by Susan Wiggs
“I guess that doesn’t matter one way or another now,” he broke in. “My parents want the paternity test, of course. I don’t need it to know the truth. I just need your word, and I have that.”
“Were they…were your folks…did they go ballistic?”
He laughed without humor. “What do you think?”
“Ballistic,” she said. “Your dad, for sure.” Mr. O’Donnell was a big, blustery hard-drinking man with a temper to match his red hair. Mrs. O’Donnell was quiet, maybe even timid, though tireless when it came to mothering her children. She’d always been at the school, volunteering in the library or lunch room. Not that her presence had kept Logan in line.
“Good guess,” he said, then eyed her with slightly less hostility. “Yours?”
“They were great, after the initial shock. Too great, maybe. In a way, it would have been kind of comforting if they’d grounded me.” She touched her hard, distended stomach. “Then I figured they probably realized they didn’t have to. I’m already grounded for life.”
Anguish flickered in his eyes. “Why did you wait so long? For all I knew, you’d gone to another planet. After that weekend on Long Island, I never saw you again.”
Calling it “that weekend on Long Island” was, of course, code for getting high and being careless about birth control. They’d been beyond stupid, something they’d probably both known at the time. Yet she hadn’t cared. She’d been so crazy, so messed up about the divorce, and not knowing what she wanted to do with herself. Her mom had just announced that they were moving to The Hague. Daisy had an epic battle with her and then took off to someone’s weekend house. She hadn’t been thinking. She’d been one big ball of hurt, and she’d found that getting drunk and high with Logan made her forget.
She cleared her throat, made herself look at him. “I, um, I thought it would be better if we didn’t see each other again.”
“Better for who?” he demanded. “I told you I loved you that weekend. I said I wanted us to go to the same college, to stay together, and you said—”
“I know what I said.” There had been a lot of drinking that weekend. A lot of partying. “So listen, I’m not a big believer in long-term relationships. My parents got married because of me. I’m sure they had good intentions, but ultimately, we all fell apart.” She knew even as she spoke that she was oversimplifying the situation. Her family had been happy for a long time. The slow erosion to divorce had not been one endless torture session.
“And yet you’re committed to having a baby,” he pointed out. “I’d call that long term.”
“That’s different.”
“Oh. Tell me about it.” He jabbed his thumbs into his back pockets and paced in agitation. “It took me months to get over you,” he said. “And I never did quite make it, but at least I’d quit thinking of you every single minute of every damn day. I’d progressed to every other minute. But I still—even now—wake up each morning and remember every damn thing about you, like what it sounds like when you laugh, and how you hold your camera, and what your hair feels like, and the look on your face when a song you like comes on the radio. And then you hit me with this.” He gestured in fury at the envelope with the legal document in it. “I’m not going to back off, by the way,” he informed her.
Daisy’s mouth went dry. “You have to.”
He laughed bitterly. “Right.”
“I mean, it’s more than fair. I said you don’t owe me—or the baby or anyone—a thing. You’re under no obligation—”
“Yeah, well, suppose I want to be obligated?” he asked. “We’re talking about a baby. A person. Someone who’s completely innocent. What were you planning to tell the kid—sorry, you don’t get to have a father?” Before she could answer, he said, “Well, guess what? I’m not on board with that.”
She wondered what he was getting at. “What do you want, Logan? Do you want to have this baby with me?”
Putting it so bluntly seemed to help her cause. The expression on his face told her everything she needed to know. “Yeah, I thought so,” she said. “Go home, Logan. Go back to the city. Go to college. You don’t want to be here with me, doing this, pretending you care.”
He glared at her. “Don’t tell me what I want or don’t want. This is a child we made. We’re both responsible for it.”
“Him,” she said before she could stop herself. “It’s a boy.”
The slightest of smiles twitched across his lips. “Yeah?”
She nodded. “I’d like to call him Emile.”
