McCallum Quintuplets

by Kasey Michaels

  But she sat down anyway, because obviously Ian wasn’t going to let her go without drinking her coffee or having their talk. She held the mug with both hands, hoping the mug wouldn’t shake, spill on her delicate raw silk slacks before the credit card bill even arrived in the mail.

  “Okay, cards on the table,” Ian began, putting down his half-empty mug. “Here’s how I see it. We’ve turned a corner in our relationship, reached a new level—something. I haven’t figured out exactly what yet, but there’s definitely been a change. What bothers me is that I’m not that shallow, dammit. I didn’t jump your bones because of that outfit, or the eyes, or the hair. I mean, I didn’t just look at you tonight, say wow, look at her, why not—and then go on the attack. As a matter of fact, now that I think about it, you kissed me first.”

  “Oh, brother! Well, there it is, isn’t it? I knew we’d get to it. It’s my fault? Is that what you’re saying, Ian? That it’s my fault? After all, it’s my outfit, my eyes—my hair. And you’re right, I did kiss you first. Shame on me! Well, let me go get frumpy again, so you don’t lose control of your libido, okay?”

  “Maddie,” Ian said, his voice low, his expression pained. “I’d really appreciate it if you listened to everything that I said. I admit it, you really threw me a curve tonight. I’d be an idiot not to admit that. But what I’m trying to say to you is that I saw this coming. I’ve seen it now for a couple of weeks. Why do you think you’re wearing that bracelet instead of a telescope?”

  “People can’t wear telescopes.” Madeline shot the words back, knowing she was being deliberately dense. She stood up, began pacing in front of the coffee table. “A couple of weeks? Why?”

  Ian laid his head back against the cushions, closed his eyes. “You don’t remember? You don’t remember crying all over me, telling me about your biological clock, about sperm donors, the whole nine yards?”

  Madeline stopped pacing, felt the blood drain out of her face. “You volunteered,” she said, remembering. “But not nicely, as I recall it. What was it you said? Oh, yeah—don’t go to strangers. My God, Ian, is that what you were planning to be tonight? My sperm donor?”

  He shot off the couch as if one of the cushion springs had broken. “No! Dammit, Maddie, why are we having so much trouble saying what’s on our minds? On my mind, anyway,” he ended more quietly, avoiding her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Ian,” Madeline said apologetically, trying to regulate her breathing. “Just tell me what you mean. I’ll try to understand.”

  “Thank you. Now, if I knew what I mean, we’d be in pretty good shape,” he told her, his smile just about breaking her heart. “Let me reiterate—I did not plan to be your sperm donor tonight. The only reason I mentioned that conversation was to help pinpoint the moment I started thinking about you…differently. As if you were a woman.”

  “I’ve always been a woman, Ian,” Madeline said, blinking back tears. “You mean you hadn’t noticed?”

  He put both hands to his head, stabbed his fingers into his hair—and ended by looking a lot like Adam McCallum had earlier, nervous, on edge, even frightened.

  “The only way this could go any more badly would be if a clown popped up from behind the bar over there, holding a quacking duck in his hands,” he said miserably, and Madeline smiled in spite of herself.

  “A duck? Why would the clown have a duck with him?”

  Ian grinned. “Because all the chickens are busy laying eggs?”

  Madeline laughed, feeling some of the tension ease out of the room. Maybe this was going to be all right. Maybe they could still be friends.

  Of course, then Ian blew it….

  “Here goes, Maddie,” he said, sobering. “I mentioned what happened a couple of weeks ago because I’ve been feeling like a selfish bastard ever since that conversation. Fifteen years, Maddie. For fifteen years, we’ve been best friends, or I thought we were. But we weren’t. And you want to know why? I figured it out. You were my best friend, but I wasn’t yours. I kept up my own life, my other friends—women. But not you. If it wasn’t school, it was your internship, your residency and now the McCallum wing. You had time for two things, your work and me. Other than that, you had no life. Hell, your mother still makes your clothes because you can’t seem to even find time to go shopping. And you can’t do that because, when you’re not working, you’re cooking for me, doing my wash for me, hanging out with me. And then, with this birthday coming up, you finally realized that you’re watching your whole life go by without really living it. No man in your life, no kids. And it’s my fault.”

