P.S. You're a Daddy!

by Dianne Drake

  “Does that have to do with your bad marriage?” she asked, fully realizing it was none of her business. But she wanted to take the liberty anyway, to find out more about this man. “Because the walk down that aisle means permanence, and you took that walk.”

  “In a weak moment. She was pretty.”

  “So beauty turned your head, but couldn’t keep it turned?”

  “Beauty married me for my money, as it turned out.”

  “And broke your heart?”

  “Not that so much as embarrassed the hell out of me. Look out for that root,” he warned, reaching out to take her hand again.

  She was glad to hold onto him, and it wasn’t because of the trail. She liked his touch. Soft hands, but strong. Protective. Something she’d never really had in her life. “This is the first of six house calls?” she asked, stepping a little closer to him.

  “The others aren’t so isolated. Diabetes check, blood-pressure check, short procedures. Thought we’d get the most interesting case, and longest visit, out of the way first.”

  “Sounds like you look forward to this part of your grandfather’s practice.”

  “Do I detect that you might be trying to trap me into some kind of confession?”

  She laughed. “Just trying to point out that you like parts of his practice. That’s all.”

  “What I like is simplicity in a system that works for me. That’s the way I was in New York, and it’s the way I am here. It’s part of who I am. It became a bigger part, I think, after my marriage ended and I was trying to put back the pieces of me she’d taken away.” He turned to look at her. “Have you ever been married?”

  “No.”

  “Ever come close?”

  “Not really. Haven’t ever met someone I’d want to be that serious with.”

  “Maybe that’s smart. Live your life for yourself, keep any involvement at arm’s length. Because once you open that door and let it in...” He shrugged. Cringed. “Sometimes you can’t stop the momentum. If it’s what you want, that’s fine. But if it’s not, you’re in more trouble than you ever knew could happen, and there’s not always an easy way out of it.”

  “So, you’re anti-marriage? Anti-relationship? Which one?”

  “Neither, and both. I did it so badly the first time I’m not sure I’d trust myself to try it again.”

  “Which is why you need help with the decision on whether to stay here or go back to New York? You choose badly. Is that it?” He was insightful into his own process, but she wasn’t thrilled about his conclusions because if she did decide to tell him about his baby, she wasn’t sure how he’d take the news. There were moments when she thought he’d be thrilled, but now, hearing all this, she doubted he’d even want to know.

  And his view on relationships as a whole was pretty discouraging. Maybe that’s what bothered her most.

  “I made a bad choice once and I’m trying to stop myself from doing it again.”

  “But you can’t equate marriage to a medical practice.”

  “What I can equate, though, is blindness to blindness. I was blinded by Nancy. And I’m also blinded by my own likes and especially dislikes as a doctor. They’re not that different from each other. I see what I want to see and put on blinkers to the rest. That’s what I’m trying to overcome right now. With your help.”

  “With my help.” She admired his openness. In her experience, most people either wouldn’t admit their weaknesses or couldn’t see them. Beau was extraordinary in this, though, and it was another nice trait she hoped would be passed to the baby. It also made her wish Beau could be the one to actually teach or nurture that strength in his child.

  In fact, she wished for it so much she could almost picture Beau walking through these very woods hand in hand with a toddler, teaching him or her about life in general. Pointing out trees and birds and flowers. Stopping to examine a shiny rock or look at an ant scurrying its way home to its colony. It was such a nice image, it elicited a sigh from her.

  “Tired?” he asked.

  “A little bit. But I’m also wondering what’s going to be interesting about this first house call.”

  Beau chuckled. “You’ll see, in about five minutes.”

  And she did. After five minutes of idle chitchat and watching out for other tree roots and rocks hidden by vegetation, they came to a little cottage. A well-kept cottage, actually. It looked freshly painted. White. With green shutters. And totally out of place here, in the middle of the woods. No one around for miles. “So, who’s our patient?”

  “Arthur Jeremiah Handler.”

