THE BABY PLAN

by Susan Gable

  Talk about killing looks. The one she gave him in response to that comment could have taken out all the people in the immediate vicinity.

  "I don't do government programs," she said. "I've had enough experience with them to know I'd rather starve, thanks."

  "Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. What if I told you I could help make your dream come true?"

  She gave a short laugh. "I'd say this is going to be interesting." She crossed her arms. "I'm listening."

  Her guarded expression warned him to tread cautiously. "Harley, more than anything in this world, I want a child."

  "Why? Look around. Why would you want to bring a child into this hellhole we call a world? And what does that have to do with me?"

  "There's a space in my life only a child can fill. I no longer have a wife, nor do I want to get married again. I need a surrogate, and I think you'd make a perfect one. You're beautiful, intelligent—"

  "An ex-con, and this is the most unbelievable come-on I've ever heard in my life!"

  The noise in their immediate area dropped and heads turned in their direction.

  "It's no come-on." He stared pointedly at a gray-haired woman one table over until she returned her attention to her meal. "And if you're truly innocent, then you're not an ex-con in my book."

  The shocked expression on her face vanished quickly, replaced by a glint of steel. She leaned across the table until her breath warmed his face as she spoke softly. "If you wanted me in your bed, you were on the right track before you took this sudden detour."

  An image flashed by of her in his bed, silky hair fanned across his pillow as she writhed beneath him, and he found himself struggling to erase it. "No, no, that's not what I'm proposing." But hot damn, the image provoked and delighted him. "I'm talking about artificial insemination."

  She sat back, staring at him. "You're a sick man. That's the coldest thing I've ever heard in my life, and I've heard a lot. I'm not a prostitute, and I'm not a baby factory."

  Jake grabbed her by the wrist. "Harley, think about it. I'll pay all the medical expenses, your full tuition, your books, even your living expenses. You could get that degree you want so much."

  "Let go." She tugged on her arm, but he held her firmly. "I'm flattered, I think, that you've decided I'd make the perfect mother for your baby. But I'm not interested. There are enough children in this world. Find one whose parents don't want her and take her in."

  "Tried that. It didn't pan out. Now I want a biological child, a child I have legal rights to."

  "At least you get points for honesty. No seducing with pretty words, no declarations of love or empty promises. No, at least you've got honesty going for you." She yanked her wrist from his grasp and slid from the booth. "Kids are a commitment, not a … a whim. They deserve a good home. Best of luck in your quest."

  "Spend some more time with me! Let me prove to you that I can provide a good home for a child," he called after her. "I'm reliable and responsible—"

  Harley shoved past a group of people waiting in the lobby, stormed out the front door and onto the sidewalk before she remembered he'd driven. She whirled on the green-and-white racecar that sat on the sidewalk and kicked the rear tire. "Dammit."

  How dare he?

  A surrogate!

  For once she'd thought someone like him, someone with a little class, could actually be interested in her. She should've known better. He was no different than any other man—out to get what he could from her. Although what he wanted differed from what most of them were trying to get.

  A noisy cluster of patrons spilled out of the glass doors, and Harley turned to check for Jake. Fortunately, he wasn't among the crowd.

  "Harley!" a deep voice boomed. A large, bald man dressed in denim and leather broke from the group and headed in her direction. "How's it hanging?"

  Thank goodness, a familiar face. "Hey, Cutter. You know, I could use a ride." Just thinking about the prospect of walking all the way down Peach Street

  into the city made her feet ache.

  "For my favorite mechanic, I think I can swing that. Come on." The big man ambled off the sidewalk and across the parking lot.

  Harley scrambled to keep up, but as Cutter headed for the bike parking area, she halted in her tracks. "Where's your Camaro? It can't be in the garage, I just repaired it."

  "On a warm, clear night like tonight? Don't be crazy. I rode the bike."

