The Sweetest September (Home in Magnolia Bend) (4 page)

John grabbed a dish towel and wiped up the spilled beer, wishing he could fix his world as easily.

* * *

S
HELBY
WALKED
QUICKLY
down the dim hallway, looking for the bathroom...looking for an escape.

God, why had she come?

Of course, she knew why. She’d put herself in the shoes of a man who’d had a one-night stand and convinced herself she would at the very least want to know she had a child out there somewhere. Seemed ethical. The right thing to do.

But now she wished she hadn’t said anything.

I’m not satisfied being a phantom figure who mails a check once a month.
So what did that mean?

All the doors on her left were closed. Shelby tried the first one, but it was an office, desk cluttered with paper and somehow lonely in the afternoon shadows dancing against the pale wall. Shelby closed that door and found the small bathroom next to it.

Twisting the antique crystal handle, Shelby closed herself in the narrow gray half bath and bolted the door. Silly, but she felt better having a locked door between her and the man she’d paid her ex-boyfriend’s sister-in-law three hundred dollars to find.

Irony was such a bitch.

The bathroom showed a woman’s touch. Embroidered antique towels hung on a ring and a pewter picture frame sat on the vanity. Shelby picked up the picture of the happy couple on the sugar-white beach. John was nearly unrecognizable with tan skin and a huge grin. The wife he held in his arms was small, brown and pretty in a wholesome way. Happy times for a couple that no longer existed.

Shelby set the picture down next to a small carving of a pelican perched in the corner. From the top of the pelican sprouted cattail and tumbling Spanish moss. The braided rug looked handmade in tones of blue and moss-green. Tasteful and simple. Most likely decorated by the woman in the picture.

Shelby sighed and ran water into the sink, blinking at herself in the mirror. She’d eaten her lipstick off long ago, but still looked much the same as she had earlier. She didn’t look like a half-panicked pregnant woman. She looked, well, prettier than normal if not a little pale after having to impart the news to the man clacking around in the kitchen, cleaning up her spill.

Cleaning up her spill.

Yeah. Story of Shelby’s life.

Stay a couple of days. Let me help you figure things out.

John’s offer was tempting to a degree. She had hated being back in Seattle. The summer had been long and rainy, spent waiting on Darby. Then fall had come, along with the news Darby was in love with his...well, wife. Things had unraveled and hadn’t gotten better. Her relationship with her parents was as strained as ever, so in one way not being in Seattle was fine, but she hadn’t wanted the complication of John in her life.

So why did you fly down here to Louisiana?

She had no delusions of some sort of relationship with John Beauchamp. God help her, but she’d had enough of emotionally unavailable men, and one look at the dossier prepared on him paired with the memory of his eyes that night, and Shelby knew he still loved his dead wife. And even if he were available, there would be no time for romance between pregnancy and her teaching career. Besides she hadn’t come down here wanting to be rescued. She’d meant it when she said she didn’t expect anything of him. She didn’t have a permanent job, but she had a solid bank account, and if all else failed, there was her inheritance. Money had never been an issue for her family.

No, coming down to Louisiana had allowed her to escape the reality of Seattle if only for a few days...and delay the ensuing disappointment and scandal she would heap on her accomplished family.

Again.

Once the black sheep, always the black sheep. She seemed destined to stay in the role she’d assumed long ago.

Sighing, Shelby hiked up her dress and tugged down her tights. Might as well—how had John put it? Oh, yeah. Tee-tee. Long drive back to Baton Rouge. She wasn’t staying here in Magnolia Bend any longer than she had to. If John wanted to talk about the future of their child, he’d have to—

Shelby’s last thought disappeared as she caught sight of the blood in the crotch of her brown ribbed tights.

She jerked her panties down and sank onto the porcelain toilet seat. Heavier smears of blood in her panties. Frantically, she grabbed some toilet paper and wiped.

More blood. Fresh.

Oh, God. She was bleeding.

Why had she climbed in that damn rattletrap mule? Bumping over those huge ruts in the field couldn’t have been good for the baby. And all this drama and stress hadn’t helped, either. She’d put her baby in jeopardy, and now she was having a miscarriage right there in a dead woman’s guest bathroom.

Jesus.

And suddenly she, who’d hated the life growing inside of her for nearly a month, who’d penciled in an abortion on her calendar, who didn’t even know the father of her baby beyond his birth date and occupation, knew beyond all else she wanted to keep the small miracle housed within her body.

She stood, tugged up her underwear and tights, squeezed her legs together as if that could stop the bleeding and called, “John!”

Shelby heard the pounding of his boots and slid the lock open, pushing back the door.

“What is it?” he asked, wiping his hands on a towel, looking alarmed.

“I’m bleeding,” she said, trying to stay calm despite the fear clogging her throat. Rough unshed tears made her hoarse.