  Madeline had stood very still while Ian spoke, mentally watching him dig a hole into the carpet, just so she could throw him into it, cover him over with beige plush.

  As he spoke, her temper built, then divided, doubled and built again.

  “Are you through?” she asked when he stopped, looked at her like a puppy who needed a reassuring pat on the head. He was lucky she didn’t take a two-by-four to him!

  “No, there’s more. I was sort of slowly working my way to the grand finale. What I’m trying to say to you, Maddie, is that I’m looking at you differently now, and I’ve realized that I—”

  “I don’t believe this,” she interrupted, starting slow, knowing she would be building on block after block of hurt and outrage. “Do you know how stupid you’ve just made me sound? Poor little Maddie, working and slaving, then coming home and working and slaving some more. I cook for you, Ian, because you’d starve otherwise, or your cholesterol would be through the roof thanks to your taste in food groups. Besides, I like to cook, and I like to watch you eat. I wash for you because my unit doesn’t have a washer and dryer and yours does, so it’s only fair that I do your wash while I’m doing my own.”

  “Maddie, I—”

  “Oh, no, don’t interrupt me, Ian, because you started this, and now I’m going to finish it. You’re right, at least about one thing. I have been too busy to have much of a life outside of my work. I knew that going in—you don’t get to be a doctor, a specialist, just by wishing for it to happen. So I wouldn’t have had much of a life, as you call it, even if you weren’t in it. If I chose to spend my free hours with you, with my friend, where’s the crime in that?”

  “Well, I—”

  “I’ll tell you where the crime is, you stupid…stupid idiot. The crime is that I knew what I was doing. From the beginning, I’ve known what I was doing. Do you think I was never attracted to you? In that way?”

  “Attracted? Well, I—”

  “Shut up! Yes, you idiot, attracted to you. For all the good that did me. You were the most popular guy on campus, remember? And you went through willing coeds like Grant through Richmond. Do you really think I wanted to be another notch on your belt?”

  “Hey! I wasn’t that bad,” Ian protested.

  “Bad enough. Oh, you settled down, grew up, but you still go through women at the rate of two or three a year. Did you really think I wanted to be one of those women? I like you, Ian. I like you, I trust you, I’m comfortable with you—and, yes, I once thought I was in love with you. But you know what would have happened if I’d let you know that?”

  Ian opened his mouth, closed it when Madeline glared at him.

  “I’ll tell you what would have happened. I would have been one of Ian Russell’s women. Here today, gone tomorrow. I liked you too much to let that happen. So I settled for being your friend, your buddy, your pal. So now, fifteen years later—fifteen years too late—you’re telling me you’ve suddenly started looking at me as more than your friend? You’re looking at me as a woman? Well, bully for you, buddy boy, but you’re too late. You’re too damn late! Now, I’ve had a long day, a damn long day, and I’m going to bed. Alone!”

  And then she made her exit, ruining it only by tripping over her three-inch heels and rolling over one ankle, so that she limped out of the apartment, wrapped in her righteous misery. Catherine Zeta-Jones probably would have been damn proud of her.

  Chapter Fi
ve

  “Yeah, it’s a bummer all right. Rain date’s next Saturday? Sure, I can make it, partner. Uh-huh, uh-huh. Definitely a rotten break. I’m upset, too. See you, Gregg.”

  Ian put down the phone and barely resisted doing a joyful dance as he went to the window, looked out at the pouring rain that had turned Sunday morning as gray as his mood had been—until he’d seen that rain. A bummer? A rotten break? He hoped he’d carried off his role of disappointment, considering he was probably headed for golfer’s hell, as no golfer is ever happy to see rain.

  He turned away from the window, eyed the clock on the mantel. Nine-fifteen. Normally, if he didn’t have an early tee time, he’d be in Maddie’s apartment right about now, happily downing one of her great breakfasts. Then he’d clean up the kitchen while Maddie showered and dressed—but probably no longer in baggy sweats, which he was already beginning to think he’d miss.

