You're My Baby (10 page)

Belinda Ellis narrowed her eyes in concern. “Have I said something to make you uncomfortable?” She hesitated. “I see a lot of women, and I can generally tell when there's something I need to know regarding the baby's father. You are married, aren't you?”

Pam thought again about the questionnaire and the answers she'd fabricated for the section about the father. She couldn't go on with the lies, not when her baby's health was at stake.

Forcing her body to relax, Pam looked straight into the doctor's warm eyes. “Yes, I'm married, but…” She bit her lip.

“Go on,” the doctor urged softly.

“My husband is not the baby's father.” Pam had thought the world would cave in if she ever said those words aloud. Instead, she felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted.

“Tell me about it, if you'd care to. Whatever you say to me is in strictest confidence.”

Unburdening herself to this woman was easier than she would ever have imagined. Only when Dr. Ellis handed her a tissue halfway through the telling did Pam realize her cheeks were wet with tears. Finally she managed the part about Grant and their arrangement. When she finished, she awaited the doctor's judgment. A verdict and sentence she knew she deserved.

Instead, Dr. Ellis smiled a gentle smile and said, “Grant sounds like quite a man. Pam—may I call you Pam?—why don't you let him be as much a part of this pregnancy as you and he are comfortable with? You could use the support and if, as you say, he's a good
friend, he might like to help you through this special time in your life. What about it?”

Pam nodded mutely, blew her nose, then smiled in relief.

The doctor rose. “Feel better now?” She moved to the door. “Let's get you into an examining room and find out how that precious little one is doing.”

Later, lying on the examining table with Belinda Ellis's comforting hand on her abdomen, Pam could truly begin to believe that she was going to be a mother and that everything just might turn out all right.

 

A
NDY HAD FIRST SPOTTED IT
late Sunday afternoon when he'd borrowed his dad's bike and taken a tour of the neighborhood. A park tucked behind a row of scraggly cedar trees. He'd known the basketball court was there before he saw it because he could hear guys talking trash. He'd stopped to watch for a while, a hard lump rising in his throat.

So what the heck? Today Pam had some appointment after school and, after delivering him home, his dad was off helping officiate a middle school football game. They'd never know if he sneaked out to shoot some hoops. He missed playing basketball, but he'd never give his father the satisfaction of knowing that. He went out to the garage, hopped on the bike and pedaled down the street.

In this multiethnic neighborhood, it was no surprise to find the players at the park included a couple of awesome black dudes, several tough-looking white kids and a short Hispanic guy who could dribble like greased lightning—probably all from the large public high school nearby. Andy's hands itched for the ball. But he knew he had to hang around until he was invited.

Finally one of the black guys turned to him and said, “You play hoops?”

“A little,” Andy said modestly.

“Here.” He tossed Andy the ball. “Show us your stuff!”

Andy threw a head fake, dribbled through the first two defenders, reversed, stalled, then quickly pivoted and drove toward the basket. Then up, up he went for two, count 'em, points. “Hey,” another kid laughed, “You're good, man. Can you do it again?” And they were off and running. The best games, the ones where Andy felt most alive, were pickup contests with guys whose hearts, like his, beat to the tattoo of a basketball bouncing on asphalt.

After an exhilarating few minutes, they chose sides. Howie, one of the white kids, and Andy were teamed with Andre and James, the black guys. The other three white guys and Juan squared off against them. Once they started, it was war. Nobody called any fouls and you had to be tough to keep up. Half an hour later, Andy wiped sweat from his face, then rubbed the bruise on his elbow he'd picked up when he'd gotten knocked on his ass defending under the basket. “I gotta go,” he said.

“You come back anytime, dude,” James said. “You can
play,
man!”

Hot and dirty, Andy pedaled away as fast as he could. He needed to beat Pam and Dad home and get a quick shower so they'd never know he'd been gone. But, jeez, that had been a blast. Maybe he could survive this crummy place if he could sneak away and shoot hoops every now and then. So long as his dad never found out.

