Child of His Heart. Joan Kilby
Erin recognized as one-hundred-percent calculated. “A romantic comedy.”
“Sounds like just your sort of film, Erin,” Gran said, picking up her cue like a pro.
Erin silently began stacking empty plates together.
“What type of movies do you like, Nick?” Kelly continued in the same innocent tone.
Erin leaned over to take her sister’s dish and whispered in her ear, “Cut it out.”
Before Nick could say anything, Miranda spoke up. “Dad likes action movies. Car chases and explosions. Guy stuff.”
“Thank you, Miranda,” he said good-humoredly. “I have been known to branch out on occasion.”
“Perhaps dining out is more your style,” Gran suggested. “Nearby Simcoe has several fine restaurants and Seattle is only an hour away.”
“Erin lived there for years. She’s familiar with all the best spots,” Kelly chimed in.
Erin sighed. There was no stopping them.
“Dad hates to eat out,” Miranda countered quickly. “Plain home cooking—that’s what he likes.”
“Erin’s a wonderful cook,” Gran and Kelly said together.
Miranda’s beringed nostrils flared as she clearly tried desperately to think of a comeback.
Erin glanced sideways at Nick and burst out laughing, relieved to see the humorous twinkle in his eye. “Isn’t family wonderful?” she asked him, rising from the table.
“Gotta love ‘em,” Nick agreed. He rose, too. “I’ll help you clear up the dishes.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Erin apologized when they’d reached the kitchen. “Gran and Kelly have no idea when to quit.”
“They mean well, which is more than I can say for Miranda.”
“She doesn’t need to feel threatened.”
Nick set his stack of bowls in the sink. “I know, although try to convince her of that.”
Erin heard the click from the New Haven shelf clock that signaled the hour. If Nick heard it, he didn’t realize the significance, because a second later he jumped as the house resonated with the melodious combination of bells and bongs.
“What the hell?” He turned in a slow circle, trying to locate the source of the echoing chimes. He stopped in front of the shelf clock, with its wooden front carved in the shape of a church. “This isn’t making all that noise.”
“It’s only one of seven. I collect clocks,” Erin said, pitching her voice above the chimes. “MTV has nothing on me as far as racket goes.”
“That’s an unusual hobby. I bet you never miss an appointment. You’ll have to show them all to me someday, but speaking of time…” Nick eyed his watch. “Miranda and I had better get going.”
Erin went with him to the back door. “If she changes her mind about playing basketball, let me know.”
“I’ll do that.” He paused, head lowered in thought. Then he glanced up, his mouth serious. “Erin?”
Erin found herself looking for the twinkle that lurked in his eyes. “Yes?”
“Would you like to trade sandwiches again on Monday?”
Decision time. Part of her had been hoping he would ask to see her again, but now that the moment was here, she let a beat go by, then another. Hands loosely linked in front of him, he waited, confident but not arrogant. Exuding masculinity. Regarding her curiously, patiently.
“My fiancé in Seattle…ex-fiancé,” she amended painfully. “It’s only fair to warn you, we may get back together.”
Nick spread his hands. “This isn’t a marriage proposal. Just an invitation to lunch.”
Only lunch. Yet deep down, she knew there was more to it than they were pretending; otherwise why would accepting seem so significant?
In spite of her reservations, she found herself saying, “In that case, I’d like that very much.”
THE NEXT DAY, SUNDAY, Erin felt queasy most of the day. It couldn’t be Kelly’s potato salad, she reasoned, because Gran had eaten some and she felt fine. And it couldn’t be the flu because she had no other symptoms.
A sudden thought made her palms dampen.
That last weekend with John… No. No way! They’d used protection every single time. She was too cautious not to, and John was too averse to children. She must have a stomach bug. Erin ignored the mild nausea as best she could and went on with her day.
Monday morning, she threw up in the toilet.
Her bare toes curling against the tile floor, she shivered inside her flannel bathrobe. But not because she was sick with food poisoning or gastroenteritis.
Inside she knew with cold certainty exactly what her condition was. She couldn’t bring herself to voice her suspicion. Not yet. Not until the evidence was before her.
She dressed quickly and slipped out of the house before breakfast to drive thirty miles down the highway to Simcoe to buy a pregnancy testing kit. Once home again, she ran up the stairs to the bathroom before Gran could ask her where she’d been. With trembling fingers she administered the test and sat on the closed toilet seat to wait for the results.
The procedure was a mere formality. Erin knew even before the indicator strip turned color that she was pregnant. Now that she thought about it, her period was over a week late—she, who’d always been as regular as a Swiss timepiece. Yet she stared at the stick of damp paper with numb disbelief.
She was going to have a baby. A tiny thread of delight curled inside her heart. And then disappeared as she contemplated the reality of her situation.
She and John were anything but a couple. Raising a child by herself? She adored her sister’s kids, but the thought of being responsible for children of her own was daunting. Babies, especially, terrified her. They weren’t like numbers, predictable and compliant, staying put in neat columns and always adding up the same. Erin tried to recapture the shred of delight, but it was gone, overwhelmed by a host of fears for the uncertain future.
She forced herself to adhere to her morning routine—shower, dress, makeup and hair. Everything went wrong. She applied conditioner first instead of shampoo and wondered why it didn’t lather. Then she ripped three pairs of stockings before she thought to file down a ragged nail. Her hand shook and pins rained onto the tile floor as she fumbled to roll her hair flat against the back of her head. By the time she hurried out the door, her clocks were chiming nine, the hour at which she should have been at the bank.
All her life she’d put one foot in front of the other, always knowing where she was headed. This morning when she stepped onto the sidewalk to go to work she felt as though the universe had shifted. Nothing looked familiar. Not the cream picket fence that bordered Gran’s house or the broad-leafed maples that lined the street. Next door, Mrs. Contafio waved to her from her front step, where she was retrieving her milk and newspaper. Erin walked past, aware only of the knot in her stomach.
She was going to be a mother. And she was scared spitless.
Despite being late for work, her footsteps slowed as she approached the fire station. What guy would be interested in a woman who was pregnant by another man? The answer came to her with the swiftness of instinct—not Nick. Her mind flashed back to her joke about Miranda and the milkman and how Nick had reacted. She didn’t know what that was all about, but she’d obviously touched a sore spot.
She walked softly, not wanting to attract attention, but he must have been watching for her. Even before she was abreast of the station, he strolled out of the truck bay. He glanced at his watch, then thrust his hands in his pockets as casually as if he were merely taking a breath of air. On the sidewalk,