Her Baby's Father. Anne Haven
was an ugly one, but he asked it again. “How much do you need, Jennifer? To raise your baby. And to do it somewhere far away from here.”
JENNIFER STARED at Ross’s broad, intimidating back. He’d told her where she stood—firmly outside the circle of people for whom he cared, people he considered his own. Just as her father had when she was thirteen. Now, as then, she was nothing more than a problem—a problem to be solved by throwing money at it.
Jennifer raised her glass to her lips and felt herself shaking. She finished the water, then walked out of the room with all the composure she could muster, which wasn’t much. She couldn’t be around him, couldn’t handle it, despite the weeks she’d had to prepare herself.
Stumbling blindly down the hallway, knowing it was rude, she tried to numb herself from caring. From feeling anything.
At the far end of the hall she pushed through a half-open door into an airy kitchen overlooking the backyard. The counters were indigo tile, the sink white porcelain below a six-paned window. A work island took up the center of the kitchen and a separate breakfast bar divided the cooking area from the dining room.
She focused on her hands as she rinsed her glass and put it in the dishwasher. Pretending she was calm. Under control, the way she’d wanted to be. But her eyes stung with tears and her throat felt tight.
The past couple of months had been so stressful. Last winter when she’d realized Drew had left her a fake phone number she’d decided he wouldn’t want to know about the baby, convinced herself she could go it alone. But then her profit-driven landlord had found a way to eject her from her rent-controlled apartment. To get a new one at the same price she would have had to settle for a hovel not much better than a refrigerator box in a back alley. Looking for a roommate, she’d quickly ascertained that few of the candidates—and none of those who weren’t creepy—wanted to live with a newborn.
Some friends had put her up temporarily. But she’d seen how easily her life could slip, felt the vulnerability of a pregnant woman alone with few resources. She was deeply in debt, struggling to pay off her mother’s medical bills. What if she lost her job? What if she couldn’t afford good child care? What if something unforeseen happened, like her mother’s cancer? The cancer had taken over their lives. Had forced Jennifer to quit college and steadily drained their finances. There had been countless treatments and periods of remission, periods of hope, renewed fear and then hope again. And when Andrea Burns had died after battling her illness so valiantly, she’d left Jennifer without any family. Even her father, she’d learned, had died in a car accident a few years earlier.
She’d awakened on her friends’ couch one morning and known she couldn’t let history repeat itself. Her baby deserved a chance to develop a real relationship with his or her father, however imperfect that father might be. Her baby deserved, too, the additional security and emotional support a second parent would provide. A bigger safety net, which she alone couldn’t give.
Ross entered the kitchen, interrupting her thoughts. Jennifer didn’t turn around. Gripping the counter with both hands, she felt the edges of the wooden trim bite into her skin.
She stood there a long time, silent, wishing with a foolish part of herself for him to apologize, to take back his words, to welcome her and the baby into the Griffin fold.
But of course he didn’t.
Finally she faced him, surprised to find him closer than she’d expected, standing between her and the tiled island. She crossed her arms, feeling her belly protrude below them. “I didn’t come to your house to be bought off.”
“I know that.”
“So don’t insult me.”
He said nothing, just reached up and brushed the pad of his thumb across a spot of dampness under her eye. Then, as if he couldn’t resist—and already regretted his lack of will—he settled his hand on her shoulder and drew her to him.
Jennifer felt herself step into his arms. She tried to stand stiffly in his embrace, to resist the urge to relax, to keep the gesture from affecting her. But she was alone in a new city, with all her friends back in San Francisco. And this was Ross Griffin. Still compelling, still irresistible, despite the words he’d spoken in his living room. She felt her body soften against his, felt herself lean in to him. It was the wrong thing to do—just as it had been nine years ago—but she couldn’t stop herself.
Her belly made the hug awkward, but she soaked up the comfort he seemed to offer, savoring the connection to another human being.
No, not just another human being, of course. The connection to Ross. Even though he’d hurt her with his attempt to buy her off, she couldn’t help her pleasure at being near him again. Or the irrational relief she’d felt when he told her he lived alone, without a wife.
Inside her, the baby moved. A fluttering kick followed by what felt like a full-body stretch. A limb pressed outward, against Ross’s stomach.
He went still. “The baby.”
She nodded.
He released her shoulders and placed both palms, fingers down, on the heavy curve of her stomach. Her secondhand maternity jeans had a low waistband, so only the thin layer of her pink cotton shirt separated his skin from hers. The baby kept moving.
Jennifer closed her eyes. She loved these active periods, loved feeling the unmistakable presence of a new person growing inside her.
Ross’s hands were warm and broad. With a slight upward pressure he supported her belly’s weight. The contact felt intimate and much better than it should have.
Eventually the baby quieted. She opened her eyes to find Ross watching her.
Abruptly the spell broke. She stepped back, unable to look into his eyes. Regretting her susceptibility to him.
She remembered the last time they’d touched. The way he’d kissed her and the price she’d had to pay. So long ago, but still she could remember it—a distinct moment ringing like a tuning fork in her memory.
“I’m trying to help you,” he said.
“Then tell me his phone number. That’s all I want.”
As if he was the one who needed to get distance between them now, Ross went to the French doors opening onto the back porch. Holding each of the curved handles, he stared out into the yard. “Drew won’t help you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. He won’t. I can.”
She shook her head, though he couldn’t see her.
“Damn it, Jennifer,” he said, sounding more tired than angry. “Take the money and run. Make a life for yourself. Leave Drew behind.”
Why did it matter so much to him? Who was he trying to protect? And didn’t he care, just a little, that he would miss the chance to know his niece or nephew?
“I can’t do that,” she said.
“You’ll have to. One way or another, you’ll have to.”
She studied him, searching for the meaning behind his words, the thing he didn’t say. The reason he was so sure Drew would never accept his responsibilities.
And then she knew the problem. Knew with a sick kind of certainty, an unexpected clarity.
She looked away from him, out the window over the sink. A line of trees at the back of the property blocked the afternoon sun, but still the yard seemed warm and inviting. Flowers bloomed in a bed running the length of the fence that marked the right-hand lot line. Daisies and daylilies and snapdragons. Herbs grew in a raised bed in the middle of the lawn, basil, oregano, mint, and others she couldn’t identify.
One of the daylilies was taller than the rest. Taller by almost a foot. Absently she wondered why it had grown that way, what trick of genetics or cultivation had made it rise over its neighbors.
“He’s