Becca's Baby Page 7

  The tension at the back of her neck eased just a bit.

  “I’m afraid to let myself hope,” she continued, pouring her heart out to him. “What if we go through all this and something happens? What if I miscarry or the baby dies?”

  He rubbed his eyes, pulling his fingers through his hair before allowing them to drop back to the table. “There’s no life without hope, Becca,” he said. His voice wasn’t quite as cold, but it wasn’t loving, either. “And in life, there are simply no guarantees, either. We just have to carry on as best we can and find ways to cope with whatever happens.”

  Despite his assurances, he still hadn’t moved. He wasn’t grabbing her up, whirling her around. He wasn’t celebrating.

  “I made another appointment with Dr. Anderson for Monday,” she offered tentatively, trying to gauge his state of mind. Trying to figure out where she stood—and how to get closer to him. “I figured you’d want to be there, so I took the latest one she had.”

  Naming the time, Becca said a little prayer that her husband would go with her. She couldn’t do this alone. No matter what anyone thought, she just couldn’t. She’d waited too long. Been disappointed too many times.

  “I do want to be there, thank you,” he said. The shadowy shape across from her remained stiff, unyielding.

  “She’s already done the exam, but she wants to talk to us about maintenance over the next few months and put me on vitamin supplements.”

  “Good.”

  “I thought you’d be happy.”

  “Happy?” He said the word as though it was foreign to him.

  “About the baby.”

  “I’m exceedingly relieved.”

  “But not happy?”

  Coming around the table, he took her into his arms. Finally. Becca sank against him, waiting for Will to crush her to him—to squeeze the tension out of her and the fear.

  He didn’t. He held her loosely, his lower body not in contact with hers.

  “I’m not sure what happy is anymore, Bec,” he said. His tone, at least, intimate.

  Becca’s heart skidded. “What do you mean?”

  He moved away from her, hands in his pockets. “I feel I don’t know you anymore, for starters,” he said.

  She struggled to breathe. “Why not?” But she knew. If she was honest, she had to admit she’d barely recognized herself.

  “The woman I married, the woman I’ve lived with through disappointment after disappointment, would never have considered aborting our child—not unless it was one hundred percent absolutely necessary. Probably not even then. The woman I thought I was married to would have wanted this baby, would have wanted the chance to experience midnight feedings and diaper changes—not worried about how they were going to change her life.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s made me take a good hard look at things, at us, our lives, and I begin to wonder if I ever knew you at all….”

  “Of course you did!” she almost shouted. “It’s been a bizarre few weeks.” She ran her fingers down his arm, silently asking him to take her hand.

  He didn’t.

  “I’ve been a little out of my head,” she tried again, “but inside I’m still the person I’ve always been.”

  “Maybe I’ve just never really stopped to find out exactly who that is.”

  Stepping back, Becca wrapped her arms around herself, chilled in the white satin gown she was wearing. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Becca, horrified and frightened beyond belief, didn’t know what to do. Couldn’t even think.

  “Let’s just get some rest.” Will’s voice sounded as weary as she felt. “We can talk about this later.”

  She couldn’t go to bed, couldn’t lie there alone in the dark, tormented by waking nightmares.

  “Do you want a divorce?” She had no idea where the words came from. Or the strength to say them.

  Her heart splintered when she heard his softly—painfully—uttered, “I don’t know.”

  “And when do you think you’ll know?” The sudden rush of anger was keeping her alive. Breathing.

  “Because I kind of need to know, seeing that I’ve got more than just me to think about.”

  “We both have more than just ourselves to think about, Becca.”

  She accepted the reprimand because she deserved it. Will was the most responsible man she’d ever met. He’d never desert his child. Or her, if she needed him.

  He’d never make an appointment to have his child aborted, either. Not without far more conclusive evidence than she’d had.

  “Do you want me to leave?”

  Her agonized heart found a moment’s solace when Will’s head jerked up, his eyes piercing her even through the darkness surrounding them. “Of course not!” he said.

  He’d obviously never even considered the idea. She took courage from that. If Will’s thoughts were turned toward divorce, they hadn’t traveled very far along that road.

  In the long run, it meant nothing, only that he hadn’t reached the end of his soul-searching journey—which she’d already known. It changed nothing. She’d still done something, contemplated doing something, that had changed her in his eyes.

  And maybe in her own, too.

  “Let’s just give this all some time to settle, eh, Bec?” Will drew his hand along the side of her face.

  Unable to help herself, Becca leaned into the caress. She allowed him to gently dry her tears, too, when they began to spill silently down her cheeks.

  AFTER ONE of the longest weekends of his life, Will discovered that Monday morning seemed even longer. He sat at his desk, in the presidential suite of offices at Montford University. He signed papers, talked to important people, dictated a day’s worth of work for his secretary.

  And watched the clock.

  He spoke with John Strickland on the phone. The architect was going to be making a second trip to Arizona. Will invited him for another round of golf after they finished the work Strickland was coming to do.