  She should've stayed in bed. Under the covers. Maybe tomorrow she'd do exactly that. Harley waved her hand at Cutter. "Forget I asked. I'll just walk." She changed direction, making for the road.

  A booming belly laugh made her turn around. "Don't tell me a girl named Harley doesn't ride?"

  "Not if she can help it," she muttered.

  Cutter leaned over the back of his bike, then straightened, holding a helmet aloft. "Come on, I've got an extra brain bucket and everything."

  If she didn't accept his offer, she ran the risk of another encounter with Mr. Have-My-Test-Tube-Baby. Not to mention she'd have to walk. "All right." She warily approached the bike.

  Helmet secure, she mounted behind him. The motor rumbled to life, and Cutter revved it. She shouted her address into his ear. He nodded.

  She flung her arms around his waist and held on for dear life. She knew altogether too well what could happen on a bike. And that a helmet didn't guarantee protection of a fragile human brain.

  She'd become a ward of the state at the age of ten, along with her father, after he'd had an accident on his motorcycle one afternoon while she was at school. With no other family to make the decision, the doctors and the court had pulled the plug on her dad, and sent her to the first in a long line of foster homes.

  She bit her bottom lip, hard, to stop the trembling. As they breezed by the restaurant entrance, Jake appeared in the doorway. Harley turned her head away from him even as she unwillingly considered what his proposal could mean to her. She had no job and a pile of bills to pay. If he paid her living expenses and her tuition, plus books and everything else, she could go to school full-time and finish her degree by next spring. The new Harley Emerson could emerge and take her place in society.

  But … a baby?

  The thought tightened her chest, making it difficult to breathe. She buried her face in Cutter's back and tried to block out the memories of her life after losing her dad. They brought nothing but pain.

  Instead, she began to imagine everything an artificial insemination entailed. Doctors and needles. Tests. Cold, sterile laboratories. A shudder made its way down her spine. Ick. Worse, she could imagine the taunting a child conceived like that might endure. Bad enough to be labeled a bastard, but a bastard test-tube baby? Poor kid.

  Maybe her parents hadn't been married, and maybe her mother had walked out on her, but at least Harley knew she'd been conceived in passion, in a warm bed. She'd be a surrogate when hell froze over.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  «^»

  The constant drip, drip, drip of rainwater leaking through the cap into the truck bed pushed Harley closer to the brink of breaking. The devil must have his skates on, because hell's damn near frozen over.

  Unable to pay the rent, she'd been forced to give up her tiny efficiency. Though not a home in the true sense of the word, it sure beat living in the back of her pickup.

  Harley huddled in the corner, as far away from the leak as possible. Her sleeping bag did little to cushion the hard metal beneath her. Damp, tired and hungry, she replayed Jake Manning's words in her mind.

  Three weeks ago, the man had seemed totally insane to propose she have a baby for him; now she found herself contemplating his offer.

  She picked up the manila envelope he'd sent her just days after their encounter at the restaurant and spilled the contents across her lap, lifting the various pieces one at a time toward the window to make use of the faint afternoon light that filtered through the rain. The first photograph showed Jake and two identical little blond girls—h
is nieces—on the train at the Erie Zoo. Other snapshots with explanations carefully penned on the backs revealed a younger version of the man. There was one with his sister, all gussied up and ready for the prom, and another with his brother, both of them holding fishing poles.

  A photo of his house, where he'd lived since the age of eight, a copy of his market portfolio and a "daddy résumé" listing his qualifications rounded out his efforts to prove he'd make a good father. A résumé, for Pete's sake.

  The man's organization made her head hurt.

  The course catalog from the local university she attended on a part-time basis completed the package. Harley flipped it open to the business administration classes, where yellow highlighter indicated some of the ones she still needed to complete her degree. The fact that he'd gotten all this information about her college career was disconcerting, but it certainly proved how serious he was about the two of them fulfilling each other's dreams.

