The Baby Agenda (13 page)

For the very first time, Moira wondered if it was possible that
she
hadn't seen herself as lovable, as desirable. Whether other people might have if she had. Was she inadequate, or did she just think she was?

The very idea shook her. She didn't know which was worse: to
be
undesirable, or to have wasted years of her life because she was so screwed up.

God. I'm pathetic.

Self-pity was not an attractive quality.

She suddenly became aware that Will had parked in front of Van Dusen & Cullen, Architects, and had even turned off the engine. He'd half turned in his seat, his forearm laid across the top of the steering wheel, and was watching her sit frozen with her unwelcome self-revelation.

“Wow,” she said, trying for a laugh that was such a failure it was—oh, God—pathetic. “You set me off. And not in a good way. You're right. I'm doom and gloom, and I didn't even realize it.”

“Not doom and gloom.” He had a way, even with that deep, sometimes rumbly voice, of sounding so gentle her defenses crumbled. “That's not you at all, Moira. But I feel a sadness in you sometimes that I don't understand.”

“I don't understand it, either,” she whispered. “I didn't know.”

He reached out and squeezed the back of her neck with a big, warm hand. His fingers had become practiced at easing muscle tension even in a brief caress. This one wasn't brief; he worked her neck until she bowed her head, closed her eyes and let go of her bout of bewilderment and unhappiness.

Eventually she managed to clear her throat and lift her head. She met his steady, dark gaze with the flicker of a genuine smile. “Man, you should change professions. A Will Becker massage fixes all problems.”

He laughed for her sake. She knew it was for her, because his eyes remained dark and worried.

“I'm just trying to understand you,” he told her.

I'm trying to understand me, too.

And why,
she had to ask herself,
is this suddenly all about me?

Wasn't
Will
the one who'd given up everything for his sister and brothers, then had to do so again for her? Did she understand
him?

Had she tried?

“I know,” she said, a little shakily. “I do know. I'm… really lucky to have you.” She managed a smile. “And now I'd better get back to work.”

“Okay.” His knuckles brushed her cheek, then he released her seat belt and his. He issued his standard order,

“Wait for me,” and got out to help her down.

She was so lucky.

And hated the whisper, the pathetic whisper, that said,
Yeah, you're lucky right now, but how long will all this last, given that he only married you because he thought he had to?

 

C
HRISTMAS WAS…NICE
. Will and Moira didn't do anything that special on Christmas Eve, their gifts to each other weren't extravagant, but they were right. He could tell she really did love the soapstone bowl and the wooden carving he'd brought her from Africa, and she'd bought him an unbelievably soft alpaca scarf the exact color of his eyes—she said—as well as a couple of books that he had trouble tearing himself away from once he flipped open the covers. Her choices told him she listened to him and paid attention to what he said and maybe even to some of his silences.

One of those books was about a project not so different from the one he'd taken on in Zimbabwe, this one in South Africa. He could hardly wait to read it, but even a glance inside at the photos gave him a pang. He tried to hide that, though, when he looked up to find Moira watching him.

“Looks interesting,” he said, more casually than he felt, and set it aside.

He'd built a fire in the fireplace, and he and Moira snuggled on the sofa sipping hot chocolate and gazing dreamily at the lights on the Christmas tree they had put up two weeks before. The sharp scent of fir needles reminded him of Christmases past, of times before he'd lost his parents, of trembling in bed waiting for the first light of dawn before he could wake Mom and Dad to open presents. Of his first bike, of the year he'd itched like crazy from chicken pox and was mad as blazes because he'd gotten it over the holiday and wouldn't even have the benefit of missing school. His first car, a used clunker, had been a Christmas gift, too, the year he was sixteen. He thought about the effort he'd put into making sure Sophie, Jack and Clay had memories as good as his of the holidays.

He found himself talking about them, about how glad he'd been the first year that Sophie, then seven, had become disillusioned about Santa Claus.

