The Baby Maker

by Valente, Lili

  My hand goes still and the record of grievances playing in my head screeches to a stop. I stand, propping my hands on my hips as I give my old my man my full attention. “Seriously? The therapist? You went?”

  He nods, his gaze still fixed on his work. “I did. Twice. And going back again next Wednesday.”

  I blink. “Wow. Well, good… I’m glad, Dad. I know you’re tough as nails, but coming back from cancer is hard. I’m glad you’ve found something that’s helping.”

  “It’s not just the cancer,” he says mildly. “It’s other stuff, too, things I’ve been going about the wrong way, maybe. Certainly not the best way.” He pauses again, letting his work drop to his lap as he meets my gaze. “I’d like to apologize for being so hard on you, Dylan. You did the best you could, and you provided for the family when I couldn’t. I’ve been looking for someone to blame so I can stay angry instead of admitting that life as I knew it is over and moving on. I’m sorry.”

  I’m pretty sure my eyes are bulging out of my head at this point, and I certainly have no idea what to say to this man who is speaking at a reasonable volume and talking sense.

  So I just nod and mumble, “S’okay, Dad. We’re good.”

  “I hope we are,” he says. “Because I love you, and I’m proud of you.”

  I take a deep breath and hold it, shocked by the wave of emotion rushing through me. I want to say thank you, but I’m afraid if I talk I’ll do something embarrassing like get all fucking teary about my old man telling me he loves me. I know that he loves me, I’ve always known it, but after all the shit he’s been shoveling my way the past few months, it sure is nice to hear.

  “And I want you to forget about the pumpkin patch,” he continues. “I’m too old to be planting new vines, anyway. No need to put the family deeper in debt to get more land, when what we’ve got is working out just fine.”

  My breath rushes out with a sigh. It’s feels like someone kicked the chopping block out from under my head and reached a hand down to help me up. “Thanks, Dad. Seriously. That’s…a load off.”

  “But that doesn’t mean you should stop seeing that girl,” he adds. “In fact, I think you should drop what you’re doing and go pay her a visit right now. You were a lot more pleasant to be around when you were sleeping over at her place.”

  “Maybe I’ll go see your therapist instead,” I deflect, not wanting to talk about Emma with Dad, not when I’m feeling all warm and fuzzy and in the mood to forget how Pop’s lax attitude about getting women pregnant negatively impacted my life.

  “I can fix the lawnmower,” he says, ignoring my jab, “and grab a hoe when I’m at the hardware store later. Go see your lady. You’ll both feel better after, I’m sure.”

  “She’s not my lady.” I cross my arms over my chest as I rock back onto the heels of my work boots. “And I can’t go see her. She wants to take a break.”

  Pop frowns hard. “Why on earth would she want to do that? You weren’t being selfish in the bedroom, were you? I thought I raised you boys better than that. She comes first. Always.”

  “I’m not going to talk about that with you,” I say with a hard eye roll. “But no, I wasn’t being selfish. That was…all good. She just changed her mind about having a child who will never know his or her extended family, I guess.” I shrug, pretending getting cut off from Emma doesn’t feel like banishment to the shittiest level of hell. “Which is probably good. It was a weird arrangement, anyway.”

  “What was weird about it?” Pop huffs. “You were falling in love while trying to make a baby. Sounds like the most natural thing in the world to me.”

  I shake my head. “It wasn’t like that. We’re just friends. That’s what she wanted, so…that’s what we are. Or were.”

  He grunts, lips turning down. “Well, then. Guess I misunderstood things.”

  That makes two of us. I suspected Emma and I weren’t on the same page emotionally, but I never imagined she would be able to walk away from me, just like that, no looking back. It makes me doubt my own sanity. Did I imagine all the fun we had? The way we laughed and talked and made love until I felt so close to her I believed I could tell her anything? Confess all my secret hopes and dreams—with the exception of one, of course.

  And thank God I held that one back, or I’d be even more ashamed of myself than I am already.