“After the book by Rousseau,” he said, “the one we were studying in AP French.”
She caught her breath. “I can’t believe you remembered that.”
“You’d be surprised what I remember,” he said. There was no softness or sentiment in his voice, but anger—and maybe hurt. “I remember reorganizing my entire class schedule just so we could have AP French together and the same lunch. I remember standing in line overnight to get us tickets to the Rolling Stones. I remember—”
“Quit it,” she snapped. “You didn’t even want people to know we were hooking up,” she said. “That’s what I remember, that you were ashamed of me.”
“That’s not the reason, and you know it.”
“Do I?” She was mystified. She’d never figured it out. She assumed his declarations of love came from a place of drunken sentiment and adolescent horniness, and she’d dismissed his claims out of hand. They’d both been seventeen, spoiled and stupid.
“I was never ashamed,” he said. “That’s not it at all.”
“Then what?”
“I didn’t want you to get a reputation,” he said.
She burst out laughing. It was just so…so outlandish and…unlikely. Logan O’Donnell, concerned about her reputation. In what alternate universe would such a thing be so? “Yeah, well, thanks for that,” she said. “It worked out real well for me.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“Of course I don’t believe you.”
“Then give me a chance to prove myself. Let me help with this…this…” He gestured at her belly. “My feelings for you…they just felt…private. I didn’t want anybody in on it. Didn’t want anyone to tell us we were too young, give us all the reasons it wouldn’t work out…but as it happened, the ultimate skeptic was you.”
“We acted like a couple of dumb kids. We weren’t the first and we won’t be the last. I’m dealing with this the best way I know how, okay?”
“No,” he said, stone-faced. “Not okay. I’m going to open a trust account for the baby. I want regular visitation—”
“Logan, don’t. I tried to make this as uncomplicated as possible. There’s nothing I want or need from you.”
“This isn’t about you. It’s about the—about Emile.”
It sounded so strange to hear him refer to the baby by name.
“And by the way,” he added, “I’m not so sure about that name for a boy. People aren’t going to know how to pronounce it and I don’t want anyone calling him ‘Emily.’”
“So what about Jean Jacques, like the author?”
“Yeah, that’d be great, two weird names instead of just one. Do you know how tired he’ll get of telling everyone how to pronounce and spell his name?”
Good point, Daisy thought. “His middle name is going to be Charles, after my grandfather. Maybe I’ll call him Charlie.”
“Better. Way better.” Logan nodded. He used to smile and laugh so much more. Daisy was still pretty shocked to see him. What were the chances? she wondered. Every other boy in this situation would be grateful to be absolved of all responsibility, under the circumstances. Logan seemed to be the one guy who wanted to step up. What a mess.
“Do your parents know any of this?” she asked.
“They wanted me to agree to your terms, put it behind me and move on with my life.”
“Because they know that’s the way things ought to be.”
“It’s not their decision.” He grabbed
both her hands, held them tight. “Let’s not screw this up, Daisy.”
His touch felt…different. More assured, somehow. “What, you don’t think things are already screwed up?”
He kept hold of her hands. “You know where I went last winter, right?” There was something haunted and fragile in his eyes, and this was new. She used to look into his eyes and see nothing but laughter and mischief.
“To a boarding school, for rehab. That’s what I heard, anyway.”
“It’s no secret. It totally sucked, but even while it was sucking, I learned a lot, including the fact that I need to take responsibility for things I’ve done, not run from them.”
“So the baby and I are, what, part of your twelve-step program?” She tried to pull her hands from his.
He held on. “You’re part of me. Part of my life. I’m asking for a chance, Daisy. A chance to show you I can be good for you and for the baby. We’re too young, yeah, and we’re going to make mistakes, but who doesn’t make mistakes?”
Parents who aren’t around for their kids, thought Daisy. If they weren’t around, they didn’t mess up. And there was something to be said for that. She looked down at their joined hands, then into Logan’s face. He was the boy she’d gone crazy over in high school, yes. But someone else lived behind those eyes now.
