Maybe Baby

by Elaine Fox

  And saw what he’d hoped he’d find. The artist had not only signed but dated the print. 2/00.

  February. A full month before Emily was supposedly born.

  He let out a long-held breath and ran his fingers through his hair, momentarily holding his head.

  Then, just to be sure, he headed for the nursery. He remembered seeing one of those frames with the date and time and other particulars of a baby’s birth engraved on the sides. He’d thought it was hanging near the closet, but when he got to the spot there was nothing there but a nail hole.

  He narrowed his eyes and looked around the room. Closet, baby’s dresser, chest, crib, changing table, rocker. He glanced at each thing, then settled on the chest. He crossed the room and opened it.

  Blankets and baby linens. The perfect spot, he thought. He dug carefully through the piles and was rewarded halfway down with the feel of something solid. Snaking his hand between the linens, his fingers felt cool metal and he pulled the pewter frame from its cossetted hiding place.

  Emily Jacquelyn Poole, he read. His breath caught in his throat at the middle name. January 10, 2000, 7:27 A.M., 7 lbs. 3 oz., 20 inches.

  January 10, 2000. Just under nine months after Delaney Poole’s visit to Harp Cove.

  As he stood there with the evidence in his hands, trying to decide what to think, how to feel, what to do, he became aware of tears welling in his eyes. He watched as one fell from his eye to hit the frame’s glass and roll down one of Emily’s perfect cheeks.

  Delaney rushed past the receptionist’s desk toward her office to fill out the last chart of the day. She was late. Mr. Prouty’s lab results had come back and had needed a lot more explanation than she’d thought they would. Then Cheryl Flanagan had come by without an appointment because her baby, Roxanne, had conjunctivitis. Millie Sewell had refused to take no for an answer when she’d requested Valium. Then Lester Blackwell had come in with a sprained ankle.

  So she was late. Really late. And she had not been able to shake the knot in her stomach all day. How she was going to get a meal down before telling Jack the truth she had no idea.

  “Oh, Dr. Poole!” Cindy, the high-school student who worked as a receptionist in the afternoons during the school year, hailed her from behind the counter. “I took a message for you.”

  “Not now, Cindy,” she said, pulling a pen from her pocket to make a note on Mr. Prouty’s chart.

  “But it’s important! He said it was really, really important.” Cindy pushed through piles of paper on the desk, most of which looked like homework, with a few doodles and notes thrown in on top. “Wait. It was just here. A-ha!” She whipped a pink While-You-Were-Out pad from beneath the debris, then frowned at the blank sheet on top. “I know it was here.”

  Delaney reined in a heavy sigh. “Do you remember who it was from?”

  “Wait. I’m sure it’s here…” She continued to push papers around, peering under them as if people she didn’t want to disturb were living underneath, then shuffling them around some more.

  “Cindy, I’ve got a lot to do, and I’ve got to get out of here. I’ll be in my office if you find it.” Delaney turned and strode across the lobby.

  “Dr. Poole!” Cindy called.

  Delaney inhaled and turned back around.

  “I just remembered, I put it on your desk.” The girl beamed at her.

  Delaney forced a smile. “Great. Thank you, Cindy.”

  She went to her office and shut the door. She just needed a moment’s peace to finish this chart, then she could escape before anyone else came in. She could only pray there would be no emergencies before she got out the door, because Dr. Jacobson was on call tonight.

  Delaney had stopped at Aunt Linda’s at lunch, as she always did, and asked if Linda could keep Emily a few extra hours tonight. It was important, she’d said, or she wouldn’t have asked. She didn’t want Aunt Linda thinking Delaney was the kind of mother to go off gallivanting while her daughter was left with whoever would take her.

  Fortunately, it wasn’t a problem. It seemed things were coming together quite neatly for the evening. She only hoped The Revelation, as she’d come to think about it, went as smoothly.

  Her stomach clenched once again at the thought of it.