  They’d fight over the newspaper—who would get the sports section first—watch the talking heads put their spin on the network shows, yell at the television set a little, sip coffee and nibble on whatever homemade breakfast buns were left over from breakfast.

  In the afternoon, they’d go out, visit a gallery, window-shop for stuff they didn’t want to buy but liked to look at, grab a meal at one of their favorite restaurants—usually one with a drive-through window.

  By the time they’d walked off lunch, maybe caught a movie, the pot roast Maddie had earlier stuck in the oven and put on the timer would be done, and they’d be able to smell the roasting meat, carrots, potatoes, onions as they entered the apartment building.

  Dinner, some television, a cutthroat video game or two and then some homemade dessert, a kiss good-night on the cheek, and another Sunday would be over.

  Man, he loved Sunday. A guy would have to be seriously crazy not to love Sundays with Maddie.

  He patted his stomach as it growled in hunger, and headed for the kitchen, opening cabinets, swearing under his breath, opening the refrigerator door, sniffing the carton of milk inside and swearing some more.

  He could have cereal, but without milk. Toast, but without jelly. And orange juice? Forget about it. Maddie squeezed her own oranges, fresh every morning. He hadn’t bought a carton of orange juice in fifteen years.

  Ian sat at the kitchen table, ran a hand over his mussed hair. And he realized something. It came to him slowly, but he realized something. Something that was probably very important.

  He and Maddie sure did eat a lot.

  But that wasn’t it. That wasn’t what he figured out. What he figured out was that food—Maddie’s very good food—was a sort of substitute for something else. Eating was a sensual pleasure they shared, definitely, but was it also a stand-in for a sensual pleasure they denied each other, had been denying each other for fifteen years?

  What was he hungry for this morning? Homemade cinnamon buns? Or Maddie? Fluffy scrambled eggs and a slice of ham? Or Maddie?

  More important: what would he miss most if Maddie went out of his life? Food? No. Someone to watch sports with on television? No. Someone to nag him to take his vitamins? No. Someone to talk to about his love life? Definitely no, and never again.

  He’d miss Maddie. Her smile. Her intensity. Her dedication to her work. The way he felt so comfortable with her, so damn comfortable, like she was the other half of him, the two of them halves of the same whole.

  And she’d said, just last night, right here, where he could hear it, that she’d loved him. Once upon a time, Madeline Sheppard had believed herself to be in love with him.

  Wasn’t that a bitch?

  How had he missed it? Where had his head been at the time?

  “Probably up my—ah, hell,” Ian muttered, and padded toward the front door in his bare feet, wearing a faded gray T-shirt and gym shorts that had seen better days. Maybe he’d just get the paper, hide in basketball stats for a while and try to figure out life—his life, Maddie’s life, their life together—some other time.

  He opened the door, already bending to grab the heavy Sunday edition—and there was Maddie, one hand raised to knock on his door.

  “Maddie?” he asked, looking at her as if he’d never seen her before. This was Sunday morning attire? Slim navy slacks, a fuzzy white angora sweater that went halfway down her thighs? A flowered scarf around her neck, tied low, at her waist? And her hair—once more pulled back off her face, but only some of it, caught up in two combs, with her curls tumbling onto her shoulders. Venus on the half shell had never looked so good.

  Damn.

  “You’re late,” she said, then turned on her heels—yup, she was wearing heels again—went into her apartment, leaving the door open behind her.

  It wasn’t a trail of bread crumbs leading to the gingerbread house, but it was close, and Ian decided not to question, but to follow where Maddie led.

  He picked up the newspaper, then smoothed down his wrinkled T-shirt with one hand, tried to flatten his mussed hair and followed his nose, which told him that, yes, homemade cinnamon buns awaited.

  He put down the newspaper even as he picked up the tangerine silk blouse, shook his head when he saw the wrinkles in it. Following the trail of bone leather boots, he found the beige slacks draped over the antique telephone stand and the gold chain necklace hanging from the one of the wall sconces Maddie had bought two years ago but had yet to fill with candles.

