THE BABY PLAN

by Susan Gable

  She gestured toward the new construction. "What's this?"

  "Sturdy steps that won't collapse on you, and a splinter-free railing. Seemed like the least I could do." He patted the wood by his side. "Pretreated lumber. Won't rot out in the Erie weather."

  "I—I can't pay you for this." She'd been wondering how she was going to pay the slumlord, who'd been furious when he'd found out about the railing. Now it looked as though the debt had been transferred to Jake. And Harley always paid her debts.

  "I don't expect you to. Consider it a gift."

  The corners of her mouth twitched upward and she shook her head. "That's a new one. Most guys go for flowers or candy. No one's ever built me stairs before."

  "What can I say? I'm unique."

  "Definitely." And good-looking, too. Today's indigo-blue polo shirt clung to his shoulders and torso, answering all her questions about the horsepower the man packed. The sun sparked hidden highlights in his dark hair. "But are you a stalker?"

  He laughed. "No. Jeez, you're suspicious. Hasn't anyone ever just done something nice for you?"

  "No. Not without expecting something in return." Okay, so that wasn't exactly true. Charlie had become her friend and helped her out more times than she could count, and he'd never expected anything in return, just that she make her life better and achieve the goals she set for herself. Damn, she missed that old man. She needed to hit a pay phone later and give him a call.

  "How goes the job search?"

  "Lousy. Stop asking. Even the grocery stores don't want me."

  He launched himself off the steps in a hurry. "Okay, then would you mind taking a look at my Mustang? I'll pay you."

  "I just fixed it a week ago. What could possibly be wrong with it already?" She frowned up at him as his shadow blocked the sunlight from her face.

  "I dunno. You're the mechanic. It's making a funny noise." Jake peered down at her. He hoped she'd agree. He could slip her some money, his guilt would be assuaged and he could concentrate on more pressing matters. Like his surrogate search. Because until he got this intriguing woman taken care of, she'd no doubt continue to invade his thoughts at the oddest times, like when he was sitting at a traffic light or getting ready to fall asleep.

  "And just where do you expect me to look at your car? The cops aren't real crazy about people working on cars in the streets."

  "Damn, I hadn't thought about that." He snapped his fingers. "You can use my garage."

  Doubt filled her eyes, and one brow rose toward her hairline. "I thought we covered the fact that I'm not stupid? I don't go to strange men's houses, either."

  "Would you feel more comfortable if I arranged a chaperon for us? A woman? We could use my brother's garage. His wife's home during the afternoon, and I'm sure she'd be happy to hang around."

  Her cheeks flushed. "I'm sorry. You've gone out of your way to be nice to me. Heck, you built me stairs." She took a deep breath. "You let me know where and when, and I'll meet you at your brother's house and check out your car."

  "Good. Next Wednesday." That was one thing settled.

  * * *

  "Don't get upset." Jake made a calming motion with his hand.

  "I'm not taking your money, dammit! There is nothing wrong with this car." Harley slammed the Mustang's hood, and the sound echoed through the small detached garage. "I didn't think there could be. I did my job right the first time."

  "I didn't think you hadn't. I'm telling you, it's been making this funny noise. They never do it when you want them to."

  She collected her socket wrench and wire gauge from the weather-beaten table against the wall. Cobwebs hung from the dirty window, dancing on the breeze. "Guess your brother doesn't spend much time in here, does he?"

  "No, he doesn't," answered a female voice from the doorway. "Dusty isn't much into tools or garage stuff. He likes model trains, though. You should see the setup he has in the basement."

  Harley turned to look at the very pregnant woman Jake had introduced as his sister-in-law. Kathy? No, Kate. "They do like their toys, don't they?"

  "Yes. Hey, I've made some iced tea. Since it's so nice out, I figured we could sit on the back porch."

  Harley wiped her hands with a rag, then laid it on top of her toolbox, along with the gauge and wrench. "Thanks, but I should get going."

  The woman looked disappointed. "Please? It's not often I have company these days. I've got some brownies to go with it."

