The Matchmaker's Plan. Karen Whittenburg Toller
but Matt swiveled his chair and stared out the rain-slicked window at the dreary afternoon. As if he had nothing to do. As if daydreaming was his main occupation. He had plenty of work awaiting him. Important work. Necessary work. Work that meant a world of difference to a child halfway around the world. A child he would never meet.
The wind chased a raindrop across the windowpane, leaving a wavy trail across the glass. A second drop splattered and raced to oblivion in three tiny rivulets. He wished that he could love this work, wished that it brought him the soul-deep satisfaction it should. But he seemed to lack something, some fundamental Jonathan element missing that left him dissatisfied and restless in his life. Which, right now, happened to be the reason he sat staring out the window at a dismal view instead of turning his mind to work that was worthy and rewarding and, by birthright, his to do.
He heard a soft footfall and the rustle of movement in the outer office, caught the scent of an elusive perfume and felt a twinge of regret that his solitude was about to be interrupted. T.J. attended classes in the afternoons. Jenny, the afternoon student assistant, was off sick with a cold. The Foundation offices seemed uncommonly quiet on this rainy day and, when he heard the soft tap on his opened door, he fully expected to turn and see Jessica standing in the doorway, one excuse or another tucked under her arm.
But when he swiveled around, it was Peyton who stood there, her coat unbuttoned and splotched from the rain, a plaid Christmas scarf hanging listlessly from her collar, her dark hair curling slightly with the damp. She appeared pale, hesitant, as if she’d rather be anywhere else as she drew a glove off first one hand, then the other. The sudden unwitting thrill of seeing her so unexpectedly faded as her eyes met his and her expression turned cool and distant. He missed the fire of her arguments, the zeal she’d thrown at him for no better reason than that she enjoyed their debates. But since the night at the beach house, she and her passionate opinions had avoided him. It made him think she’d expended all the passion she had to offer him that night and nothing but indifference remained. The fact that she was here, now, in his office, looking as if a breath of controversy would blow her away, annoyed him, and that annoyance was both illogical and inconvenient. But he rose, like a gentleman, and offered her a polite smile. “Peyton,” he said, her name forming a stern, stiff greeting.
“Matt,” she returned evenly, waiting in the doorway of his office for an invitation to come in, an invitation she seemed to know he didn’t want to extend. “Do you have a minute?”
“Actually, no.” He glanced at his watch, reluctant to be in her presence any longer than absolutely necessary, regretting the discomfort he seemed to cause her, too. “I’m due in Providence in an hour and should already be on my way. Jessica’s in her office, though. Why don’t you talk to her about whatever’s on your mind and she can fill me in later.”
“I could do that, but I don’t really think you want her to be the first to know that we’re pregnant.”
The word slammed into him. A sucker punch. “Come in,” he said. “Close the door.”
She stepped into the room, closed the door behind her, waited, perhaps for further instructions.
He had none for her, couldn’t have formed a cohesive thought if she’d put a gun to his head. Pregnant. The word pounded in his head, clawed at his composure, pummeled his gut with fear. Like a reel of film spinning too fast, his memory clicked off the events leading to this moment. The wedding reception. Her distress. Searching for her sister. The moon. The ocean. The decision to try the Lockes’ beach house on Cape Cod. His suggestion to stop at the Danville beach house for a break and a glass of wine. Her unexpected kiss. His unexpected response. One thing leading to another. The morning after. Her saying it was a mistake. His relief that she thought so, too. Their agreement to behave as if nothing had happened, to forget that anything had. And now…
He gestured to a chair and, without waiting for her to take a seat, he sank, weak-kneed, into his own. “Would you…say that one more time?”
“Pregnant,” she repeated. “You and I. We’re pregnant.”
He hated the way she said it. He wasn’t pregnant. Couldn’t be pregnant. How could this not be some ridiculous mistake? “Peyton, I don’t see how that could be poss—”
“Do not say it’s impossible,” she cut him off quickly, forcefully. “You know exactly how, and when, it happened.”
“But—”
“Yes,” she interrupted again. “I’m sure. Yes, I’m positive you’re the father. And yes, I’m going to have the baby.”
He clasped his hands together, pressed them hard against the desk to hide their trembling. A thousand denials jockeyed for position in his thoughts. This couldn’t be true, couldn’t be happening. Not to him. Not with her. She sat facing him, looking calm if not serene, steady if not comfortable, the proof of her statements written in the shadows beneath her eyes, the terrible tension in her stillness. The weight of a dark acceptance settled into his shoulders, forced his head down until his forehead rested on his clenched fists. One night. One careless, stupid night out of a lifetime of careful, considerate choices. One foolish bet with fate in thirty-four years of dutiful caution. One night of flirting with an attraction he’d known should not be acknowledged much less encouraged. He was responsible and yet he blamed Peyton, wanted to stamp her with fault, label her a seductress and sidestep the consequences. To hell with the truth.
One night…and he was caught like the rat he’d always somehow suspected he was.
“I know this is a shock,” she said…and there might even have been the taint of compassion in her voice. “I’m sorry.”
He raised his head, gave her a stony stare. “Sorry for the shock? Or sorry we were so stupid?”
“Does it matter?”
No, but he needed something to justify his rising anger. “How long have you known?”
“Six weeks. I’ve been certain for four.”
“And you’re just now telling me?”
She didn’t even blink. “I had to make some decisions.”
“Decisions I could have no part in making, even though they’ll affect my life as much as yours?”
Her lips parted. He could all but see the excuses ready to spill out of her. But then she stopped, toyed with the fringe of her scarf. “Look, maybe I should go, give you some time to come to grips with this. We can talk later. After the holiday, maybe.”
“We’ll talk now.” The anger washed through him in a self-righteous, contemptuous wave. He hated this, hated her, hated himself for being in a situation he was too old and too responsible to be in. And yet, here he was, as good an example of poor judgment and bad behavior as any hormonal teenager. But so much worse…because he knew better and had not a single excuse. “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve decided, Peyton.”
“You won’t like it.”
“I think that’s pretty much a given.”
She shifted slightly in the chair, tugged the fringe of her scarf through her fingers until her knuckles showed white with the strain. But when she met his gaze, when she spoke, there wasn’t even a hint of uncertainty. “We can do this one of two ways, Matt. We can agree that this conversation never took place. I’ll walk out that door, move away and out of your life. This child will be mine. You’ll bear no responsibility and have no claim. Not now, or at any time in the future. I’ll say I wanted a baby and went to a fertility clinic and that I have no idea who the father is.” Her eyes blazed with the conviction that was rock solid in her voice, scaring him a little with her intensity. “I’ll go to my grave with the secret, Matt, but you must agree to do the same.”
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