  She leaned over and flipped open her toolbox, propping the lid against the side of the truck. She stared at the picture of her father. The handsome dashing young man straddled a motorcycle, and the little girl she'd once been—about a million years ago—stood next to him. Harley reached out to touch her father's face. "Dad," she whispered. "What am I supposed to do?"

  Would it somehow balance out the cosmos if she played a part in giving one child a wonderful home? The kind she'd had before her father was killed?

  "You and that damn bike, Dad. How different my life might've been, if not for that damn bike."

  Never big on words, her father wasn't talking now.

  She needed a friendly ear.

  Harley closed the toolbox, shoving it and her duffel bag out of the way, then crawled toward the end of the truck. She swung herself down over the tailgate, slammed it and the cap window shut, then bolted around the vehicle. The wind and rain churned the lake's surface, much like her indecision and confusion had her in turmoil.

  Behind the wheel, Harley started the truck, giving it a few seconds to warm up. The rumble of the engine soothed and comforted her.

  The drive off the Peninsula passed quickly. She swung into the parking lot of Tasty Taco. Inching the pickup alongside the payphone, she eased the stick shift into neutral. She shut off the engine and fumbled for her wallet. Several cards tumbled out as she unfolded it.

  Jake Manning's lay on top of the pile.

  Running a finger over the raised blue letters, Harley sighed, then slipped it into the breast pocket of her short-sleeved denim shirt. "I'll get to you later."

  She sifted through the rest until she found the one she needed. Stuffing the others back in her wallet, she held up the card with the scribbled number on the back. The window groaned as she cranked it open. Phone receiver cradled against her shoulder, Harley punched the required numbers, then waited for the operator to answer.

  "Collect from Harley."

  "One moment, please." At least it was a real person, not a computer.

  "Harley Emerson, you're late checking in." The gravelly voice washed over her like the final rays of sunset; the familiar phrase brought a half smile to her lips.

  "I didn't think I had to check in with you every week anymore, Charlie."

  "Don't get fresh with me, girl. I missed hearing from you last week, that's all."

  Harley partially rolled up the window to keep the drizzle from coming in. "Well, I hate to run up your phone bill. How's Florida?"

  "Hot as hell and stickier than a honey bun."

  She laughed. "You're the one who wanted to trade in beautiful Erie summers for that, remember?"

  "No, I'm the one who wanted to trade in Erie winters, remember? If you don't now, you will when the snow flies. Just keep in mind when you're freezin' this winter, kid, there's a room here for you if you want it."

  Tempting. Right now the room was very tempting. But she didn't want him taking on more of her problems. God knows the man had solved his share of them in the past. "Charlie, you know I can't afford to relocate and transfer schools. I'd lose too many credits."

  "How are things going?"

  "Fine." Crossed fingers accompanied the white lie.

  "What classes you taking this fall?" Charlie coughed, then cleared his throat.

  She listened carefully to his breathing. Repeated bouts of bronchitis last winter had finally prompted him to retire and make the move to a warmer climate. Harley suspected they'd both shed private tears over his departure. "You sick, Charlie? That didn't sound too good."

  "I'm still adjusting to the air down here. Don't change the subject—it doesn't work with me and you know it."

  No, it didn't. He'd been able to get around her circular conversations from day one. "I'm not sure what I need for next semester yet, Charlie. But don't worry. I'm gonna make you proud of me, you old goat."

  The gruff voice softened. "I already am proud of you, kid. How many times do I have to tell you—it's not a piece of paper that's important, it's who you are and how you act. Get it through that damn thick skull."

  Harley's nose tingled, and a mist that had nothing to do with the rain interfered with her view of the parking lot. "I didn't call for a lecture. I just called to touch base." And to hear your voice, old man.

  Charlie cleared his throat again. "How's life at the shop?"

  "I've got things under control." Another lie, but it couldn't be helped. No matter what he said, he sounded sick, and if that was the case, he sure didn't need more of her problems. As much as she really didn't want to be part of Jake's plan, she hoped he hadn't found someone else. "Listen, Charlie, it's raining, and I'm getting wet. I gotta go. I'll talk to you soon."