John took her arm and pulled her gently from the bathroom. “It’s okay. I’m going to call Jamison French. He’s a doctor and one of my closest friends. He’s not far away.”

Shelby nodded, for the first time glad John stood beside her, glad to have someone to lean on. She didn’t want to need him, but her mind felt frozen and all she could think about was keeping the baby inside of her. “I’m scared.”

John escorted her to the chair she’d left moments ago and grabbed the cordless phone sitting on the kitchen counter. “I know you are, but I’m going to take care of you.”

Shelby sank into the chair and tried not to cry. She wanted to be strong, but at the moment doing so seemed impossible.

John barked some things into the phone, softening his tone with an apology. Shelby didn’t pay attention to who he talked to. She concentrated on telling her body to stop bleeding, to stop trying to eject the small life she’d glimpsed on the ultrasound.

“We’re going to my truck, okay?” John said, grabbing a set of keys. “Jamison’s at the hospital, but he’s going to meet us at his office. We’re going to go in the back door.”

“Oh, God,” Shelby breathed. “I didn’t want this to happen. Why is this happening?”

“It’s okay,” he breathed, helping her rise, smoothing her hair back.

“You say that a lot.”

“Maybe we’ll both believe it.”

Shelby closed her eyes. “I hope that’s true.”

John opened the back door, pushing Bart out of the way and flipping off the lights. “No matter what happens, Shelby, hold on to the thought everything will be okay. I’ve forgotten how to do that, but suddenly it feels pretty damn important.”

And when Shelby glanced over at him, she believed him...but that didn’t stop the fact she felt dampness in the crotch of her panties.

CHAPTER FOUR

D
R
. J
AMISON
F
RENCH
’
S
office looked nothing like her doctor’s office in Seattle. The walls were a bright blue and the hot-pink chairs looked like something in a funky designer’s office rather than an obstetrician’s. The navy chevron-patterned changing curtain and a funny picture of kittens playing on the ceiling above the exam table seemed to make pelvic exams fun...uh, almost.

Dr. French rolled his stool over to where Shelby lay on the exam table, paisley paper gown open to reveal her white belly. The tech rolled the ultrasound transponder around in the gook on her stomach while the doctor focused on the soft
lub-lub
of the heartbeat on the monitor.

Feeling like she might heave up the oatmeal cookie she’d scarfed down hours ago, Shelby watched the small screen and the mass of...something that caused the swooshing noises. The panic inside subsided as she listened to the telltale sound of her baby’s heartbeat.

“I’m not seeing anything that concerns me here, Shelby,” Dr. French said, his blue eyes intense behind his artsy glasses. Pointing to the screen he continued. “Heartbeat’s strong for an eleven-week fetus.”

“So why am I bleeding? Was it riding in that stupid mule?”

Dr. French nodded at the technician, who removed the roller-ball thing and handed Shelby a few tissues to wipe off the lubricant.

“No, your baby is safe in your womb and hitting bumps or getting jostled shouldn’t cause any harm. About twenty percent of women experience spotting in the first trimester of pregnancy. Usually caused by implantation of the fetus, but since you’re past that point of your pregnancy, I don’t think that’s the issue.”

“Oh.” Dread knitted inside her. What was wrong with her? Had she done something wrong? She’d had some wine and, oh, hell, a couple of vodka martinis before she knew she was pregnant.

“When was the last time you saw your doctor?” Dr. French asked, noting something in the thin folder before setting it on the counter by the sink. The technician left, shutting the door softly, and the pretty nurse who’d taken her blood pressure slid inside the examination room and with a warm smile, started doing whatever it was nurses did behind the exam table.

“Two weeks ago. Uh, when I had the pregnancy confirmed.”

“And did he or she do a vaginal exam?”

“Yes.” Shelby sat up and wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing her arms. She didn’t want a vaginal exam. She couldn’t handle something that made her any more vulnerable than what she currently felt. Tears sat on the horizon waiting for an excuse to make a debut.

“Hmm.”

“What’s that mean?” Shelby tried to not sound panicked. Her life had been flipped topsy-turvy, and the ground beneath her feet felt as thin as the paper gown she shivered in. Dear Lord. How did single mothers do this and not lose their minds? She felt out of control...and there was no one to hand the reins over to.

On her own.

Dr. French lifted his head from the chart and gave her a sincere, comforting smile. “Relax, lots of changes are going on in your body—like the alteration of pH levels, which can allow yeast to flourish. Any disruption of the cervical cells, like having intercourse, can cause those inflamed cells to bleed.”

“I haven’t had sex. Um, since that night.” Shelby looked at the closed door. John sat right outside in the small waiting area. Did Dr. French suspect John as the father?

