Baby By Chance. M.J. Rodgers
broth—asparagus tips, onions, garlic, snow peas, spin-ach—and added tender juicy chunks of freshly cooked chicken seasoned with ginger and ground pepper. The flavors blended well and tasted great with the warm corn bread she served right out of the oven.
David had planned from the beginning to take her out to dinner. He hadn’t dreamed she’d offer to make him a meal. But he was glad she had. And not just because the meal had turned out to be superior to what they could have gotten at a restaurant.
Watching her prepare the food, he’d discovered her penchant for neatness and for organization. Every inch of her small kitchen served a specific and useful function. He’d discovered some of her preferences, as well. Fresh fruits and vegetables were clearly major players in her diet. She was concerned about what she put in her body. He’d discovered her attention to detail in the way she sifted and measured and made sure quantities were correct. She was not a careless woman.
They had eaten at her country-style, cloth-covered kitchen table. Her town house had a small formal dining room, but he was certain she rarely ate there, because few photographs adorned the walls. Every inch of the kitchen was covered with them.
The photographs in the living room had told him a lot about her. These told him more. They were all of baby animals—a doe nursing her new speckled fawn, a mother bear playing with her twin cubs, a tiny hummingbird flittering protectively over her hatchlings. And whereas the living room scenes had been full of the bold vibrancy of wildlife, these were filled with the warm, cherished charm of new life.
When they finished eating, David helped her clear the table and put the dishes in the dishwasher. “I have a few things I’d like to go over,” he said.
“All right,” she agreed as she led the way back into the living room. She took a seat on the chair. He sat across from her on the couch. Honey hopped up beside him and nudged his hand, clearly communicating his desire for more petting.
David gave in to the demands of the little terrier, unable to resist. But even as he looked at the dog snuggling against him, the woman sitting so silently across from him claimed his thoughts. He was more confused than ever by her and by the reason she had come to him.
She was not the kind of woman to casually have a fling with a stranger. Everything about her told him that. And yet, she had. He had to know why.
Susan watched Honey stretch out beside David, legs in the air, total trust shining out of his big brown eyes. David’s large hand gently rubbed the terrier’s tummy. The little dog sighed with delight. The expression on David’s face as he looked at Honey was that of a man fast becoming wrapped around the charming paws of a pooch.
She decided she could forgive David a lot when she saw that look. Maybe even forgive him for his intrusion into her home tonight.
“Your husband died two years and ten months ago,” he said, breaking the silence. “You went to the community center six weeks ago to attend a bereavement seminar, not one on self-improvement.”
So, he had checked up on her. Seemed odd he had done so after having turned down her case, and odder still that he was now willing to help her. There was so much about this man that was confusing.
But his voice had been surprisingly gentle when he made that statement. And so was his hand on Honey’s tummy.
“Being able to deal effectively with grief is a form of self-improvement,” she said, trying not to sound defensive.
His immediate response told her she had failed. “I’m not trying to corner you. I’m trying to understand. I’m well aware that losing a loved one can be devastating. Did attending the seminar help?”
She looked down at the gold band on her finger. “No.”
“Tell me how he died.”
“How will that help?”
“I’m not sure that it will. But I’d like you to tell me.”
There was a sincerity in his tone that caught her off guard. He really did sound as though he wanted to know. Yet when she looked up, she found his attention still focused on the dog, his hand stroking Honey’s tummy in a soft, circular motion that was almost hypnotic.
“Paul was a fireman,” she began. “He was a courageous man, dedicated to saving lives. He worked long hours. When he came home that day, he was very tired. But there was a game on TV he wanted to watch, so he decided to stay up for a while.”
The images from the past were clear. She saw Paul as he’d plopped on the couch in his striped boxer shorts, a beer in his hand. He had grinned at her over his bare shoulder, and she’d seen the familiar light stubble on his chin, his blond hair—as always—in need of a trim.
“I put some wash in the dryer, kissed him goodbye and went off to do the grocery shopping,” she continued. “When I got home, I found the block surrounded by fire engines and the house…Paul…everything was gone.”
She didn’t remember much of that part. Probably better that she didn’t.
“How did the fire start?” David asked.
“I’m not sure. Paul had fallen asleep on the couch. They found…him there.”
What was left of him. They had spared her the details—something for which she would always be grateful. She stared down at her walking shoes, concentrated on the gold and white stripes on the sides.
“I didn’t mean to bring it all back,” David said.
She looked up to find him watching her. His face was full of understanding. Strange she had thought his eyes cold. They were looking at her with the same warmth that was in his voice.
“Did you get grief counseling after his death?” he asked.
“I’ve never been one to go to other people for help. I was certain I could handle the grief, and I did. I accepted Paul’s death. I got on with my life. Everything was going well. But, then, a few months ago, the dreams started.”
“What kind of dreams?”
“Vivid,” she said. “I know people are supposed to dream every night. I suppose I must. But I’ve never remembered my dreams before.”
“What happens in these dreams?”
“Paul and I do everyday things together. I bring lemonade out to him while he’s digging the trench for our sprinkler system, and he suddenly tackles me, and we’re rolling in the mud laughing. Or we’re on a scary roller coaster together, and I’m holding on tightly and screaming my head off. Or we’re building sand castles on the beach just like we did on our honeymoon. I see him so clearly that when I wake up, I expect him to be beside me.”
“But he’s not,” David said after a moment of silence.
She stared at one of her favorite photographs—the one of the eagle soaring over the waterfall, powerful wings shimmering with sunlight, proud head rising above all the cares of the world.
“I faced the pain. I faced the grief. I put them both behind me. Only now the dreams have come, and I don’t know why.”
“What did they suggest you do at the seminar?” David asked.
“We were supposed to write a goodbye letter.”
“How far did you get?”
Dearest Paul— Why am I dreaming about you?
“Not very far,” she admitted. “I was staring at those empty white pages while everyone around me was scribbling away. I knew I was getting nowhere. I got up to leave and collided with Todd.”
“He was sitting beside you?”
She shook her head. “He was on the end of the row in the back. I was hurrying up the aisle toward the exit. I didn’t see him getting up to leave, and I ran into him. Literally.”
“And you two left together.”
“He