A stranger.
The father of her child.
Twenty
N ina sat in her office adjacent to the salon of the inn, studying her bank statement with a feeling of incredulity. For the first time in her life, she didn’t cringe at the sight of the bottom line. She not only had enough to cover her expenses; there was actually a surplus. Greg had promised that she’d be well-compensated, and he’d delivered on that promise. Still, this was not what she’d planned, not for herself or for the inn. Once again, life had thrown her a curveball. She had become that most pathetic of creatures, the woman with a crush on her boss. She’d been trying to deny it, but she’d never been good at self-deception. Her worst moments were when the two of them worked side by side, planning or supervising; they made such a good team, it was hard to avoid being drawn to him.
She slammed the file shut and put it away. She had a choice. She didn’t have to be that woman. She’d just have to make peace with the fact that this was a job. Not her life. Not her future.
Through the open window, she saw Max riding his bike home from Little League practice. He was back from visiting his mother, and he’d returned an angry, unhappy boy.
Not your concern, she told herself as she watched him nearly crash his bike, leaping off at the last moment and letting it clatter to the ground. His duffel bag of gear was flung away. Max picked up the bat and swung it violently.
Oh, boy, thought Nina, hurrying outside. As she approached Max, calling his name, she felt a chill, despite the heat of the day.
She reminded herself again of the vow she’d made—the line she’d drawn. She wouldn’t let herself be pulled into this family. It wasn’t in her job description.
But when she studied Max’s tormented face, something inside her melted. He was at that irresistible stage a boy went through, teetering back and forth between childhood and adolescence. He had a child’s soft, round cheeks, and the long, coltish limbs and big feet of a kid on the verge of a major growth spurt.
He didn’t hear her. He was too busy pounding everything in sight with his baseball bat. His chest heaved with ragged exertion and his eyes blazed with fury. His team jersey was torn and stained, his sweat-soaked cap askew. His red face was slick with tears or sweat—probably both.
There was nothing quite so volatile as a young boy in a rage. They were such an awkward mingling of urges, both adult and childish. In a boy Max’s age there was almost a wildness, as though he was on the verge of exploding beyond control.
“Max,” she said again, shouting now, looking over her shoulder to make sure none of the guests was watching.
He turned on her, the bat drawn fiercely back, his eyes on fire. She kept her distance. The bat went flying; it grazed low-hanging limbs and startled birds into flight before landing with a thud some yards away.
“Bad day at Little League practice?” she asked.
He glared, the fury rolling off him in nearly visible waves. “How’d you guess?”
She shrugged. “Just lucky. What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” he said.
He was trembling, a volcano about to blow. She waited.
“I quit the team.”
Nina merely nodded. “Your prerogative. It’s only a game.” She knew this was less about the team than about his parents and how he felt about himself. But then again, in a town like this, to a kid like this, baseball was everything. She could see the heartbreak in his eyes. He loved baseball. The only time he sat still was when a game was on. His bedroom was a virtual gallery of memorabilia, pennants and game programs. He owned and had memorized the stats on hundreds of baseball cards. “You want to talk about it?” she prompted.
“No.” He stared at the ground. “You’re not my mother.”
“Well, guess what? I don’t want to be your mother. And that’s lucky for you because if I was, you’d be doing hard time for ruining this expensive equipment. Now, if there’s something you want to talk about—”
“All people ever want to do is talk,” he snapped, practically yelling. “My dad and sister. My mom’s the worst. It’s just talk, talk, talk.” He gave his duffel bag a kick. “I take that back. Dr. Barnes is the worst.” Max picked up a baseball and hurled it wildly into the trees. The kid had quite an arm.
Dr. Barnes was the family counselor Max saw every week. “Why’s he the worst?” Nina asked.
“He keeps wanting me to work on my issues and find appropriate strategies for managing strong emotions,” Max mimicked as he lobbed another ball.