  “But I will tell you this…” Dad adds as he holds his piece of wood up to the light, studying his work. “Both of the women I married were friends first. There’s no better recipe for love that lasts than friendship mixed with a healthy dose of chemistry. If Nancy and I had been as good at fidelity as we were at fornicating and being friends, you, Rafe, and Tristan would never have been born.”

  I shove my hands into my back pockets. “I didn’t know Nancy cheated, too.” Dad doesn’t talk much about his first wife, Deacon’s mom.

  “She did,” Dad says mildly, clearly no longer upset about it. “She cheated first, then I had my revenge plus a couple of free passes I thought I deserved, and the trust spiraled down the drain from there.” He nods my way before resuming dragging his blade across the wood. “But you’re not me. And Emma isn’t anyone but herself. And it sounds to me like the two of you have something worth hanging onto.”

  “This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?” I ask, suspicion blooming in my brain. “You were never on board with the ‘knock her up and send her on her way’ plan. You wanted me to get hooked on this woman.”

  Dad’s squints down at the wood in his hands. “Oh, I don’t know about hooked. When Stroker and I met her that first weekend, right after she moved in, we might have noticed that she was cute as a button, as sweet as all get out, and seemed almost as lonely as you’ve been the past few years. But we had no way of knowing you two would hit it off this well…”

  “So, Mr. Stroker’s in on this, too?” I pace across the dirt floor and back again. “He was never considering selling to Emma, was he? He was just dragging it out to throw the two of us together.”

  “Well, guess you’re as smart as all your teachers said you were, aren’t you?” Dad makes a half-hearted attempt to hide his smile, but he’s too damned proud of himself to do a decent job. “Sorry again about giving you a hard time about the pumpkin patch. I wanted to make sure you stayed invested, but I didn’t mean to be a thorn in your side.”

  I huff and pace faster, not knowing whether to be pissed that I was so easily played or…grateful.

  Grateful that someone stepped in and saved me from my bad habit of pushing people away before they can complicate my already complicated life. If Pop or anyone else had tried to set me up with Emma, I would have had my walls up so fast there would have been no way in hell even someone as amazing as she is could have tempted me to drop a drawbridge.

  But throwing us together in competition over a piece of land, making me notice her as a rival first…

  Well, I guess it says something about me that I’m more open to intimacy with someone who’s messing with my well-laid plans than a woman I think I could fall for. Something not great.

  But now the woman I couldn’t stand has become someone I can’t stand to lose. The thought of never fucking her again is torturous, yes. But the thought of never having an adventure day with her, or sharing a meal with her, or hearing her laugh that wild giggle I’ve only heard when she’s with me—all of those things hurt just as much. More.

  In just three weeks, she’s gotten under my skin, in my head, and oh-so-close to my heart. And the world hasn’t come to an end. I’m not any more or less trapped in this life I’m ready to change than I was before.

  Suddenly my refusal to consider a serious relationship—or even date the same woman for more than a month or two at a time—seems ridiculous. Falling for Emma isn’t going to put a wrench in my plans, not as long as I can convince her that I’m worth putting some of her other plans on hold.

  I stop dead in the middle of the barn, squinting at the “I like big cows and I cannot lie; you
udder brothers can’t deny” poster the twins hung on the wall above Moo-donna’s stall, as if the answer to the burning question setting fire to my thoughts will be found in the calm brown gaze of the steer staring into the camera.

  “If you’re wondering how to apologize to a woman,” Dad pipes up, still scratching away, “then I’m your man. My marriages both lasted years longer than they should have, and I credit that to my skill with an apologetic turn of phrase.”

  I shake my head. “Thanks, but no thanks, Dad. I’m good with apologies. I need something more than that. I need—”

  “You need to sweep the lady off her feet,” Rafe says from the entrance to the barn, grinning as he nods back toward the house. “Come with me, grasshopper. Allow me to instruct you in the fine art of romancing the fuck out of the fairer sex. I’ve got some other stuff I wanted to discuss with you, anyway.”

  “But keep it genuine, Rafe,” Dad calls after us. “This is the real deal. Dylan doesn’t want to let this girl get away.”