  She rounded her desk and sat down in the swivel chair, rocking back slightly with the chart. After a second of writing she became aware of the pink message slip in the middle of the desk and she leaned forward to pick it up.

  Jim called, it said in curly, girlish script. Said he figured it all out.

  Delaney stared at the piece of paper. Jim called? Jim who? She tossed the message down on her desk and went back to studying the chart. But after a second, curiosity got the better of her and she picked up the note and walked back to the front desk.

  “Cindy, is this the message you were talking about?” she asked.

  Cindy’s face showed relief. “Yes. Good. Thank God I didn’t lose it, you know? He sounded like it was really important.”

  “You didn’t put Jim’s last name, though. I’m not sure who this is.”

  Cindy’s brows drew together, and she looked at Delaney oddly. “It was your husband. Jim.”

  Delaney flushed to the roots of her hair. “My husband. Oh.”

  “Yeah. He said to tell you your husband called and he’d figured it all out. Or something like that.” She cocked her head, watching Delaney. “And he said to call him.”

  Delaney stared at the pink sheet. “Did he leave a number?”

  “You don’t know your husband’s phone number?” Cindy asked.

  “Well, yes, of course I do,” Delaney said, wadding up the note and shoving it into the pocket of her lab coat. “It’s just that…he’s traveling, and I thought maybe he’d left a hotel number. Or something.”

  Cindy’s face cleared. “Oh. No, he didn’t say he was traveling, I don’t think.” She frowned again. “But he was kind of pushy. And he said something like, tell her not to do anything stupid. Which I thought was kind of rude. Don’t you? You don’t let him talk to you like that, do you?”

  “No,” Delaney said, pushing the hair back from her forehead and turning away. “No, I don’t let him talk to me at all.”

  It had to be Michael, she thought. There was no other explanation. She went back to her office and dialed his number.

  One ring…two rings…The answering machine picked up.

  Delaney hung up. She’d call back tomorrow and tell him what she’d done. Something told her she’d really be needing to talk to Michael after this evening was done.

  Chapter 17

  The evening was cool, so Jack threw a sweatshirt on over his tee shirt, then stopped and looked at himself in the mirror. After a second he stripped off the sweatshirt and the tee shirt and put on a polo shirt. A second after that he pulled off the polo shirt and put on a long-sleeved rugby shirt and decided, the hell with it. She wasn’t going to make any decisions about him based on his shirt. Which was unfortunate because he had some nice shirts.

  He stopped in the kitchen and pulled a bottle of wine from the rack by the back door. A nice red Bordeaux. That ought to help them both relax a little bit. For sheer relaxation effect he’d have preferred to take a bottle of tequila and a straw, but that would hardly give him the responsible demeanor he was hoping to project tonight.

  For that, he planned to tell her about the job offer at Briarly College. He hadn’t given Hugh an answer yet but he had to soon. It was more money, better benefits, and could possibly put him on track to coach at bigger, wealthier, colleges in the future.

  Not that he’d ever been interested in the kind of big money, high-stress football that characterized a lot of schools’ athletic programs, but taking the job would make him appear to be a much more successful man. Granted, it was a good distance away, and he’d have to travel to see Emily on weekends, but if he took the job, he’d have more money for child support. He’d also have decent insurance benefits for his daughter, and working at a col
lege, especially a good one like Briarly, could help Emily when it came time for her to think about her education.

  The bottom line, though, was if he were a woman, assessing a man’s suitability as a father, he’d be looking for someone successful. Someone with a bright, lucrative future in front of him. Someone who could support a family. Even if he was a few hours away.

  Especially if he were a woman with a list of attributes for a fake father on which the words Big Bucks appeared.

  Because what other reason would she have for inviting him over tonight? She’d figured out that he’d seen that ridiculous list, and she knew she had to tell him the truth. Was there any other possibility?

  The only other one he could think of was that she’d decided she had feelings for him, but he couldn’t let himself believe that. For one thing, the disappointment would be too great if he expected a revelation like that, and it didn’t happen. For another, it wasn’t going to happen.