  "Your special brownies, Katie? With the chocolate chips in them?" Jake asked. When she said yes, he grinned at Harley. "Don't pass those up. Come on, sit a minute. It's not like there's someplace you have to be just now, is there?"

  Brownies. Harley's mouth watered at the thought. Goodies had been scarce in the pantry since she'd lost her job. "Not really. I guess I could stay for a few minutes." She held out her hands. "Where can I wash up?"

  Waddling awkwardly, Kate showed her through the little screened porch and into the sunny kitchen. Harley appraised the yellow-and-white gingham curtains and lemon walls as she washed. "Nice." Slightly blinding, but nice. It would sure wake you up in the morning.

  Kate smiled. "It's small, but it's ours. Well, ours and the bank's. We got a good deal through the state because Dusty's a policeman."

  "Your husband's a cop?" Cops weren't high on her list of favorite people. The night of her arrest had been the most humiliating and degrading thing she'd ever experienced, and that was saying a lot. The police had scoffed at her protests of innocence. Harley replaced the cotton towel on the oven door, then followed Kate back out onto the porch. Jake was sprawled in one of the webbed chairs, a glass of iced tea in one hand, brownie in the other.

  "Yes. He loves being on the force." Condensation dripped off the pitcher as Kate poured tea into the waiting glasses. She passed one to Harley, then slowly lowered herself into a chair. "Sit down. Help yourself to a brownie."

  "Thanks." The rich chocolate helped relieve some of the apprehension she felt about having tea and treats on some cop's porch. What would Kate's husband—Jake's brother—think if he knew his wife was serving goodies to a convicted criminal? Well, they certainly couldn't talk about that. No point in upsetting such a hospitable, not to mention extremely pregnant, woman. "When's your baby due?"

  Kate caressed the mound of her stomach. "One week from yesterday. Not soon enough, if you want to know the truth."

  Jake placed his empty glass on the table and slid his chair closer to Kate's. "How are your feet doing?"

  "Oh, they're fine. Not too swollen today."

  "Let me see." He patted his legs. "Put them up here."

  Kate slipped off her sandals and lifted her feet to his lap. When Jake started rubbing them, she closed her eyes, dropped her head back and sighed deeply. "Oh, that's great, Jake. I'll give you a million bucks as long as you don't stop."

  The man replaced a stranger's broken steps, worried about that same stranger's job and rubbed his pregnant sister-in-law's feet. Damn. He really was a nice guy. She didn't belong here. Harley rose. "I'm gonna run. Thanks for the tea and brownie. It was delicious." The screen door squeaked as she shoved it open and headed for the garage.

  She was kneeling next to her toolbox, setting her tools in their proper drawers when she felt his presence behind her.

  "I really wish you'd let me pay you for checking out my car."

  She shook her head. "If I'd done something, that would be fine. But I didn't."

  He leaned closer, looking over her shoulder at the tool box. "Who's that?" He pointed to the picture taped to the inside lid.

  Harley slammed it shut. "Just me and my dad." The latches rasped as she closed them.

  "Is he a mechanic, too?"

  Her fingers traced the dents in the red metal top. The toolbox was a replica of her father's. How she wished she still had his actual set. But all she had left was the one photograph. "Yeah. He was. Taught me a lot." Her biceps flexed as she lifted the heavy box and turned to face Jake.

  "Was?"
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  She narrowed her eyes and scowled at him. He was treading on highly personal ground.

  "Okay. Hey, can I ask you a question? It might sound strange, but you seem like you were close to your dad, following in the family business and all…"

  "What?" She shifted the box, using both hands to hold it now.

  "Do you think a man can raise a child by himself and do a good job of it?"

  Harley's throat tightened. She swallowed hard and did her best to remain nonchalant. "Yeah," she finally said. "Yeah, I think he can." She headed down the cracked driveway toward the street. "My father did."

  Jake hurried after her, trying not to be distracted by the sway of her hips in the tight jeans. "Why don't you let me carry that for you?" He reached for the toolbox.

  "No, thanks. I can manage." At the curb, she set her burden down and unlocked the cap of the truck. After lowering the tailgate, she hefted the box into the truck with a grunt, then shoved it farther inside.

