The Baby Agenda (4 page)

A grin tugged at his mouth. “Yeah, someone who knows I'm married might wonder.” The smile faded and he repeated, “What, Moira?”

She had to tell him eventually. Now was as good a time as ever.

“I'm pregnant.”

He jerked. “Pregnant?”

“Jeez, tell the whole town, why don't you,” she said indignantly.

He looked around. “There's nobody close enough to hear.” He paused. “Is it a secret?”

“No.” Damn it, she felt watery again. “I guess it'll be obvious anytime.”

“How far along?”

“Um…three months.”

He frowned. “You've lost weight instead of gaining, haven't you?”

“Didn't Charlotte?”

“You're sick, too?”

Moira nodded. “Well, not sick. Just…icky feeling. I don't dare do more than nibble at any one time.”

He was staring at her. “Pregnant,” he repeated. His expression hardened. “Who's the father?”

She gazed steadily back. “No one who is in the picture.”

“It was that son of a bitch Girard wasn't it?”

Moira gave a choked laugh. “He is a son of a bitch, but no. It's not him, Gray.”

“Then who?” This man, her best friend, sounded implacable, as if he intended to beat the crap out of the man who'd impregnated and abandoned her.

She swallowed, the backs of her eyelids burning again. “It really doesn't matter. He…used a condom. It's just one of those things. Not his fault. And we didn't have the kind of relationship that means I'm going to stick him with this.”

The waitress appeared with their lunches, and Moira sat silent, head bowed, while Gray said the right things. The minute the waitress was gone, he said, “You're having the baby.” It wasn't really a question.

“I'd have done something about it long ago if I wasn't.”

He gave a one-sided shrug, as if to say,
Oh, yeah.
“Why did you dread telling me? You're not planning to move home?”

“Home?” She wished she could laugh. “Missoula? Are you kidding? I love my mother, but…no. I'm not going anywhere. It's just that…”

Neither of them had reached for a spoon or fork.

“You're trying to tell me I'm going to have to start carrying my fair share of the work, aren't you?”

“Probably more than your fair share,” she said in a rush.

“Gray, I'm sorry. We had a deal, and now I've blown it.”

Suddenly he was smiling, so tenderly the tears she'd kept at bay filled her eyes. “Moira, falling in love and having babies are way more important than who does what share of work. You gave me my chance, I had fun. But I won't run for reelection. I can't even say I mind that much. It's been a lot tougher than I envisioned, trying to hold down both jobs. I didn't mind so much before Charlotte, but things are different now.” He picked up a napkin and dabbed at her cheeks. “It's past time I take up the slack at work. It's you I'm worried about.”

On the verge of major blubbering, she gulped and leaped to her feet. “I'm sorry, I—” She hurried to the bathroom, a small, unisex one where she could lock the door and sob without embarrassment.

It didn't take her long; heaven knows, she'd cried enough lately, and should have had it all out of her system. Even though she splashed cold water on her face, she was blotchy when she returned to the table.

Gray gave her a comprehensive look, but all he said was, “Eat. Your soup's getting cold.”

She sniffed and picked up her spoon.

“Do you mind if I tell Charlotte?”

“Of course not. I'll be showing before I know it anyway.”

He nodded, and they ate in silence for a few minutes. Moira was hungrier than usual, she was surprised to discover. Maybe something had loosened inside her, now that she'd told Gray.

As though his mind was following a similar path, he asked, “Does your mother know?”

Moira groaned. “No.”

His mouth quirked. “Unless she's planning a visit, you have six months to work yourself up to it.”

“She'll be supportive.”

“Then…?”

“This isn't the way I ever imagined starting a family,” she heard herself telling him. “I hated not having a father. It seemed like everyone else did. I always swore—” Her throat closed up.

Once again, his hand enveloped hers. “You know I'll be there for you as much as I can.”

“Yeah.” She felt her smile wobble. “I do know. Thank you, Gray. But we'll be fine.” Unconsciously, she laid a hand on her belly. “Mom and I were fine. It's not as if I grew up unloved.”

He was quiet for a moment, his gaze perceptive. “Your baby does have a father.”

“I haven't told him.”

“I'd have been pissed if a woman I was involved with kept that kind of secret from me.”

Admitting something like this was hard, but… “It was a one-time thing, Gray. We weren't involved. He doesn't even know my last name.”

His eyes narrowed. “But you know his.”