  “The Arthur Jeremiah Handler?” His paintings were legendary. And very, very expensive, as he only did one or two a year.

  “He found this place when he was scouting a location to paint, and that was thirty-five years ago. I remember Brax bringing me up here, and it always seemed like such an adventure. Sometimes we’d camp out in Arthur’s front yard for a night, build a huge bonfire, cook our dinner, sleep in a tent. Although I think Brax usually sneaked out after I went to sleep and stayed in Arthur’s guest room.”

  “Then he’s a recluse?”

  “Not at all. He just likes separation when he’s painting. When he’s not painting, he lives in Paris.”

  “So I take it he’s painting.”

  Beau nodded as he knocked on the door. “Chronic diabetes, by the way. He maintains it well here, but when he’s in Paris...”

  “When I’m in Paris the magnificent pastries are my comeuppance,” Arthur Jeremiah Handler said, opening the door to them. “Beau, thanks for coming. Have you gotten yourself married again?” Arthur asked, first giving Deanna a very deliberate head-to-toe appraisal then pulling her into his ample embrace.

  “Because this one is much better than the last one. Prettier. More intelligence in her eyes. Doesn’t radiate distrust and manipulation the way your Nancy did.”

  “Not married,” Deanne managed to squeeze out while still enfolded in his meaty arms. “Just working as his nurse.”

  “A nurse?” Arthur bellowed. He finally loosened his hug. “How’s Brax handling that? Not good, I imagine.”

  “No, not good,” Beau said, stepping inside then taking hold of Deanna’s hand and pulling her well past Arthur. “And this is Deanna Lambert, by the way. She’s a consultant for medical practices, and she’s agreed to help me for the next month.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Deanna said, looking around at the cottage. It was lush. Huge leather furniture. Antique brass figures everywhere. Rich-colored paintings she took to be Arthur’s own work. All of it a man’s world.

  “Not as nice as it is to meet you,” Arthur replied, wiggling very bushy white eyebrows at her. “Rare beauty such as yours is welcome in this home any time it presents itself on my doorstep.”

  “Knock off the charm, Arthur. Deanna’s all business. Probably rather stick you with a lancet than listen to you.”

  She liked the fondness between the two men. Arthur, who was probably Brax’s age, looked like Santa Claus, with a round belly and a white beard. And the most amazing, astute eyes. So much so they almost scared her. But he was an artist so he saw the world through an artist’s eyes. Still, the way he was staring at her right now...

  “If you insist on using the lancet, my dear, you may have any finger I possess,” he said, holding out his right hand and turning it palm up for her. “In fact, you may have all of them, if you wish. But before you make me bleed, I think it’s fair to warn you that I have indulged on the finest Paris has to offer and my test results here will reflect that I haven’t eaten as wisely as I should.”

  “An A1C blood test will tell us everything we need to know about your eating, Mr. Handler,” she said, pulling an alcohol swab from her kit, ripping it open then cleaning the tip of his index finger. “Unfortunately, I’m not pre
pared to do that kind of a blood draw here, so I may have to schedule you into the clinic in the very near future.”

  Pulling the lancet device from her kit, she anchored a fresh lancet in it then warned him, “Little stick.” Said after the stick, actually. She waited five seconds for the results then said, “Normal.”

  “Of course it’s normal. I’m always a good boy when I’m in Sugar Creek. By the way, Beau, does your nurse know I avoid doctors’ offices?” Arthur asked. “Absolutely abhor those dismal little places. They’re for sick people who have infectious coughs and other disgusting symptoms.”

  Beau chuckled. “But Deanna is pretty formidable, Arthur. If she schedules you an appointment, I wouldn’t go up against her if I were you.

  Arthur turned to regard Deanna and opened his mouth to protest, but she beat him to it. “A full panel of blood tests, Mr. Handler. And a routine EKG as well to rule out any heart problems that might result from those Paris indulgences. Things that can’t be done on a house call. I have an opening for you next Monday. First thing in the afternoon, say, one o’clock. Shouldn’t take more than an hour. So, may I count on you being there?”