  "What about you, Harley? You ever want to have children?" He slammed the tailgate shut, trapping her between the truck and his arm.

  "Yeah, right. Look at me. I've got enough trouble taking care of myself right now. No, I don't think I'll ever have children. I'm not exactly prime mother material."

  Maybe not, but despite his earlier concerns, he was definitely getting the impression that she'd make prime surrogate material. She didn't want kids of her own, she thought a man could raise a child by himself… Maybe they could help each other out. "How would you like to go to dinner with me on Friday night? Someplace casual. I'd like to get to know you a little better."

  * * *

  "Is your food okay?"

  She glanced from the table to his face. "What?"

  His eyes sparkled at her and he broke into a broad grin. He set his hamburger back on the plate. "Your food. You've hardly touched it."

  Heat flared in her cheeks. "It's fine, I was just thinking, that's all."

  "About me, I hope."

  Oh, yeah, she'd been thinking about him, all right. Thinking about what the hell a nice, successful guy like him was doing with a woman like her. Wondering if maybe, just maybe—her past hard-learned lessons to the contrary—he actually liked her. Was it possible that her luck with men had changed the day she'd gotten fired? Perhaps. But a wise woman didn't confess something like that, not at this stage.

  "This is an interesting restaurant." She picked up a hot wing from the green plastic basket and took a tentative bite. Delicious. Just enough zing without scalding heat. She looked around, feigning more interest in the decor than in the man across the table from her.

  Sports cars and motorcycles decorated the place. A blue 'Vette hung on the wall above them, while nearby a black '57 T-bird convertible rested on a lift over other diners' heads. NASCAR paraphernalia dotted the far wall, including the hood from one of Jeff Gordon's rides.

  "I thought a girl named Harley who worked on cars would like it," Jake murmured. "Don't tell me you've never been here before."

  "I don't go out much." She licked the sauce from her fingers.

  As Jake watched her clean her fingers, a tight sensation clutched his stomach, then spread south as his body announced its appreciation of this beautiful woman. Damn, she made the idea of procreation incredibly appealing. Down, boy. That's not how this is going to be, so get it right out of your head. If you're lucky, she'll be the mother of your child. Not your lover.

  The twinkle in her eyes made him wonder if she was tormenting him on purpose. Two could play that game. He grabbed her wrist. "Let me take care of that."

  Her eyes grew wide as he raised her hand toward his own mouth—then abruptly placed it on the table, reached for a packaged wipe, ripped it open and carefully cleaned her fingers with the moist towel.

  The action achieved his desired effect of distancing them, and she chuckled while snatching back her hand.

  She scrubbed at her fingers with a paper napkin. "Thanks a lot. Now my wings are going to taste like soap."

  "You're welcome. Couldn't have those talented fingers all messy." He picked up a French fry. "Tell me more about yourself."

  "There's not much to tell."

  "You could tell me about your name. Surely there's a story behind that."

  "I could. There is." Her gaze dipped from his face back to the table again.

  "But you don't want to tell me. Okay, I can live with that. But I think it suits you."

  She peered up at him without lifting her head. "You do?"

  "Yes. It's racy, it's provocative, and men do tend to refer to their motorcycles as 'she,' so it's definitely feminine."

  Freshly cleaned fingers shredded the end of a napkin. "It wasn't supposed to be."

  "Well, it is." The name was obviously a sore spot, and he wanted to make inroads with her, get some answers before he broached his plan. "Any luck with the job search the last few days?"

  The paper-ripping increased and she raised her head to glare at him. "No." The volume of her voice rose a notch. "And I want you to stop asking."

  "I'm really sorry, Harley."

  She dropped the shreds to the white Formica surface of the table, folded her arms across her chest and waited.

  "I didn't think Ned would fire anyone over twenty-five bucks and a cell phone."

  "It's okay. It's a normal reaction. You were looking for justice."

  "It's not justice when he fires am innocent person."

