Dad By Choice

“It’s a baby.” Abby tossed the words over her shoulder to her mother.

It was as if the sound of her voice were the flag coming down at the starting gate at the Indianapolis 500. The single sentence unleashed a deafening roar as all the reporters hurled their questions toward her at once.

Abby recognized Chelsea Markum, the fast-rising reporter of Tattle Today TV, a new explore-all news program. The woman was obviously determined to reach the top of her profession and stay there. That meant being first whenever humanly possible.

Pushing her microphone into her cameraman’s hand, she elbowed another reporter out of the way and reached for the baby. Slipping her hands within the basket, she triumphantly picked the baby up.

The mewling sound the infant made was all but swallowed up by the noise surrounding them. But Abby could hear it. It shot straight through to her heart and galvanized her. Her eyes narrowed as she pushed her way closer.

“And there’s a note,” Chelsea declared to the crowd, ripping it from the blanket.

“What’s it say?” someone behind her demanded.

Excitedly, Chelsea read, “‘Dear Megan Maitland. This baby is a Maitland. Please take care of him until I can again.’”

Armed with anger and indignation, Abby physically pushed a cameraman aside to reach the innocent infant, who had been turned into a sideshow attraction.

Without a single word, she took the baby from the reporter and turned away.

Like a hailstorm, questions continued to fly at her from all sides—fast, furious and callous. Abby gave no indication that she heard any of them. All she wanted to do was reach the back doors and walk through them.

Suddenly, R.J. was on one side of her and Ellie on the other, buffering her from the crowd and allowing her to retreat with the baby in her arms. Abby’s stony expression dissolved and she smiled her relief. She saw R.J. hang back a second to pick up the basket. He looked decidedly paler to her than he had when they had walked outside.

He saw it, too, she thought. The ghostly whisper of a scandal had finally found its way to the Maitland door.

Armed with her reclaimed microphone, Chelsea shoved it into R.J.’s face. “Is the baby yours?” she demanded.

Abby bit back the urge to tell the woman what she could do with her question and where she could next put her microphone.

“Whose is it?” The question echoed over and over again from all sides. “Which one of the Maitlands is the father?”

A tall, redheaded man with a trace of mustard on his shirt front pushed a mike at Megan. “C’mon, Mrs. Maitland, we’ve all got a living to make. Which of your sons is responsible for this baby?”

Megan Maitland lifted her chin regally and faced the crowd that had been, only minutes earlier, awaiting her arrival with polite smiles and banal good wishes.

“None of them, to the best of my knowledge.”

Queen Victoria couldn’t have defended the realm better, Abby thought, making eye contact with her mother. But she knew the answer wouldn’t satisfy anyone.

“…Who are you covering for?”

“…Hey, give us a break. We’re not all well-off like you.”

“…You might as well come clean now. It’ll all come out eventually.”

Megan looked sharply in the direction the last question had come from, but she focused on no one, talking to the crowd in general.

“The truth usually does, if we’re lucky,” she agreed. “This press conference is at an end.”

Turning on her heel, Megan waved Abby and Ellie in before her, then followed, leaving R.J. to cover the retreat.

He did, then ushered the women into his office quickly. Caught off guard, his secretary looked startled as they entered. She raised a quizzical eyebrow at Abby before turning toward R.J.

“Don’t let anyone in, Dana,” he ordered. Dana began to open her mouth. “And I mean anyone.” With that, he closed the door to his inner office. Only then did he turn to the others. Avoiding the infant, he looked directly at his mother. “Is this someone’s idea of a joke?”

There was sweat on his brow, Abby realized. Her glance went from the baby to R.J. But the baby was hardly more than an infant, perhaps a month or so old, and no outstanding feature seemed to link them.

Nothing but the slight nervousness her brother was attempting to hide.

Abby dismissed the thought, annoyed with herself that she’d allowed the media circus outside to get to her and dignify the unthinkable with even a silent question. The baby couldn’t be his. He would have admitted it long before now, if it were. R.J. was far too upstanding to shirk his responsibilities. That was one of the reasons he was so perfect to head up the clinic.

But he was human, for all that, a small voice whispered in her head, and humans had weaknesses.

There had to be another explanation. Besides, he wasn’t the only brother she had, she reminded herself. R.J.’s pale color was probably due to nothing more than the shock of a scandal finally touching the family.

“A dribble glass is a joke,” Megan replied quietly, struggling to make sense of the situation. The infant suddenly voiced his displeasure, and her eyes, as well as her heart, were drawn to him. “A baby isn’t a joke.”

Megan experienced the maternal pull she always felt at the sight of a baby. Forgetting for a moment the note, the accusations and the implications that went along with them, she took the infant from her daughter.

A soft warmth pervaded her chest, then flooded through her. She smiled down at the small, scrunched-up face. “Hello, little stranger. Where’s your mommy?”

Holding the child, feeling the small life wriggle against her breast took her back. Back to the times she’d given birth. To the first time she’d held each of her children in her arms.

No, she reminded herself, not each. Not the first one. She hadn’t been allowed to hold that baby. Her father had had the stillborn infant whisked away before she could even see him. Or touch him.

He’d done it for her own good, he had said. To save her heartache. To help her to move on. She had been seventeen at the time, and there had been so much more of life ahead of her. He’d been afraid she’d cling to the memory of a dead baby if she’d held it to her.

But there were times, even now, so very many years later, that Megan wished she’d had just that one opportunity to make a bond. And say goodbye.

She realized that her children were looking at her, concern in their eyes. Waiting.

Forcing a smile to her lips, she returned the infant to Abby. “Take him to Ford and have him checked out. I want to be sure that this baby is all right.”

“And then?” Ellie asked.

Megan pressed her lips together as she passed her hand over the tiny head. She looked down at the infant. And noticed a small bracelet encircling the child’s flailing wrist. “And then we’ll see.”

“Ellie’s just uptight because he doesn’t have any insurance cards for her to photocopy.” Abby was being deliberately flippant, hoping to distract her mother.

Ellie caught on quickly. “Careful, before I photocopy you,” she countered.

Though he kept to himself a good deal, this time R.J. was on the same wavelength as his sisters. “You can’t photocopy something that doesn’t leave a shadow,” he interjected.

Megan knew why they were doing this, why they were bantering carelessly at a time when they should have been shoring up their defenses. To distract her. Even though she had fought so many battles on her own, even though she had managed to rise above her poor beginnings and the tragedy that haunted her to become the respected matriarch of a wealthy socially prominent family, her children still felt they had to protect her.

And she loved them for it. And for countless other reasons. If this baby did turn out to be a Maitland, her feelings wouldn’t change. There would just be one more child to love.

With affection, she terminated the banter. “We’ll discuss the abilities of the copy machine and your sister’s lack of shadow later. Abby, go.” Shooing her off, Megan turned to the remaining duo in the spacious office. She wanted to adjourn to her own office, where she had faced her toughest decisions, had had her finest triumphs. She felt secure there. “R.J., Ellie, come.”