After a moment she nodded. “Damn, Moira.”

Heat swept over her face. “I've never done anything like that. Doesn't it figure I'd get caught, big-time, when I did.”

“You know I love you.”

She nodded again. “I've cried enough, okay?”

Gray gave a low chuckle. “Okay. But let me say this again. Unless you know the guy's a creep, I think you should tell him. If I had a kid out there, I'd want to be part of his life. Give the man a chance.”

She sighed. “I think…I've been trying to pretend it didn't happen.”

His eyebrows rose. “An immaculate conception?”

Once again he'd managed to make her laugh despite everything. “Something like that.” She folded her napkin, then folded it again. And again. “I'm embarrassed to talk to him,” she mumbled. “And…it really doesn't seem fair to me to ask anything of him.”

“He was there.” Gray's voice was hard.

Yes. Will Becker definitely had been there.

“Give him a chance,” Gray repeated.

After a moment, she nodded. “Okay. You're right. I know you are.”

He smiled then, satisfied, and reached for her hand. One quick squeeze conveyed plenty. “Let me know what I can do, all right?”

There wasn't any point in saying more, not yet. She hated to think he wouldn't be able to finish his term in office, that he'd have to resign early, but they'd have a better idea later when she found out how she was affected by the pregnancy. His term ended the first of the year, and her due date was the middle of January, so they'd be okay as long as she could work until the end.

She should feel better, having gotten this out of the way. And in a way she did. He'd reacted exactly the way she had expected he would: with understanding and affection.

But she still felt guilty, and panic still whispered at the edges of her awareness, prepared to engulf her if she let it.

No matter what, her life would never be the same again.

And now she'd committed herself to calling Will and saying the unthinkable: “I'm pregnant with your baby.”

B
Y THE TIME HE REACHED
the outskirts of Harare, Will was weary and grateful to be back. He'd spent the past two weeks in rural east Zimbabwe, negotiating with workers, suppliers, local officials, town leaders, hell, even the community
n'anga,
or healer, who seemed to be particularly influential in that district.

The job had turned out to be nothing like he'd envisioned. When he'd first arrived, it hadn't taken him two weeks to discover that the architectural renderings drawn by a firm in Providence, Rhode Island, were useless; that nothing near as elaborate as the original plans was required; that, if these community hospitals and medical clinics were to be useful, they needed to spring from local needs and with local approval. He'd made the mistake, too, of believing he could conduct most business in English, the official language. Zimbabwe had been, after all, a British colony when it was Southern Rhodesia. But, while road signs and the like were in English, it was mostly spoken in the cities. In the countryside where he was working it was another matter. He was now learning Shona, the language of the majority tribe. He still needed a translator, but was gaining confidence in his ability to understand discussions before they were sanitized and translated for his benefit. He was already adept enough to conduct the ritual conversations that preceded any real business.

“How is your mother? Your father? Your son? Good, good,” he would say with grave nods. Then, in answer to the requisite polite questions for him, “I don't often speak to them, but my brothers and sister are well.”

Nothing happened rapidly, and getting frustrated did no good.

He pulled his ancient Datsun pickup truck into a curb-side parking spot in the block adjacent to the foundation offices. As he got out, his mouth quirked as he imagined what Clay would say about the irony of Will, the strong, silent member of the Becker clan, having to spend his days and weeks and months in seemingly never ending conversation. Or—most delicious irony of all—being good at it. But these first months, Will had realized, would build the bridge of friendships strong enough to see a dozen medical clinics and two community hospitals built in the next two years. Or it wouldn't happen.

Harare was Zimbabwe's largest city. It had a surprisingly European look, to his eye, and a population of over a million people. Every time he reached the outskirts of the city after days' or weeks' absence, tension melted away. He was American enough to feel most at home here. There were Western-style grocery stores. He could dine out on Italian food, Greek, Chinese. Hold conversations with American businessmen and women.

He felt rueful amusement when he thought of the last cocktail party he'd attended. He wasn't any better at that kind of socializing. Lurking in a dark corner, he'd wished for his mysterious redhead.

In the first week Will had rented a small house less than half a mile from the office. Even though he seemed to be away more than he was here, he needed a base. And he'd somehow acquired a full-time housekeeper-cook.