  "Innocence has nothing to do with it." She inhaled deeply, then slowly exhaled, sagging against the booth, hands falling into her lap. "Justice is handed down, Jake. Think about it. There's a reason they use that term. It's handed down from those on high to the lower echelons."

  "Ned doesn't qualify as those on high, and I rather doubt he'd even know what the word echelon means. So don't lump yourself in with him. Certainly don't lower yourself beneath him."

  She snorted. "Beneath him … that looks like the only way I'm going to find another job."

  Apprehension grabbed at him. "What?"

  "Nothing. It's just that some garage owners I've seen in the past few days had rather indecent proposals for me."

  A combination of emotions stirred within him: anxiety that she'd consider his proposal indecent, too, and anger that anyone had the nerve to proposition her. "That's not right. You're a fine mechanic. My car's never sounded better."

  "Guess that weird noise has stopped, huh?"

  "Uh, yeah." He smiled sheepishly. Okay, so he'd lied about the noise. He'd been trying to help. "But I mean it. You're terrific at what you do."

  "Thanks." She fell silent as the waitress returned to their table with fresh drinks. When the woman left, she spoke again. "But nobody wants a worker with a record."

  "So it was true." Jake reached for his beer, surprised as hell she'd confessed, but determined not to show it. How considerate of her to open one of the topics he really wanted to discuss.

  "Yeah. In a way." Her gaze dropped back down to the table, and she removed another napkin from the tidy stack as her next victim. Elbows propped on the edge of the table, she repeated the process of reducing the paper to long strips.

  "Why'd you do it?"

  "I didn't do it."

  "My brother says everybody claims innocence."

  She snapped her head up and glared at him. "I am innocent. I had no idea they were running a chop-shop after hours. I didn't spend my nights in the garage."

  "But you got convicted, anyway?"

  "Yeah, well, the cops raided the joint and found me cleaning carburetors from chopped cars. Nobody wanted to hear that I didn't know where they'd come from, that I was only doing what my boss told me to. And the jerk of a public defender I was assigned couldn't defend his way out of a war against toy soldiers."

  "Where was your family? Why didn't they help you get a decent lawyer?"

  "You ask a lot of questions for an architect. You sound more like a shrink or a reporter." She tossed the final napkin shred onto the pile. "What kinds
of things do you design, anyway? Let me guess, you've designed most of the lovely new strip malls around here."

  Jake hesitated over her abrupt shift in topic, but decided that letting her take the lead would help her feel more comfortable. And he certainly wanted her feeling comfortable when he popped The Question. About surrogacy. Not "the question." One wife in his lifetime had turned out to be more than enough. His face warmed. "Definitely not. I designed the new business park out on the east side, and the Spandler hotel down on the bayfront."

  "Okay, I'm duly impressed."

  The conversation drifted along in a casual manner after that, touching on the subjects of Erie's growth, the overabundance of new drugstores, and eventually a subject that made her eyes lose that wary edge—classic cars.

  When they'd completed their meals, Jake brought up the other topic he wanted to cover. Satisfied that her criminal record was a fluke, no fault of her own, he crossed his fingers beneath the table and launched into the unknown.

  "What's your dream, Harley?"

  "Dream? What do you mean?"

  "I mean, what does a beautiful, talented woman like you want out of life?" He leaned forward so he could hear her answer clearly over the clatter of dishes and the murmur of other diners.

  "That's easy. I want to finish my college degree before they have to put me in a nursing home and then get a job in business."

  He tilted his head and studied her carefully. "I can't really picture you in a suit at a hoard table."

  "That's exactly the point. I'm tired of being Harley the mechanic. Nobody takes me seriously."

  "The people whose cars you fix do. You did a great job with my Mustang."

  A slight tinge of pink graced her cheeks. "Thanks. But society doesn't exactly look up to mechanics, especially female ones."

  "So, what's stopping you?"

  "There's this little thing called money. The college is pretty picky about paid tuition." A strand of her hair, loose from her ponytail and hanging down near her face, shifted as she blew out a breath. "Not to mention the other bills I have to pay."

  "What about student loans? And if things are really bad, you could probably get welfare."