Silly, Shelby.
Sure, the good doctor had question marks in his eyes when John hurried her in the back door like it was some secret abortion clinic and he was the preacher’s son, but that didn’t mean he suspected his friend of being the father.

“We’ll take a look and see if that’s what’s going on. A woman’s body during pregnancy is a mysterious thing.”

Shelby stared blankly at him.

“If you’ll just lie back and scoot your bottom right down here,” he said, flicking on the gigantic lightbulb at the foot of the table.

“Oh, God,” Shelby breathed.

The nurse placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay, Shelby. Try and relax.”

At this Shelby laughed...almost hysterically.

Yeah, sure.

Five minutes later, Shelby stood inside the small curtained dressing room, hands trembling and stomach pitching. As she pulled on her wrap dress, she beat back the self-pity threatening to wash over her.

Never had she felt so alone.

And there had been plenty of times in her life she’d stood by herself—the time she’d gotten lost as a child while on vacation, the time she found out her first love had only used her for sex, when she moved to Europe not knowing a soul and most recently in a bathroom at Boots Grocery. But enduring a pelvic in an unfamiliar office with the stranger who knocked you up standing outside scraped the bottom of the
you’re-so-alone
barrel.

Shelby curved her hand over her still-flat stomach, imagining she could feel the heartbeat beneath her hand.

Still with me.

Tugging on her boots, she whisked back the curtain and cracked the door so the doctor would know she was dressed. Sinking on the funky pink chair beside the wall of cabinets, Shelby pulled her purse into her lap and pretended she couldn’t hear the conversation between Dr. French and John.

“How do you know this woman again?”

Long pause. “I told you. She’s an old friend.”

Shelby almost snorted. Yeah. Two and a half months of old friendship.

“Her patient information sheet says she’s from Seattle.”

“Yeah.” Aggravation in John’s voice.

“I’m not trying to pry.”

Another long pause.

“Okay, maybe I am. You call and say it’s an emergency of the female variety, bring in a pregnant woman I’ve never seen before and then expect me not to ask any questions? I’m an
old
friend, too.”

More long silence.

A sigh.

“Fine.”

John’s voice again. “Is she okay?”

“Sorry. Patient confidentiality,” Dr. French quipped. A door shut and then Dr. French stepped into her exam room, annoyance in his eyes fading as he smiled. As the door clicked shut, he picked up her chart and grabbed a pen from his scrub pocket. Clicking it, he grabbed a prescription pad. “The good news is that at present, you’re not losing the pregnancy. I checked your blood work and you have a slight infection. Here’s a script for a cream that can help.”

Shelby opened her mouth to ask—

“No, it won’t hurt the fetus.”

“Baby,” Shelby said. What grew inside her had ceased being a fetus. It was her baby...and she supposed John’s, too.

“The small amount of cramping you’ve had is likely the uterus stretching a bit, making a nice home for your baby, and perhaps contributing to the bleeding. Still, I’d like to put you on limited activity for the next week as a precaution. Feet up. Lots of rest. It’s evident you’re tired and stressed.”

Shelby gave an embarrassed laugh, brushing her hair back, suddenly self-conscious about the no doubt tangled mess of curls...not to mention the mascara shadow under her eyes, which made her look like a heroin addict. She wasn’t interested in any man, but Dr. French was awfully attractive. How the tiny town of Magnolia Bend had netted both John the smoking-hot farmer and Jamison the sexy ob-gyn was beyond her. “I suppose it’s been a bit stressful these past few weeks.”

“Your body’s going through a lot of change, so maybe a little doctor-ordered rest will be good for you...and hopefully once the inflammation is gone the bleeding will stop.” Sticking his hand out, he shook hers. “I’d like to see you in a week. I’ll be glad to forward my notes and your chart to your regular doctor in Seattle when you return home.”

“So I need to stay in town?”

Dropping his hand, he took a second to think about her question. “If at all possible, yes. Miscarriage can be a complicated process. I don’t think the fetus, uh, baby, is in danger, but until we see if this cream works, it would be better for you not to travel. So put your feet up and focus on taking it easy for a week. If the bleeding becomes heavier or doesn’t lessen in three or four days, call me.”

Then he was gone, leaving her once again alone in the exam room. Shelby tucked the prescription in her purse, and found a tube of soft nude lipstick. If she were a bit more presentable, she’d feel stronger...like she could handle walking back out into the reality of her life.

She lingered a few moments, combing her hair, wiping away the traces of tears, and then left the room, running straight into John, who was lurking at the door.

His hands curved around her upper arms, steadying her, and Shelby tried not to think about how good it felt to have someone so solid beside her. “Whoa. You okay?” he asked.

Not even close.

She lifted her gaze and saw worry swimming in his eyes. “I guess. I don’t seem to be having a miscarriage if that’s what you’re asking.”

