You're My Baby (9 page)

This didn't feel like any stage kiss she'd ever experienced.

 

A
FTER THE WAITER SET
their lunches on the table, Grant bit into his burger. “Food. That's better.”

Pam smiled. “Didn't you eat breakfast?”

“I was too nervous.” That was the truth. The thought of the assembly had destroyed his appetite.

Forking up a bite of salad, Pam nodded appreciatively. “Soda crackers were all I had, but, wonder of wonders, I didn't get sick.”

Grant studied her full lips closing over her fork. She had a wonderful mouth just made for kissing, as he had discovered this morning. He shifted against the leather booth back. She hadn't fought him at all. If he didn't know she was a fine actress, he could almost convince himself she'd enjoyed the kiss. The students had reacted with wild applause, crying out “More, more!” He wouldn't have minded in the least indulging in an encore, but discretion had triumphed and he and Pam had shooed the kids off to class.

“Now that the word is out, maybe you can make a doctor's appointment.”

“I did. Yesterday. With Belinda Ellis, Darla's doctor.” She set down her fork, her forehead furrowed. “The next hurdle will be when we reveal the rest of our news.”

“There's no point in waiting too long.” He grinned wickedly. “We'll just let everybody believe we worked fast.”

“Pretty sold on yourself, huh?”

The glow in his eyes faded. “Lady, it's been so long
since I've had any practice, at least let me nurture my illusions.” The illusion he was having right now was a full-blown fantasy that would make Pam blush if she could read his mind.

“Nurture away,” she said. Then she looked up as if she'd just thought of something. “I guess maybe I ought to give you, er, permission. Other women, I mean. You know, during this year, it's not like I expect you to be a monk. So if—”

“Forget it. For one year I promised to make this marriage work. Look, I know it's not like other marriages, but that doesn't mean I want to set tongues wagging.”

“You're sure?”

He hesitated, knowing full well the only woman he wanted to go to bed with was the one sitting across from him. Pam had no idea how tough it was going to be for him to remain a husband in name only. “Sure.” Before any other disturbing images came to his brain, he needed to change the subject. “Are you getting more comfortable with the idea of being pregnant?” He dipped a French fry in catsup and waited for her answer.

“It still seems odd. And sometimes for a few minutes, I even forget. My biggest fear is the risk involved in having my first child after age thirty-five.”

“The doctor should be on top of those things. That's one reason I'm glad you're seeing her soon.”

“There's…one other thing.” Piece by piece, she gradually shredded the paper napkin she was holding. When she stopped, she gave a shuddering little sigh and said, “My mother died having me.”

He looked into Pam's haunted eyes, desperate to reassure her. “God, I'm so sorry. But that doesn't mean—”

“That I'll have complications. I know.” She man
aged a halfhearted chuckle. “That was nearly forty years ago. Times have changed.”

Boy, that explained a lot about Barbara's resentment and Pam's hurt. He set his uneaten French fry on the rim of his plate. “I'm not a ‘real' husband, Pam, but you don't have to worry all by yourself.”

She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “Thanks, Grant. No one could ask for a better friend.”

“It's easy.” Darned if he wouldn't be the best friend she'd ever had. Since he couldn't be her husband.

 

T
HIS MIGHT POSSIBLY HAVE BEEN
the next-to-worst day of his life. Andy sat at his desk staring out the bedroom window, an unopened pile of schoolbooks at his left elbow. A stiff breeze ruffled the leaves of the oak tree, and down the street he could see some guy in an undershirt mowing his lawn. Maybe this
was
the worst day, though, because he couldn't actually remember much about the day his father had moved out. Except for crying himself to sleep.

But today had been pure hell. All these kids he'd never seen before treating him like a celebrity. Acting like they knew him. Asking him all these questions about how his dad had popped the question and what it was like to live with Ms. Carver.

He knocked the books on the floor. It wasn't bad enough that he'd been exiled to Fort Worth. No. Now he had to hear from all these Keystone geeks about what a great guy his dad was, how lucky he was to have such a cool family. Family? He wondered what that might be like. Not that he'd ever know.

In the distance he heard the phone ring, but he didn't pay any attention. No one would be calling him. Unless
it was Mom. But today she and Harry were flying halfway around the world. It wouldn't be her.

A tap on his door startled him. “Yeah?”

“For you,” his dad said.

“Okay.” He walked to the bedside table, picked up the extension, then flopped on his bed, wondering who the heck wanted to talk to him. “Uh, hello?”