At home in the U.S., the closest thing to a servant
he'd ever had was a woman who came in to the Becker home weekly to clean. He'd seen her once in a blue moon; mostly they communicated by notes.
Please clean the refrigerator this week,
he'd write.
I'll be coming on Tuesday instead of Thursday next week, if that's okay,
her sticky note would inform him. But having someone
wait
on him…well, that was different. He'd intended to take care of himself. But he'd barely moved in when women began knocking on his back door asking for work. He was met with blank astonishment when he said he didn't need anyone, thank you. And it wasn't totally true, he discovered; buying food in the unfamiliar markets where English often wasn't spoken was a hassle, and he'd come to Africa with the intention of immersing himself in the culture, not living in a bubble like a tourist admiring the scenery. Yeah, sometimes he appreciated seeing familiar brands on grocery-store shelves, but he didn't want to shop only in the Western-style supermarkets. God knows, he wasn't much of a cook. He had no microwave here. And unemployment was sky-high. He could afford to give someone a job.

So now, when he was in town, he came home to
sadza
ready when he sat at the table.
Sadza
was the word commonly used for any meal, but also for the staple of the diet: a sort of stew served on cooked grain. Jendaya, his housekeeper, most often used chicken in the stew, although she was scandalized that he preferred it to goat, which his relative wealth would have permitted. He liked the stew without meat at all, and she obliged with scandalized shakes of the head. Only the poor didn't put meat in their
sadza,
she made sure he knew. When he was in Harare, he usually ate lunch out, so Will was content with the traditional evening meal even though it varied little.

Jendaya had expected him back today, so he assumed
dinner at home would be ready at the usual seven o'clock. That gave him time to stop at the office and check email. He hadn't even seen an internet café the past two weeks—to find one, he'd have had to drive into Mutare, the city closest to the Mozambique border, and it hadn't seemed worth the bother. One of the pleasures of getting home was anticipating email: responses to questions he'd asked of the foundation headquarters, and especially to hearing from Clay, Sophie and Jack. Will missed them more than he'd expected.

The early evening was cool enough to remind him of home as he walked the half a block to the two-story stucco-fronted office building. He'd become accustomed to the rich scent of the air: diesel fuel, wood smoke, ripe fruit and the heady scent of flowers in bloom. September was spring here, south of the equator, still dry, the reverse of seasons in the Pacific Northwest. The hard rains, he was told, fell during the summer in Zimbabwe, therefore at the same time as they would be falling in Washington State.

The front door to the foundation headquarters was still unlocked, although he was greeted with silence inside. He'd started up the stairs when a light went out in an office at the top and Perry Marshall rushed out. Another American, he'd arrived only a few weeks before, and would be acquiring the equipment, furniture and supplies for the clinics as they were built.

“Will!” He paused on the stairs. “Good trip?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Can we talk in the morning? We're having a dinner party, and Rachel's going to kill me if I'm late. You'd be welcome to join us,” he added.

Will smiled. “Thanks, but I suspect Jendaya will have dinner ready. And I've got to tell you, I'm beat.”

The other American's bushy gray eyebrows rose. “Then what are you doing here?”

“Just wanted to check email.”

“Internet's slow today,” Perry warned him, and kept going.

It was, but Will got on eventually and relaxed in his chair, glad the building seemed otherwise empty, as he watched a dozen messages load. Good, a couple from each of his siblings. He liked hearing from them so often. There was one from an unfamiliar address and he clicked on it first, figuring it would be a quick delete. But it wasn't the junk he expected. It was short, only a paragraph, and ended with
Moira.
His pulse quickened.

His mysterious redhead. What the hell? His thoughts had turned to her with disturbing frequency, but if she hadn't tried to get in touch in four months, why now?

 

Will, I've hesitated over contacting you at all, but I think you deserve to know that I'm pregnant. I don't know what happened; I suppose the condom tore or something. You need to know that I don't hold you responsible. I invited you to stay, I knew you weren't offering anything but the one night. Heck, I was the one who provided the condom. But…I am pregnant. I intend to have the baby, and am well able to afford to raise him or her. I have friends and family. I'm not asking for help from you, or any involvement. I'll be honest. I'm not even sure I would
welcome
either. Since you don't know me, you may not even believe the baby is yours. That's okay, too. I thought I should tell you, and now I've done that.

Moira

 

Stunned, he stared at the computer monitor, rereading the email a second time, a third time.

She was pregnant.

The first wave of anger took him aback, because it was a stupid thing that pissed him off. Did she really think he wouldn't believe her when she said the baby was his? He'd have had to be an idiot not to recognize her essential innocence. His redhead didn't sleep around.