The worry lessened a bit, but then he seemed to remember where he stood. His head swiveled as if checking for spies...or maybe nosy nurses. His eyes landed on the door they came in. “Let’s go out the way we came.”

She pulled away from him. “I probably need to talk to the receptionist. I haven’t given anyone my insurance card.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,” he said, taking her elbow again and guiding her toward the door.

“Stop,” Shelby said, wrenching her arm away, feeling skeevy about sneaking out and not paying. “I don’t need you to—”

“I know, I know.” He held up a hand, his mouth growing rigid. “You can handle everything on your own.”

He sounded mad...and maybe a little hurt. She wasn’t sure because she didn’t know him well enough to make a judgment.

An exam room door opened and a woman wearing a tent waddled out. Okay, it wasn’t a tent, just a maternity dress that masqueraded as one. But still...yikes. Would she get that enormous? The poor woman might as well have had RMS
Titanic
stenciled across her side.

“John?” the ship, ahem, woman asked, a little V of befuddlement forming between her eyes. She smoothed the linen shift against her bulging stomach and sailed toward them, questions bouncing in her eyes. “What the devil are you doing
here?
”

“Shannon,” John said weakly, his smile pained. “Uh, I’m here to see Jamison. This is his office.”

“I know that, silly,” Shannon said, inclining her head toward Shelby, her eyebrows raised in that age-old expression that meant
Who’s your friend?

“Oh, you mean what am I doing here with Shelby?” He turned his regard to her.

“Hi.” Shelby did a little wave. “I’m a friend of John’s.”

“Oh,” Shannon said, her expression still puzzled.

“Shelby didn’t feel well and since Jamison’s a close friend, I asked if I could drop in.”

“Oh,” Shannon said again, her cheeks dimpling as she gave Shelby a smile. “Lucky you. Dr. French is the best doctor around. Women even drive up from New Orleans to see him.”

“Great,” Shelby said, wishing she’d allowed John to tug her out the back door without resistance. This whole thing was awkward with a capital
A.

“Well, we need to go. Tell Rob I said hello,” John said, motioning Shelby toward the back door like a cruise director.

Okay, so she extended the ship imagery. Sue her.

“So are you new in town?” Shannon persisted, following them with the determination of a...

She was out of ship metaphors.

John paused, turning toward the inquisitive Shannon, but Shelby beat him to it. “Just passing through.”

“For the week,” John clarified.

“What?” Shelby snapped, realizing Dr. French must have told John he’d prescribed bed rest.

“You’re staying with my sister, Abigail, at her bed-and-breakfast, right?” John said, his eyes beckoning her to go along with his statement.

“Actually, I was going to stay in Baton Rouge,” Shelby said, giving John a look she reserved for naughty students. How dare he manipulate her? Magnolia Bend was a charming little town, but she didn’t want to spend her weeklong bed rest with John’s sister. Something told her it would be too...too suffocating.

Shannon looked from him to her, now resembling a...buoy bobbing in the current? Or maybe a cork? Or a—Shelby was officially about to lose it. She wasn’t sure what losing it might look like. She felt equal parts anger and hysteria.

“Laurel Woods is a lovely place to stay. I had my wedding reception there,” Shannon said.

“Really?” Shelby said, a giggle rising to the surface. She bit her lip and tried to hold on to the anger.

“Oh, sure. It’s one of the top bed-and-breakfasts in the area. Of course, we don’t get many tourists because we’re so close to New Orleans, but this time of year with Thanksgiving and the Candy Cane Festival around the corner, we see a few new faces.”

“Huh, that’s...interesting,” Shelby said, glancing longingly toward the back door. She needed to get out of there. Screw the insurance.

“In fact my brother’s playing at the street dance Saturday night after the tree lighting. Maybe I’ll see you both there?” Shannon’s question might as well have been a fishing line tossed into unknown waters.

Shelby couldn’t seem to stop the nautical metaphors. Anytime she couldn’t deal with situations she became plain silly...which meant if she didn’t vamoose, she’d say something inappropriate.

“Maybe so,” John said, tapping Shelby twice on the arm. “We better go.”

“Tell your father I enjoyed his sermon last Sunday...and tell your mama hello, too,” Shannon called out as John turned toward the door and nearly dragged Shelby with him.

Sermon?

Wait. John was an actual preacher’s son? The whole back door thing suddenly made sense.

“Jesus,” he said as he pushed out the door.

“Imagine that. A preacher’s son calling on his savior. Now the whole back door approach makes sense. You go into liquor stores the same way?”

“That’s not what this was about.”

Shelby lifted her eyebrows. “Whatever you say, sailor.”

“Fine. I wanted to get you in to Jamison’s without everyone asking questions, and I knew you’d get treatment faster. It was an emergency, right?”