“Andy?” It was a girl. He struggled to sit up. “It's Angela. Remember? From English and math?”

He couldn't believe it. The rah-rah-football girl. Phoning him? “I remember.”

“I, uh, wondered if you got the answer to problem number four in algebra?”

She sounded breathless. “No. I haven't started my homework.”

“Even English?”

“I guess you think since Ms. Carver's my stepmom that I hurry right home and dig in.”

“Well, yeah. If it was me—”

“It isn't. But you may have a point. I don't need to volunteer for any more trouble than I've already got.”

“Especially if you're going to be driving soon. You'll need a B grade average to get the car insurance break. My folks said I'd have to pay my own premiums if I didn't make the grades.”

He hadn't thought about that. He
did
want to get his license. And he wanted his father to buy him a car. Ticking the old man off about his studies might not be the greatest idea. “I didn't realize, about the grades and all. Guess I'd better look at problem four after all.”

“Have you written your paper for English yet?”

She didn't seem to get it. He hadn't turned a tap except for reading Poe. “I'll whip it out tonight.”

“I've heard she's a tough grader.”

How much more bad news could Angela lay on him? “I'm good in English.”

She didn't answer. It was like neither of them had anything to say. He couldn't figure out why she'd called him in the first place, unless…

“About tomorrow night?”

Tomorrow night? What did she mean? “What about it?”

“I thought if you were coming to the game, well, maybe you'd like to sit with me.”

He'd had no intention of going to the stupid game, but Angela
was
kinda cute. “Sounds good. I'll see you there.”

“Okay.” Her voice lifted on the “kay.” Then after a long pause she said, “I've gotta go finish my math. Bye, now.”

He hung up, but continued staring at the receiver. Had she sorta asked him for a date? He could halfway get excited except for the fact now his dad and Pam would know everything about his life.

He reached across the bed and scooped his English notebook off the floor. He supposed he had to make at least a halfhearted effort to write the stupid paper about his favorite place.

Just where the hell would that be? He glanced around the room. Not here, that was for sure.

He hunched up against the headboard and opened the notebook. He picked up the pen that fell out of it and stared at the blank page. Nothing was coming to him.

A special place? One with good memories? He couldn't think of a thing to say.

T
HE
K
EYSTONE COACHES
traditionally met to play poker following home football games. On Friday night the odors of cigar smoke, stale beer and lukewarm barbecued ribs greeted Grant along with ribald comments. “Hey, Gilbert, surely a newlywed has better things to do on a Friday night than hang out with us” and “Pam worn you out already?”

Amid the knowing grins, he could hardly confess he and his new bride slept in separate rooms.

He endured the card game but was relieved when Jack Liddy called it an evening, pleading the need to start early in the morning reviewing game films. The two men left together. The football coach paused before getting into his SUV. “You know, it's about time you settled down. Pam's a great gal. I'm happy for you both.”

“I appreciate that.”

“By the way, how's your son getting along?”

Grant leaned against the hood, arms folded across his chest. “It's hard to say.”

“How'd he take the news?”

Grant thought about the question, unsure how to answer. “He was surprised, but at least he's not taking it out on Pam. So far. I'm the one he's mad at. Told me point-blank he hates basketball.”

“Weren't you counting on him coming out for the team?”

Grant shrugged helplessly. “I thought he liked basketball. He did as a little kid. Things change, I guess.”

“That's gotta be disappointing.”

Uh, yeah. “He's going out for tennis in the spring.”

“That's something.” Jack raised a finger in farewell. “Hang in there, man.”

Grant stood quietly, trying to ease the tension in his gut before heading for home where his pregnant wife and surly teenage son awaited him. Andy seemed determined not to let him get close, holing up in his room except for meals. The two of them had exchanged only the most cursory of words in the past few days. It was anybody's guess what the kid was thinking, but, as Pam reminded him often, Andy needed time to adjust.

Grant knew he should stop tiptoeing around his son. Discipline and love, as he well knew from teaching, were the keys. But, jeez, it was a precarious balancing act.

At least things were going okay with Pam. The lunches had been a good idea. He'd been able to tell her about his father being in Vietnam when he himself was a kid. About how he couldn't remember his father approving of anything he did or his mother ever going against her husband's orders. He'd confessed how, as a kid, he had never felt he measured up. He probably should have resented Brian, but his brother had been his advocate, his idol. When Brian joined the army, following in their dad's footsteps, Grant had felt as if he'd lost part of himself, and since Brian's death, Grant had maintained only a tenuous connection to his family.

