A Promise for the Baby. Jennifer Lohmann
out for his mug.
His hand was cool when it grabbed her wrist. “Don’t. If I want another cup I’ll get it myself.”
“I’m just trying to be nice.” I’m still in your apartment, eating your food, without a job. And now we have this secret hanging between us.
“When you’re offering just to be nice, I’ll let you get me a cup of coffee. Until then, you’re doing it because you feel beholden to me and I’m not interested.” He let go of her hand and she missed the cool touch of his palm on her skin.
Which was nuts. They weren’t a couple; they were a couple of people stuck having a baby together. She would get a job and her own insurance, they would agree on divorce terms and child support and she would never feel his touch again. He was a domineering pain in the ass, anyway. Because you feel beholden. Assuming jerk.
But because he was right, she asked her question again. “What are you going to tell your family about me?”
“The truth.”
“That we met while drunk, had sex and woke up married?”
The corner of his mouth kicked up in a smile, marking this morning as the first time she’d heard him laugh much less give any indication he could smile outside of Las Vegas. And she couldn’t help notice that his hazel eyes twinkled when he smiled. “An edited version of the truth.”
“Could you—” how to ask this question without sounding like she was trying to hide even more “—not tell them about the baby?”
The corners of his mouth fell as his smile turned suspicious. As he should be, Vivian thought, only not with regard to the baby. “Any particular reason to keep it a secret?”
“I’d always heard it was bad luck to tell anyone before the third month.”
“Miles knows—or at least guesses. He saw the book.”
“Just between us for now. Okay?”
* * *
KARL DIDN’T USUALLY lie to his mom, but he knew how to keep something from her. He’d hidden his impending divorce from her almost until Jessica had served him with the petition. It wasn’t something he liked doing—his mom had been angry about the secret of the divorce for months—but he made it a habit not to answer questions people didn’t ask. It hadn’t occurred to his mother to ask if he was getting a divorce. However...
“Is she pregnant?” his mom asked in a whisper as she handed him a platter of sauerkraut pierogies to take to the dining room.
“Why do you ask?” If he could avoid answering the question, he wouldn’t have to lie to his mother. He didn’t want to. But he understood Vivian’s reluctance to share the news—though his reasons were different. The fewer people who knew about the pregnancy, the fewer people who would insist on showing him adorable baby booties and maybe the fewer chances he’d have to think of all the horrible ways children die. As long as only he and Vivian knew about the baby, he could ignore the risk childhood posed to a child whenever he wasn’t around his wife. Or so he told himself.
His mom grabbed the waistband of his pants, preventing him from walking out of the kitchen. He sighed in response. Some days, you are still five years old to your mother. “You married a woman I’ve never met. What am I supposed to think?”
“Mom, even if she were pregnant—and I’m not saying she is—I wouldn’t tell you until she was three months along. It’s bad luck.” At least Vivian had been kind enough to give him something to tell his mother while he lied to her.
“What do you know about this woman you’ve married? Where’s she from? What’s her family like? How do you know if you have anything in common with her?”
He removed his mother’s grip on his pants and turned to face her, surprised when her expression held fear. “We’re here for family dinner. You can ask her all the questions you want. Get to know her. You’ll probably like her.”
I do. More than the curve of her lips and line of her neck. He could relax in Vivian’s calm presence. She had a quiet, efficient manner and he found himself watching her move about the apartment instead of enjoying his view of the Chicago skyline. He had even changed the chair he sat in while in the living room so he could watch her knit or play solitaire.
“She’s just—” his mom halted “—different, and I’m not sure she belongs.”
Of all the things he expected to come out of his mother’s mouth... “Are you saying you don’t like Vivian because she’s not from Chicago, not Catholic—” at least, he didn’t think she was “—or not white?”
“I just think marriages work better when the couple shares a common background.”
He set the pierogies on the counter in exasperation. “You complain about Tilly and Dan not even planning a wedding yet—”
“‘I’m building my business’ isn’t a reason not to get married,” she interrupted.
“And you’re a devout Catholic wishing your sister could marry her longtime female partner.”
“She’s my favorite sister. Their relationship has lasted longer than most marriages I know.”
“Vivian and I have done what Aunt Maria and Josie can’t do and what Tilly and Dan haven’t cared to do. Be happy about that.”
“I just wish I knew her.”
“No, you wish you’d had the chance to approve of her before I married her.” Like you approved of Jessica because the two of you wanted the same things out of me, and they weren’t what I was willing to give. The marriage you approved of led to divorce. And Jessica and I had a lot in common.
He picked the pierogies up off the counter and headed through the living room to the dining room and the rest of his family.
In the dining room, Vivian was laughing at the anecdote of Dan panning Tilly’s restaurant and then picking her up at the Taste of Chicago, each unaware that she was the chef to whose restaurant he’d given a bad review. Instead of being an uncomfortable story, Tilly’s lively hand gestures and gift with words made it one of their best party stories. Karl slipped into the chair next to his wife with the odd feeling that the family table was finally complete. Until tonight, hearing Vivian chuckle at Dan’s tales of the ribbing his friends had given him over the review, Karl hadn’t known something had been missing.
* * *
THE CAR RIDE home was uncomfortable. Vivian’s enjoyable chat with Karl’s sisters had come to a screeching halt when his mom had entered the dining room with roast pork and twenty questions. Vivian had smiled and tried to remain pleasant, while avoiding the questions she thought were none of the woman’s business—and inappropriate to be asked at a get-to-know-you dinner.
“Everyone seemed very nice,” Vivian remarked to the passenger-side window and cars they were passing. By everyone, she meant Karl’s sisters, his brother-in-law and Dan. She hadn’t expected someone as straitlaced as Karl to have a sister with wild blue hair, and his other sister, Renia, while reserved, had an undercurrent of real warmth.
Qualifying her statement seemed rude, and she could be polite to Karl, who had watched the interaction between her and his mother with interest but hadn’t done anything to interfere. Just because she came from mysterious people and a state that Easterners couldn’t distinguish from Iowa, didn’t mean she didn’t know how to be polite.
“Did you enjoy the food?”
“Yes. It’s the first time I’ve ever had pierogies. Probably the first time I’ve ever had Polish food that wasn’t kielbasa from the grocery store.” The only thing the sausage they’d eaten for dinner had in common with the vacuum-wrapped oval from the meat case was the name. Then there had been the cucumbers in a light sour cream dressing. “It was all delicious.”
“No Polish