  I smile, knowing better than to deny it. Not to Pop, not to Rafe, and not to myself. No more keeping quiet or letting Emma walk away without a fight. Time to be that knight on a white horse she was tired of waiting for.

  Because I’m tired of waiting, too.

  Chapter 20

  Emma

  Wednesday dawns grey and cold, with rain drooling from the sky in a steady stream that does not bode well for my first wine road event.

  By the time I’ve finished my first cup of coffee, the driveway has gone from soggy to imitating a small mountain stream, and I curse myself for putting off the gravel delivery until later in the month. The chance an oversize tour bus toting drunk San Franciscans will get stuck in the mud outside my tasting room is increasing with every passing second, and the sober expression on Bart’s usually sunny face as he lays out sandbags in an attempt to divert the worst of the runoff isn’t encouraging.

  But the show must go on.

  The Wine and Wonder event is the biggest of the season and a chance to put Haverford Estates on the map. Everything has to be perfect, or as perfect as I can make it, considering the miserable weather and the fact that I’ve been down in the dumps since Monday night.

  He hasn’t texted.

  He hasn’t called.

  He hasn’t so much as paused to glance my way while out and about on his property.

  And I’ve been watching. Boy, have I been watching. I’ve been following Dylan’s movements like a chocoholic tracking the last dark chocolate truffle at the party, making sure I’m in my garden when he’s doing chores, peering at him from under my straw hat, waiting for a sign that he’s considering all the things I said in my letter. But with every passing day, becoming more than friends, or even picking up where we left off, is looking more and more unlikely.

  And that hurts. Concrete block dropped on my heart level of hurt.

  I’ve always enjoyed alone time, but it’s torturous to me now. Eating alone, reading after dinner alone, going to bed alone, wishing I hadn’t washed my sheets so that they would still smell like Dylan….

  Long story short—I miss him. So much.

  My house is haunted with memories of our time together. Hell, the entire town is haunted. I can’t even enjoy a coffee at Barn Roasters without keeping one eye trained on the door, waiting for Dylan to walk in.

  But he hasn’t been in for coffee since our argument Saturday night, a major shift in behavior that proves how determined he is to avoid me. He’s willing to give up one of his favorite simple pleasures just so he won’t have to look at my stupid face.

  “Your face is not stupid,” I mutter as I brush on eye shadow, hoping the glittery silver color will lift my spirits. “Your heart is stupid for getting so attached to him, and your brain is stupid for coming up with this plan in the first place.”

  But at least you make good wine, I tell myself, determined to get my head in the right place for the long weekend ahead. The Wine and Wonder event runs through Sunday, and we’re expecting between three and five hundred visitors, which means I’m on deck to work the tasting room with Denver and Neil to help manage the increased traffic.

  And to smooth feathers in case we’re forced to deny someone a tasting.

  The more experienced winery owners warned me at the planning meeting that event days can get ugly by two or three o’clock, when people have been tasting since ten in the morning and many haven’t stopped to eat a proper lunch. If someone is visibly inebriated or belligerent, it’s my job to make sure they aren’t served.

  Needless to say, I’m not looking forward to playing bad cop. Conflict isn’t my strong suit on a good day, when the person I’m disagreeing with is sober.

  Which reminds me…

  I shoot off a quick text to Carrie, even though I know she’s on a plane to a writer’s conference and won’t be able to answer—

  Emma: Just discovered another layer to my shit sandwich—dealing with drunk people at public events. Wish me luck.

  —and head out the door, holding my raincoat over my head as I dash the twenty feet from the house to the entrance to the tasting room.

  Inside, blond and ridiculously gorgeous Neil is looking stressed. His usually perfectly-feathered hair sticks up in frizzed waves on one side as he unloads bottles of Pinot Noir behind the wooden bar spanning the length of the stable house turned tasting room.

  “Oh thank God.” His shoulders sag in relief as I step inside, hanging my coat on one of the antique hooks on the wall. “You’re here. You’ll fix it.”

  “Fix what?” I ask, crossing to the bar.