  And he watched the clock.

  Montford had to hire a new English professor, and because of the university’s mission to uphold only the highest standards, Will personally looked over each application before the department chairs began the interview process. Distracted though he was, one of them caught his attention. Dr. Christine Evans was overqualified for the entry-level professorship position. He couldn’t help wondering why the woman was leaving a more prominent position in Boston to come to Montford.

  But he couldn’t find any reason not to grant her that chance. Her portfolio was impeccable. He’d be the final part of the interview process if, indeed, the department chose to hire Dr. Evans. If there was a problem, he’d be able to ferret it out then. Giving the application his approval, he glanced again at his watch.

  It was only eleven o’clock. The day was crawling by.

  Yet when three o’clock finally rolled around, it came far too soon. He stopped at home for Becca, waiting in the car. All the way to Phoenix he struggled to find something to say to his wife. Words, which usually flowed freely between them, seemed completely out of reach.

  He wasn’t the only one struggling. Other than hello, Becca hadn’t said anything to him, either.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked as he pulled into the parking lot of the doctor’s office.

  “Fine.”

  “No morning sickness today?” He’d been rather alarmed at the bout she’d had the night before. Too much retching like that and she was going to have bruised ribs.

  And he’d been helpless to do anything about it.

  “It only happens at night,” she said, getting out of the car.

  He hurried to catch up with her, holding the door open as they entered the building. “It’s happened a lot, then?”

  He should know these things.

  “Pretty much every night.”

  “Damn.” He’d been a self-absorbed fool to shut himself off, to keep himself dis
tant, to stay out as often as he had. But no more. He’d be home by dinnertime from now on.

  There wasn’t time for further conversation. They were shown into Dr. Anderson’s office, where a nurse weighed Becca, checked her blood pressure and led them to the waiting doctor.

  Will caught Becca’s eye just before they went in. He felt her excitement—and trepidation—mirrored inside him. With the silent communication of people who’d lived together forever, she told him she was glad he was there. He was glad, too.

  And glad they could still share those silent messages.

  “We’ll be very careful, of course,” the doctor said half an hour later. “I’ll want to see you, Becca, biweekly, at least for the first trimester, but I see no reason why we won’t get this done without a hitch.”

  After the long speech full of warnings and dangers that the doctor had just given them, Will was immensely relieved to know she wasn’t really worried. He couldn’t say the same for himself.

  “By the next visit we might be able to hear your baby’s heartbeat.” Dr. Anderson smiled at them.

  Will looked at Becca’s stomach, hardly daring to believe this was really happening. His glance slid naturally up to meet hers. Full of pride, hope, excitement, her expression was every beautiful thing he’d ever imagined it would be when she finally came to him to tell him she was carrying his child.

  “In the meantime, follow the diet I’ve given you…”

  Clutching the pamphlet, Will made a mental note to stop at the grocery before heading home that night.

  “…get plenty of rest…”

  He’d make sure she made it to bed early every night, even if it meant going there with her and doing mental planning until the hour grew late enough for him to sleep.

  Becca, listening intently to the doctor, nodded.

  “…and feel free to continue with an active sex life….”

  Will swallowed.

  “As a matter of fact, please see that you do. New studies report that having intercourse, and orgasm, twice a week increases the production of prostaglandins, Becca, and…”

  News that would ordinarily have turned him on, that would’ve been an instant source of humor and heat between him and Becca, was now only a source of further strain. Staring straight ahead, as if his wife wasn’t there, he waited for the doctor to move on to a less volatile topic. Like vitamins.

  He wasn’t even sure he loved his wife. How could he possibly think about making love to her?

  CHAPTER SIX

  BECCA WAS QUIET as they left the doctor’s office. Not at all the happy woman she should rightfully have been. With a pang of guilt, Will realized he had to take some blame for that.

  “How about going out to dinner to celebrate before we drive home?” he asked, putting the past couple of weeks behind them, at least for now. This was a time in their lives they’d always remember. One for which they’d been waiting so many years. The moment deserved more than either of them was giving it.

  Their future child deserved more.

  “You’re sure you want to?” Becca asked, her eyes vulnerable.

  “Positive.” Will opened the car door for her.

  “Don’t you think the imminent arrival of little Kristen or Dennis warrants a party?”

  She studied his expression for a moment longer—and then smiled. And in that smile he saw a trace of the woman he’d fallen in love with so long ago. The woman he’d married and lived with for more than half his life.

  “Okay, Dad,” she said, turning to slide into the car. “Let’s go party.”

  THEY ATE. They drank—nonalcoholic daiquiris—and they talked. About the doctor’s visit. Her warnings. About the things they’d missed in each other’s lives during the previous two weeks. Will told her about Todd, his very real fear that he was having an affair with one of his students. And felt the burden lighten somewhat when Becca shared his shock and horror over their longtime friend’s probable infidelity.