For some reason, thinking about basketball reminded
him of his paragraph for English. How stupid would it have sounded to tell Pam that his special place was a basketball court? Worse yet, what if he'd written that and she'd told his dad? Actually he'd been kind of amazed to get a B on the paragraph. She'd liked his description of the flowers and bird. She said he had a strong “voice,” too, whatever the heck that was. But one of the things she'd written made him feel kinda squirrelly. He put on the brakes and turned into the driveway, relieved that neither Pam nor his dad was home yet.

What had she said exactly? Oh, yeah.
You can create your own special place in your head and heart. Then it can go with you wherever you are.

What was that supposed to mean, anyway?

 

F
OR THE NEXT COUPLE OF WEEKS
school kept Pam so busy she didn't have time to think about much of anything except lesson plans, ordering play books for
Our Town,
writing the faculty pep skit for the Homecoming assembly and keeping up with her grading. She'd become a master of thirty-minute meal preparation and, so far, neither Andy nor Grant had complained. It helped when she could squeeze a quick nap in before she started dinner. Otherwise, she went to bed shortly before nine, amazed that pregnancy had sent her night-owl tendencies into total remission.

She worried about Andy. He still hadn't made any friends to speak of, except for Angela Beeman. It was as if he went out of his way to nurture the chip on his shoulder. She couldn't help but wonder if things would be better or worse between Grant and him if she wasn't there to defuse the tension. She could tell Grant was both baffled and hurt by his son's attitude. To his credit,
Grant was doing a fair job of standing back and giving Andy some space.

She'd come home from school this Saturday afternoon absolutely drained from helping judge the Keystone Invitational Forensics Tournament. But she had to rally for a command performance—dinner at the headmaster's with several other faculty couples. She stood in the bathroom applying fresh makeup, hoping she could keep her eyes open until after dessert.

Grant tapped on the door. “Are you about ready?”

She managed a tiny grin. He'd been too polite to say “Come on.” If she'd learned anything about him so far, it was that he hated to be late. “Just a couple more minutes.”

“I'll be in the living room giving Andy his marching orders.”

When she emerged from the bedroom, wearing a lime-green dress with a bright blue linen blazer, she stopped in her tracks. The “marching orders” were not going well.

Andy's voice drifted down the hall. “Trouble? What trouble could I get into? Whaddya think? That me and Viola and Sebastian are gonna have a wild party?”

She waited, listening for Grant's response. “I care about you, that's all.”

Andy said nothing, but she could imagine the cynical smirk he'd probably given Grant. She hurried toward the living room, where she greeted them with false gaiety. “Ready?”

Grant turned slowly, his eyes widening. “You look terrific.”

It felt good to have a man notice her. “Thank you, sir.” She smiled at Andy. “I left some cookies on the counter in case you feel like a snack later.”

Andy flopped onto the couch and picked up the TV remote. “Cool.”

When Grant took her by the hand and started toward the door, she turned back. “You have the number where we'll be, right?”

Andy sighed. “Yeah, yeah. Just leave, okay? I'll be fine.”

“I certainly hope so,” Grant muttered as they left the house.

They rode in silence, preoccupied with their own concerns.

“Are you sure you're up for this?” Grant asked as they approached the Campbells' house.

“I'd much prefer a bowl of soup, a video and an early night, but I wouldn't disappoint Connie for anything. She's been so excited about entertaining us.”

“You'll understand then when I put my arm around you periodically?” His grin was that of a co-conspirator.

“And I'll crave your indulgence when I brush imaginary lint from your lapel.”

“Anything to look convincing, huh, Mrs. Gilbert?”

“Is it getting easier?”

He pulled to a stop in the driveway, rested his arm along the back of the seat and studied her, his blue eyes seeking hers as if he wanted to communicate something, but then he merely smiled. “Infinitely.”

The intimacy in his voice made it impossible to look away. When other people weren't around and she let down her guard, she could almost imagine that they really were starry-eyed newlyweds. That it wasn't all simply an act.