  “The labels on the new cases are wrong.” He plunks a bottle of Pinot on the reclaimed wood between us and jabs a finger at the golden script on the label. “They all say Chardonnay.”

  “Oh my God.” I shake my head as I lean in for a closer look. “How did that happen?”

  “Mix up at the bottling facility, I’m betting.” Denver cruises in from the stock room with another case of wine in his arms, his dark hair pulled back into a braid instead of his usual smooth ponytail. “The Chardonnay is all labeled Pinot, too. I just checked. They must have popped the wrong stack of labels into the machine.”

  I curse softly and chew the edge of my thumb, thinking fast. “And we don’t have any properly labeled bottles?”

  “Not here,” Denver says, setting the second mismatched case by my feet. “We might have some in the warehouse, assuming the bottlers didn’t fuck them all up.”

  “Surely they didn’t.” I rake a hand through my hair and fist it, knowing I have to make a call and make it quick. We only have an hour before go time.

  “Okay,” I say, breath rushing out. “Here’s what we’ll do—Neil, go ahead and get two tasting stations set up with the mismatched bottles, and add in the Sauvignon Blanc so we’ll have at least one offering that is what it says it is. Denver, get the truck keys from Bart and head to the warehouse. They open at ten. I’ll call Misty and tell her to be expecting you. Hopefully she can get you what you need ASAP, then you can load up fast and be back here before noon.”

  “And if the bottles at the warehouse are all mixed up, too?” he asks, backing toward the door.

  “Don’t put that out into the universe, Denver. They’re going to be fine.” I point a stern finger his way, only for my elbow to sag with doubt as he arches a skeptical brow. “But if they’re wrong, too, stop by the craft store and get some silver permanent markers to write on the bottles, and we’ll improvise.”

  Denver claps his hands together. “Got it, boss.”

  “And what about the cheese puff pastries?” Neil asks.

  “What about them?” I glance down at my watch. “They were supposed to go into the oven at nine. Tell me you put them in, Neil.”

  “I did put them in, but they’re not going to cook as long as the power’s out in the stock room and kitchen.”

  “What?” I screech, my pitch high enough to make poor Neil wince. “When did this happen?”
/>   “About thirty minutes ago,” he says. “I’m sorry. I thought Bart told you.”

  I sigh. “He’s been trying to keep the driveway from washing away. I’m sure he just forgot. Let me run the pastries into the house and put them on in there. Then we can load them into the cupcake carrier and ferry them back and forth to keep them dry.”

  It’s a solid plan, but some days it doesn’t matter if you have a solid plan. The powers that be are out to get you, and all your puny human efforts to thwart fate simply make them laugh.

  Laugh and then laugh some more when you hurry off the porch with the last load of pastries and slip in a patch of mud, going down hard, smearing the back of your gray linen pants with clay caked an inch deep.

  I groan, cringing as I stand and my backside still feels like I’m sitting in an inch of freezing rainwater. But at least the cupcake carrier full of pastries landed right side up on the porch.

  Thanking the universe for small miracles, and waddling to avoid disrupting the mud caked on the inside of my thighs, I make my way inside in time to see Neil turn bright red and press a fist to his mouth.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, eyes wide.

  “Mushrooms,” he wheezes, hand coming to clutch his throat. “You said they were cheese pastries. You didn’t say anything about mushrooms. I’m allergic to mushrooms.”

  “Shit, what do I do? Call 911?” Launching into motion, I hurry around the bar toward the phone, but Neil is already circling around the other way.

  “No, I just need Benadryl. I usually have some with me, but I forgot my man purse at Steve’s last night after I left early because we were fighting about dumb shit.” He coughs, then violently clears his throat. “If I die, I’m going to come back and haunt his ass for killing me by insisting we can’t go to the same ski lodge two years in a row. Do you think Bart can drive me to the pharmacy?”

  “Just head into my master bath,” I say, pointing urgently toward the house. “I have Benadryl in the medicine cabinet. Pills and liquid for when I need the allergy pain to stop faster.”