“I haven't done this in an awfully long time,” she'd said. He'd wondered then how long that actually was. A year? Five years? She'd been incredibly sexy but also… awkward. Unpracticed. No, if she was pregnant, it was his baby she was carrying. Not
if.
After four months, she might even be showing.

He shook his head in…not disbelief, not shock, but something related. He was going to be a father.

A sound escaped his throat. A father was the last thing in the world he'd wanted to become, at least for the next few years. He'd already raised a family. The idea of starting over appalled him. And yet…that was
his
baby she was carrying.

He shoved his fingers into his hair. As things stood, his son or daughter would grow up without him, and it sounded as though that was what she'd prefer.

He should be grateful.
Glad
she wasn't demanding he be an every-other-weekend father, or that he send child-support checks. She was right; they didn't know each other.

Numbly, Will sat back in his chair. It would be worse if he hadn't liked her, if it really had been a typical one-night stand. A chance-met stranger encountered in a bar, say.

Wasn't that what it was?

He found himself scowling. No. No, he'd been drawn to her from the minute he set eyes on her. He'd ached the next morning to call her. The temptation to see her in the few days left to him had been acute. Now…hell. Now he wished he had. At least then they
would
know each other better.

He felt another surge of anger. She wouldn't welcome his involvement? Did that mean she hadn't liked him nearly as much as he had her? That he really was nothing but an available sub for the jackass?

Had it occurred to her that, if she'd had sex with
him,
using that same condom, she might still be pregnant? Would she prefer that, even given the way the creep had treated her?

I have friends and family,
she said. Will gritted his teeth. A mother. She had a mother. Had she forgotten that she'd told him it was just her and her mom? Okay, she probably did have friends, but friends had their own families. With the best will in the world, how much good was a friend going to be to her, caring for a baby by herself?

He swore aloud, his voice hoarse. He didn't know what to tell her. How to respond. Damn. He looked again and saw that her email was dated almost two weeks ago, in fact the day after he'd left Harare. She had probably already concluded that he wasn't going to reply at all.

Maybe she was relieved. That idea pissed him off yet again.

One more day wouldn't matter. He had to think about this.

At last he made himself read the emails from his brothers and Sophie. None had any real news. Clay had met a woman shortly after Will left and sounded as if he might be serious about her. Jack had had a minor accident in a company pickup, and Clay was ragging him. Sophie
was renting a room in a house with other grad students in L.A., where she'd be attending UCLA, classes to start next week. She'd met with her faculty advisor, and told a few amusing stories about her roommates, two guys and two girls.

Will responded to their emails with a general one telling them about this latest trip. He tried to draw word pictures, so they could see the general meeting held under a baobab tree, with him in a metal folding chair facing the sixteen men who'd sat comfortably on the dusty ground despite Western business attire that made him suspect they'd dressed up for his benefit. He described the tea plantations, with leaves as big as elephant ears, and the kraals of round mud huts with thatch roofs, women wearing Western garb cooking on open fires outside. He made fun of his more ludicrous language mistakes.

He didn't say, “Hey, the real news is that I'm going to be a father.” Although he'd have to tell them eventually, wouldn't he? After years of lecturing them on safe sex.

Yes, but he'd used the damn condom. He'd come close to forgetting it; closer than he'd ever come in his life. But he'd remembered in time, so he couldn't blame himself now for carelessness. He hadn't seen any obvious tear when he disposed of it, although now he wasn't sure he'd even really looked. He'd been wishing he had another condom, wishing he wasn't leaving his redhead to awaken alone in the hotel room.

Will sent the email, figuring he'd write shorter, more personal ones to each of them individually tomorrow. Then he read Moira's one more time, as incredulous and confused as he was the first time. Finally he closed the internet and turned off the computer.

What was he going to say to her?

 

I
T WAS FIFTEEN DAYS AFTER
she'd made herself write that hideous email and send it before she saw a reply in her in-box from Will Becker. The first week, Moira had compulsively checked her personal account at least twice a day while she was at work, something she rarely did, then a couple more times at home. When there was nothing from him, she'd…not given up,
relaxed.
A better choice of words. Since then, she'd gone back to reading personal email in the evening at home. Tonight, she'd sat at the computer while leftover casserole was heating in the microwave. At the sight of his address, her heart took an unpleasant bump and her hand was actually shaking when she reached for the mouse.