He'd admitted to Pam how, even as an adult, he'd been a disappointment to his father. “Teaching? What
kind of life is that for a man?” Those few words summed up his distant relationship with Lieutenant Colonel Jarvis J. Gilbert.

Despite Shelley's dissatisfaction, it was little wonder his attempt to create a family had failed. He'd had no model. Maybe “happy family” was nothing more than a myth. But that didn't prevent him from wanting one.

From Pam, he'd learned more about the emotional distance between her and her sister—how, as a child, no amount of good behavior or beguiling smiles could win over Barbara, frozen in grief and resentment. On a cheerier note, Pam told of her closeness to her rancher father, her days as an undergraduate at U.T., her roles in theater productions, her love of American literature. But nothing more about this past summer, about her love affair. For the life of him, he couldn't fathom why thinking about her with another man bothered him so much.

It had only been a week since their marriage. Fifty-one to go. The way he felt right now, though, the time could only grow more torturous, because with every passing day, despite his history, he was becoming more and more invested in the idea of family. His family. This family.

But he'd made a bargain. And he was a man of his word.

 

S
UNDAY AFTERNOON
Pam curled up on the sofa with two stacks of student papers. Grant watched a pro football game, seemingly unaware that Viola was perched on the back of his recliner.

Saturday had gone better than expected. Andy had slept late, and when Grant had returned from a morning at the gym, Pam had put them to work bringing over
the rest of her belongings from the condo and then rearranging furniture here and hanging her prints. Luckily she'd leased her condo to Randy Selves, the young journalism teacher, for the school year.

Grant asked her if the audio of the game was disturbing her, and although she said no, she nonetheless found her attention straying from the papers. Glancing around the room, she allowed herself a satisfied grin. It no longer seemed stark and utilitarian. Her collection of wooden candlesticks looked great on the mantel, and the colorful Southwestern throws and pillows brought color where there had been drabness.

At halftime Grant muted the TV and moved to the sofa. “How do you think it's going? Our arrangement?”

“Okay. Maybe we're at our best when we forget we're married and try just to be friends.”

“This is harder than I thought.”

“That's because we can scarcely ever let our guard down.”

“Maybe we'll settle into a routine soon.”

“Let's see, you do Sunday breakfasts, I cook dinners, I do Andy's laundry, you do your own.” She continued ticking items off on her fingers. “We take turns cleaning the bathroom. You vacuum, I dust. How am I doing so far?”

“Sounds like a game plan to me.”

“Would you mind if I planted some bulbs in the yard?”

He chuckled apologetically. “It's pretty barren out there.”

“All it needs is a woman's touch.” Should she have mentioned flowers? Was it presumptuous to put such a permanent stamp on his territory?

He stood. “Can I get you anything? A soda or something?”

“No, I'm fine.”

He hesitated, then went on. “Is it next week you go to the doctor?”

“Yes. Wednesday after school.”

He didn't say anything, just nodded. But there was something in his body language that suggested uncertainty. Surely he didn't want to go with her. That would be way too weird. Besides, she had lots of questions to ask Dr. Ellis, and her privacy was important. He didn't need to feel any obligation to carry their charade that far. “On second thought, a glass of iced tea sounds good.”

“Sure,” he said, heading toward the kitchen.

Had it been fair to entangle him in her personal affairs? With perseverance he could surely have located a housekeeper. Then he and Andy could have bonded without the complication of her presence in their midst. For Andy, though, the biggest surprise was yet to come.

Lost in self-recrimination, she didn't hear Grant return. “Here.” He handed her the tea. “Okay if I watch the second half?”

“Go ahead.” He shooed Viola away and settled in his chair.

She held the icy glass to her cheek, relishing the cool. Finally she set it on the table and picked up the papers still awaiting her attention. This early in the year she took particular care with her grading, making more than the usual number of comments in the effort to reassure the students. The senior essays had been, by and large, proficient, but, as expected, the level of quality among the sophomores was all over the board. When she came
to Andy's paragraph, she took a sip of tea before beginning to read.

Halfway through, she closed her eyes, fighting tears. His heart lay there on the page, bleeding.

She set the paper in her lap, awed by Andy's self-revelation and wondering how on earth she would find the words to respond. Her love went out to him with a fierce protectiveness that caught her utterly by surprise.