  "You do that, kid, and don't worry about the phone bill. I'll hear from you next week."

  "Sure thing. Bye." She gingerly replaced the receiver. "I will make you proud, Charlie."

  Not normally given to self-pity, Harley couldn't help noting what a sad reflection it was on her life that everything she owned lay in the back of her pickup and the only real friend she had in the world was her former parole officer.

  She'd been terrified of him the day they'd met. He'd been chewing some guy out for violating conditions of his parole, and Harley had watched as two cops came in to drag the moron back to jail. On the spot, she'd vowed never, ever to mess up on her parole. It had taken her almost two months to learn that Charlie was more bark than bite, at least with her. For some reason, one she'd never been quite able to figure out, he'd believed in her innocence and taken her under his wing. He'd helped her find jobs when she needed one, scholarship money when tuition was hard to scrape up, and he listened when she needed to talk.

  Her father was a fleeting memory, but Charlie filled some of the empty space he'd left behind.

  * * *

  The return address on the envelope matched the neat white house, and she recognized it from the picture he'd sent. Green shutters and trim accented the windows and doors. Yellow flowers grew in a circle around a black lamppost near the sidewalk, and the shrubs along the edge of the property were perfectly shaped. A red Jeep was parked on the side of the garage; a basketball hoop hung over the double garage door.

  All it needed was a white picket fence.

  And obviously, as far as the owner was concerned, a child to play in the backyard.

  On the outside at least, it was the kind of home she'd longed for herself as a child.

  Now she needed to discover the truth of what lay inside.

  Harley stared at the house for several minutes, debating her next move. Talking to him didn't mean she'd actually agree to his plan. Charlie, bless his crotchety self, was still an ace in the hole for her, but one she'd play only with no other option.

  She'd never wanted to bring a child into the world, knowing firsthand what a cold and treacherous place it could be—and fearing she'd be a mother like her own.

  Still, in this case, that could actually work in her favor. After all, that was what this man wanted. He wanted her to give birth, hand the b
aby over to him and go about her life as if the child had never existed. If family history played its part, she could do that.

  Couldn't she?

  She'd checked out the implications. Pennsylvania had nothing on the books regarding surrogacy, so she wouldn't be breaking any laws. That was important. She shivered at the memory of Judge Ephraim's pronouncement and his finger wagging in her direction. Nope, a courtroom was a place to be avoided at all costs. So was a jail cell.

  The opportunity to grab for her dreams, to finally bring them to reality, lay before her in the cute white house. She would finally be able to hold up her head in the face of all those who had looked at her with disapproval, and proclaimed that the only thing Harley Emerson would ever make was license plates.

  "Success is the best revenge," she muttered, toying with the bottom button on her shirt. "I'll show them if it's the last thing I do."

  But the price of her success was a baby. She didn't know what kind of father Jake Manning would make, despite all his pictures and his daddy résumé. No way she'd even consider doing this for a man who wouldn't care for the child properly. And what if something happened to him? Who would care for his child then?

  A lot of questions needed answers before she could agree to this … this plan of his. And she had some conditions of her own.

  The button came loose in her hand, and she glanced down to see she'd twisted the tail of the shirt into a tight coil. At the same moment, her stomach growled.

  "Oh, you shut up. It's not like you haven't been hungry before. You've been spoiled lately." Harley yanked the keys from the ignition, then dropped them and the button into her pocket. Straightening her posture, she glanced out at the house again.

  This Millcreek neighborhood, unlike some, didn't consist of identical, cookie-cutter houses. Several bikes lay in the driveway across the street, left out in the rain by kids who obviously had other things on their minds.

  It was a far cry from the area she'd recently vacated, where an unattended bike was an open invitation for theft. This suburb looked like an ideal spot to raise a family—if you were interested in that kind of thing.