it won’t happen again.”

  Beth nodded, glad for the reassurance. He was her friend’s father. And she loved John. The feelings Oliver had evoked in her were just an outcropping of her longing for her dead husband. A natural emanation of her emotional neediness.

  And his. Because as much as she missed her John, he missed his Barbara, too.

  THE DAYS GREW SHORTER. Thanksgiving arrived, a quiet affair spent with Marcus and her father, eating out at the country club as Marcus’s family had always done. Beth spent the day with her cousin in upstate Connecticut.

  Willie Adams took his first steps the day after Thanksgiving, well on his way to recovery; but when she ran over to share the good news with Beth, her friend seemed almost distant, as she’d been ever since the anniversary of John’s death. Lisa had tried to reach her all day that Sunday, knowing how difficult the anniversary was for Beth. But to no avail. When she’d asked Beth about it afterward, Beth had been evasive.