  “Does Martha know?” she asked over the apple cobbler à la mode they’d been splitting for dessert.

  Will shook his head.

  “Have you seen her?”

  He shook his head again.

  “Should we call her?”

  He met her eyes. “What do you think?”

  “If it was my husband, I’d want to know.”

  “But wouldn’t you rather hear something like that from me?”

  She took a long time answering, her empty spoon poised in midair. “I’m not sure it would make much difference,” she said, frowning. “The news would be so devastating in itself that how I received it would be secondary.”

  Reading the insecurity in her eyes, he wanted to take her hands, connect physically to the woman he’d become so distant from. He held his spoon, instead.

  “You know you have nothing to worry about on that score, don’t you?”

  Becca, searching his eyes, smiled slowly and nodded. “Thank you.”

  Will was glad he could still make her smile.

  CHRISTINE EVANS pored over available positions she’d collected that week from the Internet-academic-job-placement services she’d signed up with. Nervous excitement churned in her stomach, and with fingers that weren’t quite steady, she weeded out all but the most hopeful possibilities. She was close to finding Tory. The detective hadn’t been any more optimistic that Saturday afternoon than he’d been any other time in the three months Christine had been searching for her younger sister, but Christine knew they were close. She could feel Tory needing her.

  And she had to have a new job in place, somewhere far away, when she found Tory. She couldn’t risk Bruce finding Tory again, as he always did, beating her into submission so she wouldn’t leave him, forcing Tory to run again. Someday he was going to hurt her so badly she couldn’t run. And then, Christine knew, he’d kill her. Somehow she had to keep her twenty-six-year-old sister safe from the maniac she’d married—and divorced.

  Somehow she had to break the chain of abuse that had bound both of them their entire lives. And hope to God that Tory’s scars weren’t as irreparably deep as her own.

  Her best option was Montford University—a position teaching several undergraduate American literature classes. She already had an interview set up with them. Montford was looking for an English professor. The requirements were a little beneath her; the pay not as good as she was currently collecting, but that was indicative of the fact that this was an entry-level position; it had nothing to do with the school. Montford was a private college with impressive credentials. She’d be honored to be named on their faculty roster. And eventually she’d see her salary climb beyond anything she could make at Boston College.

  What made Montford so perfect was its location. Shelter Valley, Arizona, was about as far from Boston as she could get.

  She’d learned, however, never to count on anything. She had to have other interviews set up, just in case.

  Christine jumped when the telephone rang, checked the caller ID, then picked up the phone.

  “Phyllis! I thought you were gone until tomorrow night!” She greeted the woman who was the closest thing to a real friend Christine had ever allowed herself. Like Christine, Phyllis Langford was a professor at nearby Boston College. Her friend taught upper-level psychology classes and had left the previous afternoon for a seminar in Washington, D.C.

  “I gave my workshop, discovered there wasn’t anything else worth my while and took the train home.”

  “Brad was there,” Christine guessed, playing with a lock of her long dark hair. After three years, Phyllis was still in love with the man who’d married her and then discovered that he didn’t want to be married to a woman who was arguably smarter than he was.

  “Yeah.”

  “You wanna come over?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll put the wine in to chill.”

  “Teriyaki rice bowls sound okay?”

  They sounded great. Sandpaper sounded great if it meant Christine didn�
�t have to spend another Saturday night home alone—worrying. Remembering.

  OTHER THAN SARI and Will’s sister, Randi, Becca told no one about her pregnancy. She demanded a promise from Will that he do the same. At least until she was through her first trimester. Until they heard an actual heartbeat. Until she was a little more certain she’d carry the fetus to term.

  And so, for the next two weeks she spent most of her time either immersed in committee work or with Randi or Sari. Her friends, her mother, nagged at her about how busy she was. Her younger sister and sister-in-law tended to her as if she was a helpless rag doll. And Will…

  Just thinking about her husband hidden in his study—again—as she sat alone in the family room she used to love made Becca feel sick. And she’d thought, when they’d made it through the evening dishes without incident, that she was finally going to have a night free from the nausea that had been plaguing her for weeks.

  She’d been wrong.

  She made it to the bathroom, barely, and Will was there before her, the toilet seat up, holding a clean washcloth, running it under the tap.

  She retched until her ribs hurt, and when it appeared she was finished, Will reached over to flush the toilet with one hand, rubbing her neck with the other.

  Then he grabbed the cool wet cloth, passing it gently across her face.

  “I hate it that you’re suffering,” he said almost to himself.

  Not trusting herself to speak, Becca kept her head lowered, her neck exposed to his tender and soothing administrations.

  “Hopefully we’re nearing the end,” he continued.

  “The sickness usually only lasts for the first trimester.”

  They’d been trading baby books. When he’d read his, he’d leave it on her nightstand. She’d leave hers on his.

  Other than the dishes and the nausea, it was about all they shared.