“It was sort of sad,” he said, “as if that one year all her illusions got shattered, but, man, it would have been hard to keep that one propped up if she'd been young enough to beg Santa to bring her mommy back.” He fell silent, remembering that particular Christmas when they had all ached with loss and any celebration was more pretence than reality. Even then, though, it had never occurred to him to say, “Let's skip it this year.”

Moira, tucked under his arm, was for once utterly relaxed. “I forget sometimes that you're an experienced dad.”

He gave a short laugh. “Not with babies or diapers. When Clay was born, I was still pissed that my father remarried and had another kid to threaten my place. By
the time Jack came along, I was too tough a guy to be talked into helping with any baby. And I was a teenager when Soph was born. I sure as hell didn't want anything to do with her bare bottom.”

“And then you ended up daddy to all of them.”

He grunted an agreement. “Fate does throw you a curve ball sometimes, doesn't it?”

“You must still get nightmares about that first year or so,” she said quietly.

“You're back to me admitting I felt trapped,” he realized. “I can't lie. I did at first, and I guess I never threw that belief away. I tucked it in my wallet like…damn, a Dear John letter. I could pull it out now and again even as the folds on it frayed and the ink became unreadable. And yeah, I still know what it said, but…” He shrugged, knowing she'd feel the motion. “Truth is, when I think back most of my memories are good ones. I didn't know how good until I went away and found out how much I missed them. It shouldn't have been such a surprise, because when each of them left for college I had this big hole inside.” He touched his chest with his free hand. “But I'm stubborn. I guess you've noticed that.”

She gave him a quick, amused grin.

He laughed. “The thing is, I'm stubborn enough not to always admit I was wrong even when I should. Or even to realize that I was. I saw myself as having to give up everything I'd ever wanted to fill in for my dad. I was mad at him for dying. But now I think…sure, I lost a lot of choices I might have made, but somehow the four of us cobbled together quite a family. And my life has been pretty damn rich to this point. I still don't know what I wanted to grow up and be. Who's to say it would have been any better than what I had?”

Moira was silent for a long time. “Do you mean that?”

Will could admit to himself that he'd started with the intention of reassuring her that taking on an unexpected family wasn't so bad the first time around, which meant he really didn't mind having his life derailed a second time by yet
another
unexpected family. The funny thing was, as he'd talked he had known he meant it. He was as proud of Sophie and his brothers as any father would have been. He
liked
all three of his siblings. When he looked back, he remembered doing a lot of laughing along with the quiet swearing when he was by himself.

Keeping the business in the black those first years had been the most hair-raising. He'd known the construction side, but not the business itself. He'd made a lot of mistakes, lost good employees, hired some lousy ones. But after a couple of shaky years, he had found his footing and made a success of Becker Construction, too. He'd built it into a bigger company than his father had left him, one with a solid gold reputation. He was proud of that, too. Proud he'd saved a legacy from Dad for Clay and Jack.

“I do mean it,” he told Moira. “I'm a different man than I would have been if my dad and stepmom hadn't died when they did, but it's possible I'm a better one.”

In a strange, gruff little voice, she said, “I think you're a very good man, Will Becker. I just wish I didn't think you're such a good man, you'd lie to me to keep me from believing I've taken advantage of you.”

He had a fleeting and uncomfortable instance of wondering if he might be lying even to himself. He didn't think so, even though it was a little unsettling to realize he had been looking at his own life upside down all along. No matter what, it didn't seem like words were going to convince her that she could count on him. She wouldn't
believe him if he said, “I love you.” Time, he thought, might be his only hope.

What he did was lay a hand on her stomach and rub. “This is
our
baby, Moira. This time, I really will be Daddy. I wouldn't want to be anywhere but here.” And that
was
the truth, whether she wanted to believe it or not.

She took a sip of her now cooling cocoa and didn't say anything else. But her belly surged under Will's hand and a knob poked his palm.