He picked up a tendril of her hair and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. “Ready?”

“Lay on, MacDuff.”

He held her hand as they walked up to the door. Connie opened it before they could ring the bell. “Welcome. Come on in. The others are in the family room.”

Pam knew that Ginny Phillips and her husband, Jack and Darla Liddy and Ralph Hagood had been invited, but she didn't know who else would be among the guests. She was ill prepared, then, when she and Grant walked into the room and were greeted by a crowd shouting “Surprise!” She faltered, then felt Grant's steadying arm around her waist. Their friends looked so pleased and happy, confident they were doing a wonderful thing. On the coffee table were mounds of packages wrapped in white, silver and gold.

Jim emerged from the crowd and handed each of them a champagne flute. “Here's to the bride and groom,” he said, as others echoed his words.

Pam looked up at Grant, who appeared almost as dazed as she felt.

Connie was practically jumping up and down by her side. “You didn't think you were going to get off without having a wedding shower, did you?”

Pam willed a smile to her face. How could she tell Connie or her guests that, within a year, she'd have to return all their heartfelt gifts? “Oh, this is too much. You didn't need to—”

“Nonsense. I know we didn't
need
to do anything. We wanted to.”

Pam felt Grant's hand slide up her back to rest on her shoulder. “Thank you, Connie. This is very generous.”

Pam allowed herself to be led through the throng of well-wishers. Along the way she set her champagne down behind a flower arrangement. Then there was
nothing further to do except open the gifts. Benumbed, she picked up the first package and, with Grant's help, managed to fumble with the paper and ribbon.

“Be careful.” Somewhere from the crowd Jessie Flanders's voice floated high and clear. “Every ribbon you break means another baby.”

And with that, Pam pulled too hard and the first ribbon snapped in two. Laughter and catcalls erupted. Pam felt Grant's fingers massaging her neck. If they only knew.

That was bad enough. But then she opened the box. She'd only thought her face was red before. Nestled in fragrant lavender tissue paper was the flimsiest, laciest, most provocative nightie she'd ever seen. “Show us,” trumpeted a voice near the window. “Ooh-la-la,” someone else trilled.

She gulped, sensing a flush mottling her skin. When she held it up, she couldn't have felt any more exposed had she been an exotic dancer in a stag bar.

As if in a trance, she managed to get through the rest of the gifts. A soup tureen, a personalized welcome sign for the porch, a set of monogrammed bar glasses, a leaded crystal vase.

Well-meaning, thoughtful, generous. Her friends. Grant's friends. Their friends.

Until she and Grant would be forced to reveal their duplicity.

Until September.

 

G
RANT CAST
worried glances at Pam as they passed under streetlights on their way home. She reclined against the headrest, her eyes closed, her breathing measured as if she were deliberately trying to calm herself.

She had said not one word since they left the party.

From the stiffness of her smile and the studied way she had acknowledged each gift, he could tell she had barely held herself together. But once the curtain had rung down on this latest performance, she'd withdrawn into herself.

The wail of a melancholy saxophone on the late-night jazz station matched his mood. The outpouring of generosity and support from their friends and colleagues was humbling but at the same time, embarrassing. Neither he nor Pam was comfortable with deceit, and no matter how practical their motives for marrying might be, they had compromised their honor.

And yet…

He lurched away from a four-way stop. Damn it! There wasn't going to be any happily-ever-after. Like it or not, their arrangement was business. Spelled out by their contract.

Beside him, without opening her eyes, Pam stirred. “That went well, didn't it?” There was no mistaking the sarcasm—or the pain.

He restrained the impulse to pull her into his arms and reassure her. He had no right. “Tough night, wasn't it?”

She turned her head and opened her eyes. “I had no idea it would go this far.”

“I know.”

“They were so happy for us. I felt about two inches high.”

He drove slowly through their neighborhood. Odd. He'd automatically thought of it as “their” neighborhood, not “his.” Is that how it happened? Acceptance little by little? “Are you having second thoughts?”