  The question was, how would she tell him? About Emily, that was. How would she couch it? Would she even accept child support? Would she hope for or dread his involvement in Emily’s life? And if she did want him to be an involved parent, would he be able to do that without also striving to be involved in her life?

  He stared down at the bottle in his hand. Maybe the question was what did he want. Because what Delaney wanted had obviously been to keep him out of Emily’s life. Until now, when she was cornered.

  He shook his head, ignoring the sting of anger that she’d written him off so quickly, and turned for the door. What he wanted he couldn’t have. Her. Without inhibition. Without obligation. Without lies. Like she’d been the first night he met her. But that was impossible now.

  He strode across the lawn, relishing the fresh snap of the breeze. Lifting his eyes to the evening sky, he noticed that the stars were not visible overhead. Another storm was coming, he noted, smelling it on the breeze. Thunderstorm, probably, because tomorrow the temperature was supposed to drop off.

  It was a dark and stormy night…he thought, hoping the weather did not portend anything dire in store for him this evening.

  He knocked at the front door, feeling as odd as if he were rapping on his own front door. Usually he let himself in the back door to work. Or found Delaney in the yard or in her kitchen through the screen door.

  She took a while to answer, and when she did, she looked harried.

  “Hi, sorry, come on in,” she said, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She barely met his eyes, just opened the door and looked outside behind him. “Oh, it smells like rain.” She sounded surprised.

  She wore an apron over what were obviously her work clothes. He hoped he didn’t look as if he’d changed clothes three times before coming over.

  “Yeah, I just noticed that myself,” he said, stepping over the threshold and looking around like a stranger. “Thunderstorm, probably.”

  The place was filled with the scent of roasting chicken, and there was music playing in the living room, where a fire was burning. The whole place had a warm ambience that gave him a near-physical pang. What would it be like to come home to something like this every night? he wondered.

  “Is that wine?” she asked.

  He started, raising his hand as if he hadn’t noticed the bottle placed there. “Oh yeah. Here. I hope you like red. It’s a Bordeaux.”

  She studied the label. “Bordeaux’s my favorite.”

  She still didn’t look at him, just turned and took the bottle back to the kitchen.

  “Make yourself at home,” she called from the kitchen. “That should be easy, huh?”

  He laughed, sounding quite unlike himself. “Yeah,” he said. Boy, he was clever tonight.

  “Can I bring you a glass of this wine?”

  “You bet.” He wandered into the living room and, for want of anything else to do, took up the poker to readjust the logs in the fireplace.

  A second later she appeared with two glasses. She still wore the apron and barely met his eyes as she handed him the wine.

  “I’m running a little behind,” she said. “Work was crazy today. I had three walk-ins in the last hour.”

  “Oh.” His mind was empty of conversation. He looked at her, and all he could think was whether or not she had something to tell him. And if so, when? And how? “Well, don’t worry about it. Being behind, that is. I’m in no hurry.”

  She dipped her head and sipped the wine. He sipped his, too, taking as large a gulp as he could manage without appearing uncouth. He didn’t think he’d ever been this uncomfortable around a woman.

  “Why don’t you sit down,” she suggested. “I’ve just got a couple more things to do in the kitchen.”

  “Take your time.”

  He sat in the armchair by the hearth and looked into the fire.

  In the kitchen, Delaney sucked down the last of her wine and poured herself another full glass. If she didn’t calm down soon, she was going to find herself throwing up in the bathroom. Her stomach was a knot, her head felt as if someone had wound a roll of duct tape around it, and if she didn’t get out of her stockings soon, she was going to end up spontaneously ripping them off at some undoubtedly awkward moment. And there’d be plenty of those.

  She ripped up handfuls of lettuce leaves and threw them into the salad bowl. Then she scraped the cutting board full of carrots, celery, radishes, and tomatoes onto the mix and doused it all with salad dressing.