  “Miserable things those damned office appointments,” he grumbled. “Besides, Brax and young Beau do a respectable job here so why drag me out for something I don’t need?”

  “But I’ve told you it was time you came in and had a proper physical,” Beau interjected.

  “To no avail, young man.” He turned a pointed glance at Deanna. “And young woman. Because I will not cross the threshold to your clinic. Not next Monday. Not any Monday.”

  “And you thought Brax was stubborn,” Beau commented to Deanna.

  “Your grandfather is a mere amateur,” Arthur said, “but I have perfected stubbornness to an art form.”

  “So, are you and your stubbornness ready for an exam, Arthur?” Beau asked.

  “By an exam you mean...”

  “An exam.” Beau grinned. “Everything I can do on a house call.”

  “Then I’m going to have to ask your nurse to please go fix us a pot of tea because there are parts of myself I’ve never exposed to a woman, and never intend on exposing to a woman. And I’m not being a chauvinist, Miss Lambert. I’m merely trying to cling to the last shred of dignity a man my age has.”

  She liked him. Liked his manners, his charm. Especially liked his wit. “With cream, sugar, lemon?”

  “Civilized, my dear. Cream, light sugar. Oh, and I’ve just pulled some fresh bread from the oven...yes, I do bake. It’s a pity some woman didn’t latch onto me in my prime.

  “Anyway, please help yourself to whatever you want. Jam is in the fridge, along with an assortment of fresh vegetables and fruits. I’m sure a woman in your condition could use a healthy snack after the ordeal Beau has put you through working with him.”

  “My condition?” she sputtered, not sure what he meant.

  “With child, of course.”

  “But...” No, she wouldn’t deny it. In fact, back home nothing about her pregnancy had been a secret. But here, in front of Beau... “I mean...”

  “It’s in your glow, my dear. I’ve painted dozens of ladies with the same glow. Did a portrait series of the various stages of pregnancy so I recognize it the instant I see it.”

  “You didn’t tell me,” Beau murmured, clearly shocked.

  “You’re not my doctor. And I’m barely started.” As if to prove her point, she ran her hand over her perfectly flat belly, only...was it larger today than it had been yesterday? Or was her imagination getting the better of her? “And healthy. Capable of fixing a pot of tea, too,” she said, then scooted into the kitchen and leaned heavily against the first available wall she could find.

  Now what? Stay here and keep on doing what she was doing? Or leave, convinced that Beau was a good man?

  And still wonder why he’d become a donor. That was the biggest question that remained. By all observations, he wasn’t social, didn’t want involvement. Yet agreeing to father an anonymous child somewhere was about as social and involved as it got without true involvement. She didn’t understand it. The thing was, even if she knew all the nuances, all the details, it wouldn’t make a difference. She was carrying his baby, and she was going to raise it. Nothing about that would change.

  Yet she didn’t want to leave. Not yet. “So we’re right back to the place where I don’t know what to do,” she whispered to the baby. Then shut her eyes. Tried to wipe everything from her mind but the life inside her. Which, in her mind’s eye, right now was a little boy who looked just like his daddy.

  “You OK?” Beau asked from the kitchen doorway.

  “Where’s Arthur?”

  “Getting ready to be examined. So, how far along are you?”

  “Nine weeks. Sailing through it like a champ.”

  “And keeping it a secret?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Not really. Just didn’t have too many opportunities to insert it into our conversations.” She shrugged. “No big deal.”

  “What about the father? Is it a big deal to him?”

  “Nope. He made a one-time deposit in the sperm bank, I benefitted. Good for him, I suppose. Wonderful for me.”

  Beau raised questioning eyebrows. “But you don’t seem happy.”

  “Quite the contrary. There’s nothing I want to do more than bring this baby into the world and be the best mom I can possibly be.”

  “Then smile when you say that, Deanna, because I’m not convinced.”