 

A
NDY SAT CROSS-LEGGED
against the headboard of his bed, listening to a new rap CD and staring at the phone. Should he call her? And say what? “Angela, this is Andy”? And then what? No way could he ask her for
a real date, not before he had his own wheels. He could just picture it. His old man chauffeuring them to a movie. Sneaking peeks in the rearview mirror to see if he'd made any moves on Angela. Nah, better to remain just friends.

He did like the way she smiled at him, though. And her long black hair was shiny the way wet pavement was after a rain.

But the football game had been weird. He'd felt like an alien. All the other kids knew one another. Heck, some had been at Keystone together since kindergarten. He didn't have a clue who they were talking about or what they were laughing at.

But Angie—that's how he liked to think of her—hadn't seemed to mind. In fact, after one big score, she'd slipped her hand into his, like they were a real couple. Yeah. Angie and Andy. That sounded cool. She was friendly, nice. Not like some of those snobby girls with the tight skirts, French braids and designer purses. He closed his eyes, picturing the two of them kissing. Would her braces get in the way? He hoped not.

The phone sat there. Waiting. Maybe she wouldn't be home. Worse, what if her father answered?

He flung off the headphones and crossed to look out the bedroom window. Downstairs he could hear the drone of a sports announcer. Outside, the next-door neighbors were setting up for a backyard barbecue, across the street some little kids were running through a sprinkler and a fat bald guy with a fire-engine-red face was jogging slowly down the street.

But he didn't have a place. Not out there. Not in here. Certainly not at Keystone.

He turned back to stare, once again, at the telephone.

Forget it, Gilbert. Don't let yourself get sucked in.

 

T
HE WAITING ROOM
with its pastel color scheme was intended to be soothing. But Pam felt edgy and nervous. All around her sat women in various stages of pregnancy, one so huge Pam feared she might give a birthing demonstration any minute. Pam laid a hand across her flat stomach, finding it hard to believe she'd ever look like that.

She turned her attention to the new-patient questionnaire the receptionist had given her, cringing when she came to the section concerning the father's medical history. Every time she thought she'd moved beyond Steven, something like this blindsided her.

She swallowed back a sob. Damn. She hated being so emotional. It wasn't like her at all, but these days every little thing set her off. Like Andy's paragraph and Grant's thoughtfulness in tending to the litter boxes.

“Mrs. Gilbert?” A nurse clutching a clipboard smiled into the waiting room.

Pam rose to her feet and followed along. To her surprise, the nurse ushered her, not to an examining room but to a beautifully appointed office. “Dr. Ellis would like to visit with you before the exam,” the nurse explained, directing Pam to a wing chair. “She'll be with you shortly.”

On the chair-side table lay several pamphlets and the latest issue of
Parent's Magazine.
Pam thumbed idly through one of the pamphlets in which terms like amniocentesis, alpha-fetoprotein and blood sugar seemed like a foreign language. What if something went wrong? Miscarriage, she knew, was a definite threat during the first trimester. What if—

The door opened and a petite, middle-aged woman with sparkling dark eyes and short-cropped black hair
breezed in. “Mrs. Gilbert? Sorry to keep you waiting.” She held out her hand. “I'm Belinda Ellis.”

Pam didn't know quite what she'd expected—maybe a tall, horsey-looking woman with a bun—but she was immediately disposed to like her obstetrician. “It's good to meet you.”

“We'll be seeing quite a bit of each other in the next few months,” the doctor said, taking her place behind her desk. “I like to get to know my patients. That way we can work together so that you have a happy, fulfilling experience. And a healthy baby.” She glanced down at the questionnaire Pam had filled out. “I see you're a teacher. Will you be working throughout your pregnancy?”

“I plan to.” Pam gave silent thanks to Grant, who had saved her from having to resign.

Dr. Ellis continued gently probing, and Pam gradually relaxed as she noticed how intently and empathetically the doctor listened to her answers. At last the obstetrician set the chart aside and folded her hands on the desk. “Since you're over thirty-five, I'll be asking you to take certain precautions. Later, if it's indicated, I may recommend a couple of special tests. But right now, I don't want you to worry about anything. From what you tell me, your pregnancy is proceeding quite normally.”

Pam expelled a sigh of relief. “That's good news.”

“I'm sure you'll want to share it with your husband.” The doctor leaned forward. “You know he's welcome to come with you for your appointments. In fact, I encourage it.”

Pam gave fleeting thought to what it would be like to have a doting husband at her side, but that was more than she could ever ask or expect from Grant. “He, uh,
he's a coach. It's hard for him to get away. He won't be coming with me.”