In Hot Water. Mary Baxter Lynn
her way to the cabinet that hid a juice bar, Maci made a cup of peppermint tea and then rested once again on the chaise.
After several sips, her stomach, along with her nerves, settled. Maybe now she could figure out how best to handle this latest debacle.
There was no best way.
Until now she had managed to banish the memory of that night in Jamaica. She sometimes even believed that the hot night of passion in a stranger’s arms had merely been an indulgent dream.
Once she and her friends had arrived back home, the pace of her life had increased to a frantic pitch. Seymour had insisted they marry at the mansion and forgo plans to leave town. He didn’t want to wait.
After the stunt she’d pulled in Jamaica, Maci hadn’t wanted to return there, so she agreed, realizing that settling down without further incident was the best thing for her. Two weeks later she and Seymour had repeated their vows, surrounded by close friends.
She’d only been married six weeks before she began to suspect she was pregnant. She had told Seymour right away; to her surprise he’d been overjoyed.
What she hadn’t told him was that the baby might not be his. The idea that she could be having a stranger’s baby had devastated her. After days of agonizing over that real possibility, she decided she had no recourse but to tell Seymour the truth, though she knew that deed could bring her brief marriage to an abrupt end.
“We need to talk, Seymour,” she had told him one evening in the study.
He had peered at her over the rim of his drink and smiled. “My, my but you look so serious.”
“I am serious.”
“You’re okay, right?”
“I’m fine,” she said, unable to look him in the eye.
“Maci, what’s wrong?”
She released a sigh. “It’s something that happened—”
He held up his hand, his features hardening slightly. “I’m not interested in hearing confessions.”
She was taken aback. “But—”
Seymour interrupted again. “What happened before we got married is your business not mine. I’m not comfortable discussing my past. Therefore, I don’t want to hear about yours. End of conversation.”
Taking the coward’s way out, she had been relieved. By law, Seymour was her baby’s father, she had told herself, further justifying her actions. Proving otherwise would serve no purpose. It would only do irreparable harm to everyone involved. Besides, she’d been convinced she would never see her lover again.
Nonetheless, guilt from withholding her confession gnawed at her until Jonah was born. Once she held that miracle in her arms, however, she stored that reckless incident in the most private part of her heart and went on with her life, more convinced than ever that her digression would never be revealed.
The possibility that it might be now was most frightening.
Maci’s stomach lurched again. What if Holt suspected Jonah could be his? That thought numbed her with such terror that she feared she’d lose her mind.
Maybe he wouldn’t stay. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to remain in such close proximity to his father. Or maybe she would be the force that drove him away.
Her conscience suddenly pricked her and she felt selfish. She should be thinking of her husband’s welfare and what was best for him. If Holt was the answer to Seymour’s needs, then she should welcome him with open arms. Under different circumstances, she would have, having often wondered how she could broach the subject of his estranged son.
That was before she knew who he was.
But whether Holt stayed or not was his call. Right now, she sensed he would bolt. The sight of her couldn’t have made his day. To say he’d been stunned was too understated. She had seen a glimpse of the same raw shock she felt mirrored in his eyes. He’d seemed to recover more quickly, replacing that rawness with a cynical contempt aimed at his father.
But she knew she had read him right when he refrained from looking at her after that one time their eyes had locked. Her instinct had told her that had been intentional.
As she finished her tea, Maci heard a tap on her door. For a moment, she froze, fearing who was on the other side. Then feeling foolish for such an irrational thought, she said, “Come in.”
“How’s Jonah?” Seymour asked, making his way into the room, stopping only when he reached the midway point.
At the mention of the baby’s name, she smiled. “Just fussy because he’s teething.”
“Hopefully by now he’s settled.”
A short, but heavy silence followed his words. Maci wanted to fill it, only she didn’t know quite how. She hated this awkwardness that existed between her and Seymour. The wedge between them seemed to grow wider each day.
“Did you and Holt resolve your differences?” she asked, bridging the gap of silence before it lengthened.
“For now,” he said in a harsh tone, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you were counting on more.”
Seymour shrugged. “I still haven’t played all my cards.”
Maci thought that was an odd thing to say, but she didn’t pursue it. She hadn’t been privy to what had taken place between father and son early on and she didn’t suspect her asking questions now would change that.
“I hope you don’t mind having a guest for a while.”
“Would it matter if I did?”
He gave her a strange look. “No, not in this case.”
Feeling that awkwardness deepen, she forced a calm to her tone. “But of course I don’t mind. If he can help you, I want him here.” She turned away so that he wouldn’t notice that her eyes failed to back up her words.
“For sure he can help me. Holt and I might disagree on everything else, but I’ll have to hand him his just deserts—he’s a crackerjack attorney.”
She forced a smile. “Maybe this tragedy will allow you two to patch up your differences.”
“I doubt that.” Bitterness lowered Seymour’s voice. “His mother stands between us and always will.”
“That’s too bad.”
“That’s the way it is, and I’ve accepted it.” Seymour paused and walked toward her. “It’s certainly nothing for you to worry about. As I’ve already told you, the past is the past and not to be reopened. Besides, I have another son, thanks to you, who’s not going to disappoint me.”
“Let us pray,” Maci said lightly.
He smiled. “Prayer has nothing to do with it. I’m going to see that he follows in his old man’s footsteps.”
Jonah might have something to say about that, she almost blurted out. But since that decision was a long way off, she didn’t see any reason to start an argument by disagreeing.
“I know this mess has been hard on you,” Seymour said, “but rest assured our lives will be back to normal soon.”
For some reason that statement, reeking of smugness, irritated her. “I know you say Dodson’s death was an accident—”
“It was,” Seymour cut in sharply.
“Still, I don’t understand how you can take no responsibility or feel no remorse.”
“How do you know I don’t?”
“Well, do you?”
“No. The death was