You're My Baby

His mom kept telling him just to forget about it. “He’s devoted to that school, Andy. You have to understand. Everything else comes second. Maybe it’s better this way. Just you and me, sweetie.” Yeah, you and me and whatever dickhead was after Mom. He didn’t want to go to the friggin’ United Arab Emirates and he sure as hell didn’t want to go to Fort Worth. But did he have a choice? No, he was just the kid. The victim.

He slammed the back door on his way to his room. Divorce sucked.

GRANT USHERED the smilingly officious woman out the front door, closed it and sagged against it, the headache he’d had all day continuing to play racquetball against his temples. How many applicants was this? Seven? Two who spoke minimal English, one who smoked like a chimney and had insisted she be allowed to bring her bulldog with her, two who claimed they’d had no idea he actually expected them to stay over the weekends, and one—the only real possibility—who wouldn’t be available until at least November.

He walked toward the kitchen, wiping his palms on his pants, aware of a buzzing in his ears and an uncomfortable shift in his stomach. He was running out of ideas, and he had to let Shelley know something by Friday. Before the upcoming Labor Day weekend. Because, if all went well, Andy would arrive Labor Day evening. And school started the day after.

But all wasn’t going well. He’d interviewed everyone who’d applied through the agency or the newspaper ad. Texas Christian University and U.T. at Arlington had both been dry holes. So where did that leave him?

Desperate.

He reached in one of the cupboards and pulled out the aspirin bottle, shook out two tablets and chased them with a glass of water. He had so much riding on this year with Andy. Although he knew he couldn’t make up for all the time he’d missed, he hoped to God they could build their relationship. The boy needed a family. Stability.

A family. It had all been so promising in the beginning. Sure, he and Shelley had been young and naive, but when Andy was born, he’d been certain they could raise a fine son, have more children. Live happily ever after.

But that hadn’t happened. He could never please Shelley. And Andy, poor kid, had been the one who’d suffered most. Damn.

Grant had to do something. He couldn’t let this opportunity pass him by.

A family. More than anything, that’s what Andy needed.

Prickles cascaded down Grant’s spine. A hammering sensation reverberated in his chest. No. It was a crazy idea.

Lunacy.

Grant raked both hands through his hair. But if…?

Pros and cons rocketed through his brain. He shook his head. “Crazy” didn’t even begin to get it.

Somewhere outside a neighbor’s dog barked. The air-conditioner compressor cranked on. But Grant didn’t move. Maybe, just maybe, it could work.

He turned and grabbed his car keys from the counter and, before he could reconsider, strode toward the garage.

Hell, what did he have to lose?

PAM SAT on her living room floor, the multiple pages of her senior English syllabus spread all around her. Collating was hard work when Viola and Sebastian insisted on regarding the papers as playthings. Finally she’d had to close the cats in the utility room. She compiled one complete set, tamped it on the coffee table, then stapled it. As she gathered the next sheets, she deliberately avoided looking at the headings, especially those for second semester. It hurt too much to realize that someone else would be teaching the Romantic poets, Thomas Hardy and Wilfred Owen.

Sorting and stapling, she mentally reviewed her search through the Sunday want ads. There were openings for secretaries, of course, and receptionists. She’d thought about real estate, but what would she live on while she took the licensing course and established her clientele? College teaching might be a possibility, but openings were scarce.

She sighed. Tomorrow teachers’ meetings started. And after that when would she have time to follow up on job opportunities? She’d read in the pregnancy book that the lethargy she was experiencing was common in the first trimester. How ironic that when she most needed her energy, she was so bummed out.

She scooped up the collated syllabi and got to her feet, feeling oddly top-heavy. Eventually she’d have to tell her father she was pregnant. Although he might not approve, she knew he’d stand by her. That’s just the way he was. She smiled fondly. He’d be the greatest grandpa. Soft-spoken Will Carver had a heart as big as the West Texas skies.

In fact, it would be far easier to tell him than her sister, twelve years older than she and impossibly narrow-minded and sanctimonious.

Barbara, who’d always blamed her for their mother’s death. No doubt her sister had suffered a devastating loss at an impressionable age. But Pam had never understood how she could continue to hold an infant responsible for the difficult delivery, the hemorrhage, the loss. Barbara had, though, apparently steeling herself against any show of affection for her baby sister. Finally Pam had had to make up her mind not to let her sister’s indifference matter. But it still hurt. Big time.

Overwhelmed with helplessness, Pam set the syllabi on the counter. She’d never know the comfort of a mother’s love and advice during this pregnancy. Or a sister’s.

Maybe it would be a blessing when her condition became known. She hated hiding things. Perhaps from her friends would come the support Barbara couldn’t give. Above all, Pam didn’t want the baby to suffer—not from lack of affection and certainly not from stigma. Whatever it took, she’d protect this child.

She liberated the cats from the utility room, then changed out of her jeans into her pajamas. She wanted to get to bed early. She’d need all her strength for the teachers’ meetings tomorrow—and for the days ahead.

Curling up on the sofa with a copy of the English lit text, she yawned as she reread—as she did each fall—the introduction to the first unit of study. Keeping her eyes open was a challenge, and the book slid out of her lap.

When the doorbell rang, she reared up, looking around dazedly. What? Who? Had she fallen asleep? The bell pealed again.

She tiptoed to the door, amazed to find Grant Gilbert standing outside. Again? She reached for the robe lying on the back of the sofa and, glancing in the hall mirror to be sure she was presentable, opened the door.

Whatever Grant had intended to say had been lost apparently. “Oh. I…I’m sorry. You were in bed? I’d better leave.”

She checked her watch. It was only eight-fifteen. “I was planning an early evening, but not this early. Please come in.”

He hesitated. “You’re sure? I don’t want to intrude. I should’ve called first.”

She hid a smile. It amused her to see the normally self-possessed Grant flustered. She resisted the impulse to take his face between her hands and tell him it was all right. “Please. Come in.”

When he stepped across the threshold, Viola emerged from under the couch and twined herself between his feet, purring audibly. The look on his face was priceless. Pam chuckled. “You’re not much of a cat lover?”

“Does that make me a bad person?” His features relaxed into a sheepish grin.

“Not exactly. But you’ll have to demonstrate other redeeming qualities.”

He studied Viola, who refused to budge. “I would if I could move.”

Scooping up Viola and cuddling her, Pam settled cross-legged into the armchair. “There. You’re free. Have a seat and tell me what brings you out on D-Day eve.”

“D-Day?” He plopped onto the sofa. “The invasion doesn’t really start until next Tuesday when the students show up.”

“Okay, then. D-Day minus seven.” Despite the bantering, he seemed uncomfortable, crossing and recrossing his legs, then stretching them out in front of him, his arms spread-eagled along the back of the couch.

“Did you get to the doctor?”

“Not yet, but I will. Soon.”

“It’s important to take care of yourself.”

For some reason, he seemed nervous, plucking the sofa fabric between his thumb and index finger. Surely he hadn’t come over merely to inquire about her health. “How’s the interviewing coming?”

“You don’t want to know. ‘Disaster’ about sums it up. Nannies expect babies, not a hormone-driven fifteen-year-old.”

She leaned forward, clutching her knees. “So what are you going to do?”

“Throw myself on Shelley’s mercy, I guess. Unless…” He shifted his weight and turned to look directly at her.

“Unless what?”

“I don’t quite know how to suggest this.”