  She should be moving more slowly, she thought, gulping down some more wine. Once she finished the salad it would just be a matter of waiting for the chicken to finish roasting, which would, unfortunately, be another forty minutes because she’d gotten home so late.

  Why hadn’t she just made cheeseburgers?

  Salad done, she pushed the bowl into the refrigerator and pulled a box of crackers from the cabinet. The brie she’d had sitting on the kitchen table since she got home had drifted into a perfect room-temperature slouch. She tossed some crackers around the rim of the cheese plate and stood back to survey the table.

  For the first time since she’d left Washington, she’d pulled out her table linens. Tablecloth, place mats, linen napkins complete with napkin rings. Two candles stood unlit, waiting for action, amidst water, wine, and cordial glasses. Evidently she’d been thirsty when she set the table.

  She put the cordial glasses away.

  An hour ago the table had looked pretty. Now it looked self-conscious. Homemaker-y. Like she was advertising herself as some kind of domestic wonder. She was terrified that once she told him, he’d get the idea she wanted him to accept her as well as Emily into his life.

  And wouldn’t that just scare him to pieces, she thought. Instant family. He’d probably run screaming from the house.

  She was just contemplating undoing the linens when he sauntered in from the living room with an empty wineglass. His eyes were on the elaborately decorated table.

  “Oh! I’m sorry. Let me get you some more.” Delaney moved quickly to the counter where the bottle—now mysteriously half-empty—stood. “This is very good wine.”

  “I’m glad you like it.” He leaned one hip against the counter nearby and looked remote and calm as he watched her.

  She took another sip of wine, filled his glass, then topped her glass off while she had the bottle in her hand. She didn’t know where it all was going but certainly not to her head. No doubt it was being burned off by the adrenaline of having Jack in the house and being unsure whether or not he was aware of the bombshell she was about to drop on him.

  It didn’t help that he looked so damn good either. He wore a black rugby shirt and jeans. He looked good enough to curl up against, and she was just scared and tired and confused enough to want to do that. She could almost feel how warm and solid his chest would feel as she laid her head on it and nestled into the comfort of his arms. If only she could count on him to do that instead of be angry at her when she told him the truth. But she had to face it, if the tables could somehow be turned, she kne
w she’d be angry.

  She glanced up at him suddenly, as if he might have read her thoughts, and found him looking at her.

  “What?” he asked, obviously alarmed by the look on her face.

  “Nothing! Would you like some brie?” She moved to the table and picked up the plate. Several crackers dropped off the side and skittered across the floor.

  “Here, let me…” Jack bent and picked up the crackers, then turned in a circle, looking for the trash can.

  “Under the sink,” she gestured with the plate, sending several more crackers careening off the edge toward his feet.

  He laughed. “If you want me to sweep the floor, just say so.”

  She laughed with him, grateful for the moment of levity. “Sorry. I’m just not—coordinated today. Shall we sit in the living room?”

  “Okay.” He motioned her to precede him, and she walked toward the living room. Was he watching her walk? she wondered. Probably not. No doubt he was too consumed by the enormity of her lie to think about anything but what an awful person she was.

  They reached the living room, and she placed the plate on the table next to his chair, then perched on the edge of the opposite one.

  He leaned back in his seat and dug a cracker into the cheese. She’d forgotten to put a knife on the plate, she realized, though it was probably just as well since she might have accidentally stabbed him with it, the way she’d been flinging crackers around in the kitchen.

  “So…” he said, looking at her as he bit down on the cracker.

  She laughed lightly, for no reason, she realized belatedly. “So,” she repeated.

  Maybe she should tell him now, she thought wildly. Get it over with and save herself the trouble of having to force a meal down her dread-constricted throat. She glanced at him and felt terror—actual terror—grab her chest and rob her of air. He wasn’t even looking at her; he was studying the cracker.

  “Jack,” she began.

  He looked at her immediately, his eyes intent. Firelight flickered in their depths, and she felt like a prison convict caught escaping in the glare of a spotlight.