Blossom Street Bundle (Books 1-5). Debbie Macomber
I can already see what it’s doing to you.”
She’d never known Doug to be so unreasonable. “What exactly is it doing to me?”
“We have to prove to complete strangers that we’re worthy of being parents. I feel like a beggar singing and dancing, cap in hand. All so someone I don’t even know will like me enough to consider me father material.”
“You’ll be a wonderful father!”
“Would have been,” he muttered.
His words scored deep wounds in her heart. Would have been.
“I can’t do this anymore, Carol. I’m not the man you think I am. I want out.”
“Do you want out of the marriage?” she asked through numb lips, hardly able to say the words.
“No. I vowed to love you and I do.”
“You make it sound as if this is some promise you made and regret,” she said bitterly. “Would you have married me if you’d known I couldn’t have children?”
His hesitation was just long enough to supply the answer.
Her pain was so intense that for one unbelievable moment the room went dark and she started to sway.
Doug’s arms came around her, and he buried his face in her shoulder. “I was crazy in love with you when we got married and I’m just as crazy in love with you now. I want us to stay married, but I can’t live like this anymore.”
“I … I can’t have a baby.”
“I know and I accept that.”
“No, you don’t.” He might be saying it, but deep down he’d always resent the fact that she couldn’t give him children.
“I do,” he said sharply, “but I need you to accept it, too. Let go of this, Carol. Accept the fact that we just weren’t meant to be parents.”
“But we could be someday. If we put our name in with the agency, then—”
“Then what? Three, four, five years from now—if we’re fortunate—we might be chosen as worthy recipients of an infant? Do you realize I’ll be forty-four in five years’ time? I’d be sixty-two when our child graduated from high school.”
Carol hid her face against her husband’s chest. Her emotions reeled with the impact of what he’d said. Doug was right. It was time to surrender this need. She’d never been a quitter, didn’t know how to give up. Everything she’d ever set her mind to, she’d accomplished. Except for this … Her effort to have a child had become the focus of her life; more than that, it had become the purpose of her life. Her clenched-teeth determination was ruining their marriage.
Doug released her and walked away. Carol stood frozen and miserable, shaking with a combination of too many emotions, but mostly defeat.
The front door opened and she whirled around. “Where are you going?”
“Out. I need to think.”
“When will you be back?” Her eyes begged him not to leave her, but she refused to ask him to stay.
“I … don’t know.”
She nodded and turned back, hands to her mouth.
“We both need to think this through, Carol.”
She nodded silently. The choice was clear. Either she renounced this need or she ruined her marriage and both their lives in the process.
It was nightfall before Doug returned. Carol sat in the darkened living room, curled up tight on the sofa with her arms circling her knees.
Doug came slowly into the room. “Are you okay?”
She wasn’t yet, but in time she’d adjust. “I cancelled the appointment with the adoption agency.”
He thrust his hands in his pockets. “You can deal with that?”
She nodded. She had to accept that there would be no baby.
Doug sat down across from her and leaned forward, bracing his arms against his knees. His shoulders drooped.
“Where did you go?” she asked.
“A walk.”
“For three hours?”
He nodded.
“Do you want anything to eat?”
He shook his head.
“I phoned Bon-Macy’s. They’re coming to collect the baby furniture next week.”
He stared down at the carpet. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“I am, too.” Sorrier than he’d ever know.
Doug extended his arm to her. “We’ll be all right, just the two of us.”
“Yes,” she whispered as her fingers clasped his. It was true. It would be true.
It had to be true.
44
CHAPTER
“Knitting is a haven, a safe place where one can touch history, dance with art and create a peaceful life.”
—Nancy Bush, author of Folk Socks
LYDIA HOFFMAN
At first I was angry when I didn’t hear from Brad. After all his affirmations about being there for the long haul, he’d walked out on me like every other man in my life, with the exception of my father. A thousand times over, I wished I’d read his letter. Finally I couldn’t stand it any longer—I had to know.
I turned to my sister for advice; I’d come to rely on her more and more, especially in emotional matters. So on Monday, I called her.
“Where are you?” Margaret demanded immediately after I’d said hello.
“At the shop.”
“It’s Monday. I thought you took Mondays off.”
“I do, but there are always a million things to do here and well, it’s where I’m most comfortable.” I did all my best thinking with walls of yarn around me. I’d always looked upon skeins of yarn as unfulfilled promises—the way some people, writers or artists, look at a blank page. The potential is there, and it’s up to us to make something with that yarn or write something on that page. It’s the sense of possibility I find so exciting.
Actually, I gave a lot of thought to that analogy. My relationship with Brad held promise and because of my fears I’d let him go. I didn’t do anything with all those possibilities.
“You’re calling about Brad, aren’t you?”
Sometimes Margaret seems like a mind-reader. “If you must know … yes. Have you heard from him?”
“Me? What makes you think he’d contact me?”
“Wishful thinking, I suppose.” Even over the telephone line, I could tell my sister was amused by my question.
“Are you going to call him?”
The idea had been swirling around inside my head all week. “I might.”
“Then why are you calling me?” The gruffness I’d experienced so often with her was back in full force.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe because I was hoping you’d tell me I was doing the right thing and that I wouldn’t make a complete idiot of myself in the process.”
Margaret hesitated for only a moment. “If I were you, I’d go for it.”
“You would?” Hope sprang to life.
“Call me back once