You're My Baby

“My baby needs a name. And I can’t think of a better one than yours. But I do think it would be prudent to put our understanding in writing. Just so we’re clear.”

“You mean some kind of contract?”

“Exactly.”

He took hold of her hands, then rose to his feet, pulling her up, too. He took a deep breath, then said in a husky voice, “I’ll do my best to make this arrangement as comfortable for you as I can.”

They stood motionless, their eyes locked. Pam’s face was flushed with an emotion she couldn’t name. It was beyond gratitude, beyond fear. Finally she broke the spell. “Looks like we have an agreement to formalize and a wedding to plan, Mr. Gilbert.”

PAM AMAZED HIM. Calmly, confidently, she’d agreed to marry him. With a tectonic shift, his plan had lurched from the theoretical to the actual. Detecting the odor of seared meat, he edged toward the grill. “We’ll think better on full stomachs.” Grateful for the excuse to turn his back, he took the chicken pieces off the fire, all the time trying to master his confusing emotions—relief mixed with panic, excitement tempered by anxiety. And fear. Not of the day-to-day stuff—that he could handle. But fear that the unexpected elation welling within him would be short-lived. He’d promised not to hurt her. But, he suddenly realized, he’d given her the power to hurt him, if he let himself care—and it was going to be almost impossible not to.

Over dinner they agreed to obtain the marriage license in another county the next morning and be quietly married on Saturday. Further, she consented to live in his home. Naturally they would maintain separate bank accounts and, for legal purposes, Pam would retain her maiden name. Besides, all the school rosters would already list her as Carver. That way, she said, it would be easier when…

But he noticed she didn’t complete the sentence.

Then, clearing his throat nervously, he said, “I guess I need to reassure you about something. This is a business deal. I wouldn’t expect we’d, uh, have—”

“Sex.” She completed his thought. “Of course not. That never crossed my mind. We’re just friends, and friends we’ll remain.”

With all the details committed to writing, they dug into the meal with gusto. Pam even apologized for her hearty appetite. “The little guy needs to grow,” Grant suggested.

“Little guy?” She looked up with a smile that turned him to mush. “It could be a girl, you know.”

“Do you have a preference?”

“Healthy. That’s my preference.”

He couldn’t get over it. Here they sat, talking babies, as if it was the most natural of conversation topics. He hadn’t discussed babies, not really, since Shelley was pregnant with Andy. And to tell the truth, for all his brave front, the thought of Pam’s pregnancy terrified him. What if something went wrong?

“How about the house tour? We’ll have to figure out where to put your stuff and where you’ll…sleep.” Leading the way toward the house, he cursed under his breath. The word “sleep” echoed and reechoed with each step he took. And the visuals were equally disturbing.

Pam stopped at the kitchen stoop. “That’s a problem, isn’t it?” She furrowed her brow. “Unless you plan to tell Andy about our little charade.”

He groaned. “No, that can’t happen. Everybody, and I mean everybody, has to believe we’re for real, especially for you and the baby.”

“Then we’ll simply have to work something out.”

He held open the back door and she stepped into the small kitchen and stood, speechless, studying the aqua sink and countertop, the cocoa-brown appliances, the wallpaper sporting aqua and brown steaming coffee cups on a yellow background. With a sinking feeling, he saw it from her fresh viewpoint. “Uh, I haven’t gotten around to doing much with the kitchen.”

She tried a smile. “Vintage 70s decor. All we need is the Brady Bunch.”

“Maybe, um, we could redecorate.”

“Don’t be silly, it’s only for a year.”

“Oh, yeah.” Why hadn’t he realized how dated and ugly his kitchen was? He hastened to put distance between him and the Martha Stewart disaster. “Down this hallway on the left is the dining and living room combination.” He stopped and made a vague gesture. “The master bedroom, bath and den are on the right. What first?”

“And up there?” She gestured at the staircase.

“Two bedrooms and a bath.”

“Where does Andy sleep?”

“Upstairs.”

“I guess, then, you’d better show me the master bedroom.”

He stood aside and let her precede him. The plaid bedspread was drawn barracks-tight over the king-size mattress. His dresser top was bare except for a pewter dish for pocket change, a small portable television set and a basketball trophy. The bedside table sported a lamp, an alarm clock and the biography he was reading. The bare wood floor suddenly looked utilitarian. When, after a few moments, she hadn’t said anything, he couldn’t stand it. “Well?”

She screwed up her face as if searching for the word. “Spartan. Masculine.”

“Is that bad?”

She shrugged, then smiled. “C’mon, you’ve seen my place. The kindest thing that can be said of my taste is organized chaos.”

“But you can bring your things.” He looked around helplessly. “Do whatever you like.”

“Plants?”

He nodded.

“Wall hangings?”

“Sure.”

“A big, old braided rug?”

“Why not?”

“A nest for Viola and Sebastian in the corner?”

“In here?”

“My kitties always sleep with me.”

That stopped him. The darned felines were going to be better off than he was. “Uh, where did you have in mind for us to sleep?”

“Show me the den.”

He led her through the bathroom to the small room crowded by his desk, bookcase and a beat-up daybed. He noticed her studying the bed. “I suppose I could sleep in here,” she said, eyeing the sagging mattress dubiously.

“I thought I would.”

“Grant, look at it. You’re a foot taller than that thing is long. If anyone’s going to sleep in here, it’ll be me.”

“Okay, we’ll try it that way, but I don’t want you and Barney to be uncomfortable.”

“Barney?”