“So how are you doing with that?” Nina asked.
He glared at her.
“Why’d you quit the team?”
“Because Coach Broadbent is a dick.”
She knew Jerry Broadbent. Max’s assessment was not far off the mark. Still…“With a mouth like that, no wonder he’s giving you a hard time. Did Coach tell you you’re off the team?”
“I suck at baseball,” Max burst out. “I’m the worst one on the team.”
“I don’t get it. You’re strong and fast. You can throw. You know the game better than any kid I’ve ever met. You’re a good athlete, Max.”
“Yeah, tell that to Broadbent.”
“You practice constantly with your dad.”
“That’s not the same as actually being on the field. I hate getting yelled at every freaking minute.”
“Let me get this straight. You love the game but you’re bad at playing it.” The expression on his face confirmed it. “If you love something, then you find a way to enjoy it. Don’t let your coach or teammates take that away from you. What does your father think?”
“He doesn’t give a sh—a darn,” Max said.
“Somehow, that doesn’t sound like your dad.”
Max shrugged. “I spent the last two games on the bench. Since I’m not playing, I might as well quit.”
Watching him, Nina felt that most fiery and elemental of emotions—maternal outrage. No, she was not his mother, but he moved her, this boy trying so hard to be brave and not disappoint his father. And Broadbent. He was older than dirt. Older than rock itself. And apparently he was just as disagreeable now as he’d been with her brothers. Nina was itching to pick up the phone and let him have it. A woman would suffer all the hurts in the world when they were aimed at her. But a child in distress turned her into a bear. Wait, she told herself. Wait.
“Max, how are you at bats, stats and water?”
Another shrug. “I don’t know. It’s not like it’s hard or anything.”
She sensed a lot more to the situation than he was telling her. She knew perfectly well there was nothing wrong with his athleticism or skills. This was a different issue. Max
’s father was preoccupied with Daisy. Max had just returned from a less-than-happy visit with his mother. Nina suspected he’d opened the vent at practice.
She glanced at her watch. She had thirty things to do in the next twenty minutes; she didn’t have time for this. Then she looked at the fragile set of Max’s chin and heard herself say, “Let’s go. There’s someone I want you to meet.” She didn’t mean to reward Max for having a tantrum, but he needed to see how a real team worked, that it wasn’t driven by rage.
He scowled and balked, and she reminded herself of that lengthy to-do list. “Now, Max,” she said, and she could tell the sharpness in her voice startled him into compliance. He followed her to the car.
As she drove, a familiar stirring of sentiment passed through her. Max made her feel like a mother. She couldn’t help herself. He roused that fierce, protective instinct in her and it felt good and clean and right, even though she told herself she was beyond it and didn’t want to feel it.
They drove in silence to the ball fields at the edge of town. In the gravel parking lot, she stopped, shut off the car and turned to watch Max’s face, a mixture of caution and eagerness.
“Come on, I want you to meet Dino.”
“Dino Carminucci? Get out.”
Nina couldn’t help smiling. His mood was so mercurial. “Let’s go,” she said.
“You know him?” Max asked, incredulous. “Like, personally? I can’t believe you know him.”
Dino was, in actuality, the biggest political favor of her career. Thanks to something her father had done twenty years before, Dino had brought his team to town. Nina was about to call in another favor. She stopped and turned to Max. “Listen, I want you to know, it’s not okay for you to lose your temper like you did today. Everybody gets mad, but throwing things isn’t the answer. You could hurt someone, or yourself, or you could break something, and that’s not okay.”
His face was soft with remorse, but he maintained eye contact. “You’re right.”
“I’m just making sure you know, this is not a reward for you having a tantrum.”
“Who had a tantrum?” asked Dino, coming from the dugout. “I bet it was just a bit of excess energy.” This was his gift, his instant understanding of a boy on fire. She knew Max was in good hands.