  “I’ve never looked in your closets, Maddie,” he said after dumping everything on her bed and returning to the living room. “Is there anything in them?”

  Maddie, who stood behind the bar separating the kitchen from the living room, looked at him, her expression pained. “You don’t ever get tired of that joke, do you, Ian?”

  “Not as long as you stick around for all the reruns, no,” he said, looking at the small table Maddie had set with two places. This was promising. She wasn’t going to throw his breakfast at him, she actually planned on the two of them sitting at the same table, sharing their meal.

  “Maddie, about last night—”

  She held up her hands, including the one with the oven mitt on it, cutting him off. “There will be no rehashing of last night. None. Either we move on, try to get back to where we were, or one of us is going to have to move to Alaska. You got that? Now come on. I’ve got to be at the hospital in a half hour.”

  “I’ll take you?” Ian half offered, half asked.

  “Oh, really? And then who does the dishes?” she asked, carrying a platter piled with fluffy scrambled eggs and a mound of crisp bacon over to the table. “I think I can manage getting myself to the hospital, thank you. Now come on, sit down and eat before everything gets cold.”

  Ian sat, but he wasn’t hungry. He’d been starving, but he wasn’t anymore. Still, he picked up his glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, and the vitamin pill sitting next to the glass, and availed himself of both. If he didn’t, he was pretty sure there’d be hell to pay, because Maddie, the best of good sports, could blow higher than the space shuttle when she finally let loose the reins on her temper.

  “How long will you be at the hospital?” he asked as he scraped some scrambled eggs onto his plate. If she could pretend the world hadn’t exploded last night, so could he, dammit. At least for another five minutes.

  “I don’t know. I phoned earlier, and Maggie had a restful night, or what was left of last night. She feels fine, there’s no more spotting, and Adam has promised to wait on her hand and foot, and even tie her to their bed, if necessary, to keep her on bed rest. Zach will probably release her this morning when he makes his rounds.”

  “That’s good then, isn’t it? I’m happy for them, although I wouldn’t want to be either of them for the next few months, until those babies are born.”

  Maddie chewed on a piece of bacon, then said, “It doesn’t have to be a scary time, an awful time. They’ll be able to enjoy a lot of this pregnancy, if we can just convince them that, in the past few years, multiples are not just more common, but that we’ve
learned a lot about taking mother and babies safely from conception to delivery.”

  “But it’s still scary,” Ian prompted, trying to keep her talking. If he could keep her talking, maybe he’d find a way to tell her what he’d tried to say last night, right before she’d gone into orbit.

  “Well, I certainly wouldn’t lie and say a multiples pregnancy is as uncomplicated as most single births, no. But multiple births have always fascinated me, you know that. What with both Mom and Dad being twins and everything. Dad’s twin died at birth because of complications with the delivery, and he grew up an only child because his mother could no longer become pregnant. I never knew her, but Dad said she mourned until the day she died, and that’s so sad. The moment I hit my obstetrics rotation, I couldn’t help but zero in on multiples, on infertility, and I immediately knew I’d found my specialty.”

  Okay, they were getting closer to the subject. She was talking babies. Let’s talk babies, Ian thought. “I was wondering, Maddie. Since both your mom and dad were twins, what were the odds that you could have been twins, or could have twins of your own?”

  She finished her orange juice, patted her mouth—she was wearing lipstick!—with her napkin. “There have been lots of studies, and there are probability charts, that sort of thing. Still, more often than not, my mother’s folklore answer seems to be right on this one, that twins skip a generation.”

  Ian coughed, cleared his throat, wondering if Maddie had missed a seed in the orange juice. “Skip…skip a generation? Does that mean you could have twins?”

  Madeline shrugged. “Anything’s possible, if I were to get pregnant.”

  Ah, getting closer to the subject. “And you’ve considered that, Maddie? Having twins, that is. You know, I’d like twins. I think that would be neat.”