“Amazing,” he murmured.

“It is, isn't it?” Moira whispered.

He turned his face to nibble her earlobe. “Merry Christmas, Mama of my baby.”

He felt more than saw her smile. “Merry Christmas, Daddy,” she said softly.

 

T
HEY MADE TWO MORE CHILDBIRTH
classes, one the week before New Year's, one the week after. Two more visits to her obstetrician, too. Her due date was the fifteenth, but at the last visit, Dr. Engel said, “You're
sure
about when you conceived this baby?”

Will and Moira exchanged a glance. Newly self-conscious, Moira nodded. “Very sure.”

“I doubt you'll last another week.” She smiled at them.

“Daytime labor would be nice.”

Apparently that was a joke. They both laughed dutifully.

Once the doctor had whisked out the door, Will helped Moira sit up. It wasn't easy. Chuckling, Will said, “Now you're a pregnant pygmy goat.”

All she muttered was, “God.”

On the way home, she made a few observations about how unlikely it was that this gigantic, linebacker kid of
theirs would be able to exit her body in any approved manner. Under her breath, she said, “It's the
Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
No one else in the Lamaze class looks anything like me.”

“Most of them aren't as close to due.”

“Mindy is. Did you
see
her?” The tiny blonde was the hateful kind of woman who'd have her prepregnancy figure back two weeks after she delivered.

“Her baby'll probably be five pounds and have to spend two weeks in an incubator.”

“While ours will come out crawling. At
least
rolling over. He sure does plenty of that now. Especially when I'm trying to sleep.”

Will thought that was funny. He wasn't the one who was barely sleeping in brief snatches.

Moira sighed. “I am so ready.” She brooded on that for a moment. “What if he's
late?
If I have
weeks
left?”

“You won't.” Will patted her hand. “I promise.”

Like he had any more idea than she did.

He parked in the driveway at home and turned to look at her. Abruptly, he said, “I don't want you going back to work.”

She'd managed half days this week because four hours was as long as she could bear either to sit in her desk chair or perch on the stool at her drafting table. Gray and Will had, together, nixed any more site inspections for her, and she hadn't argued.

“Gray's got another—” she had to calculate “—week in office.”

“He can call in absent to city hall,” Will said in a hard voice. “Or you guys can hang up a closed sign for a week. This has to be a deadly slow time of year anyway.”

“Not so much. A lot of people are planning for
spring.” Moira hesitated. “I guess I'm pretty much done, though.”

Will looked closely at her, but didn't gloat at her capitulation. He only nodded and got out to come around and help her. Once they were inside, he said, “Nap?”

“I might as well lie down.” Her back was killing her.

“I'll give you a massage.”

“I'd love that,” she admitted.

He followed her into the bedroom and sat on the bed once she'd settled herself on her side, facing away from him. Then he lifted her shirt and went to work, those big strong hands unerringly finding every ache and kneading as if she were stiff bread dough. Pure bliss.

Eventually his touch became more gentle. He was soothing her to sleep, and it worked.

The backache returned more fiercely that night. By the following day an occasional contraction rippled across her stomach, turning it rigid beneath her touch. Moira didn't tell Will. He'd fuss worse than he already was.

One week exactly before her due date, Moira couldn't sleep at all. The contractions become more painful, more frequent. Will had sprawled onto his back beside her. If he'd had his arm around her, his hand settled in its usual place, he would have felt the waves of tension seizing her. But she waited and let him sleep, her gaze on the clock.

Finally, she groaned and had to pant when the sharpest one yet gripped her in bands of steel.

“Huh? What?” Will rolled toward her.

She could only keep panting.

“Oh, God,” he said. “That's it, sweetheart. One, two, three, four. You can do this.”

He got her dressed, got her to the hospital. He had to go park and she could tell he'd been running when he rejoined her. Moira fumbled for his hand and held on tight.
She needed him. She did. His voice, his touch, his eyes, became the center of her world.