  “You don’t have to be,” she said, stepping away from the wall and heading to the old-fashioned gas stove to fetch the tea kettle. “For what it’s worth, though, I wanted to do this. From the very first moment Em...I thought about it, it’s all I wanted. So if you’re not seeing happiness, it’s because you’re not looking. Arthur saw it right off. You know, that pregnancy glow. And I’m sure, by now, he’s ready to get your poking and prodding over with.”

  He studied her for a moment then nodded. “And for what it’s worth, good decision about the horseback riding. I just wonder why you didn’t tell me that was the reason.” Then he left the kitchen.

  “You didn’t know?” Arthur asked. “From the way you look at her...I thought the baby might be yours. Miss Lambert is a far sight better than what you ended up with the first time.”

  “I’ve only known her a couple of days. And she’s only my consultant. That’s all.”

  “With that look I saw in your eyes, Beau, I think you’ve known her a lifetime. Or wanted to know her.” He grinned. “Now, tell me what you want me to do because I’d like to get this whole mess over with and go have tea with that lovely consultant of yours.”

  Beau snapped on a glove. “Guess what comes next,” he said.

  He’d thought she was reserved, and now he knew why. Still, she didn’t seem happy enough. Especially for someone who’d made the choice to bring a baby into the world on her own. It was a tough decision but an exciting one. In Deanna, though, he saw confusion where he should have been seeing joy. There was something else, he decided. But he couldn’t imagine what. More than that, he couldn’t imagine why he cared. He did, though. He cared, and he didn’t want to explore the reasons why. In fact, he didn’t even want to think that there might be a reason.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “I LIKE YOUR FRIEND,” Deanna said. She was settling into a chair at an outside table that sat, quite literally, over the mountain stream running directly beneath the little restaurant where they were about to dine. It was a cozy place, its ambience more like an elevated patio, enclosed by screens rather than walls, with casual outdoor furniture and low lighting in the form of muted Japanese lanterns. While it wasn’t elegant, and in the full light of day might have looked a bit tacky, Beau’s choice was a comfortable one. And tonight all she wanted was comfort.
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  It had turned into a very long day for her. And a hard one as well, since the physicality of the day had finally caught up to her.

  Still now, at day’s end, she was beginning to realize how much she missed real nursing duties, the kind where you spent your day with people, not research, phones and computers. “He’s quite charming. Very direct.”

  “Arthur? He was my port in the storm several times when I was growing up. You know, that adult figure with a voice of reason who just seemed to understand you better than your parents did. Or, in my case, Brax. That’s what I thought, anyway. And you’re right. He is very direct.”

  “I saw one of his paintings once, years ago, in a museum. And I thought he must be a serene man, the way he captured the essence of the mountainscape. I mean, how many people have painted mountains and trees and done so adequately but unremarkably? Yet in that painting it was like I was there, and I could feel that same peacefulness he must have felt when he was painting it.

  “In fact, that painting is what inspired me into rural nursing research. When I discovered that places like he painted struggled for the medical care most people are accustomed to...I guess it bothered me that just off the edge of the canvas there were hard realities to deal with.

  “Anyway, here I am, and I just fixed him a pot of tea, Beau! The man makes a difference in the world, and I fixed him a pot of tea.”

  She was perplexed, though, why someone like A. J. Handler would isolate himself the way he did. He belonged to the world, and the world was a better place when he was in it and not hiding out in a secluded mountain cabin.

  “I have an idea you could stop by and fix him a pot of tea any time you wanted. He loves having visitors. And I noticed that he said he might stop by the office for an exam. That’s the one thing I never expected from him.”

  “He’s an old sweetie. Just needs a little nudging, that’s all. But why does he live so far away from everything? Especially if he loves having people stop by?”

  “I don’t believe he thinks he’s far from everything. In fact, I’m pretty sure Arthur believes he’s living in the center of his universe. Guess it depends on your perspective, doesn’t it?”