You're My Baby (8 page)

He could hear Pam in the bathroom, rearranging the medicine cabinet to make room for her cosmetics and medications. He flopped on the bed, hands cradling his head. In retrospect how simple it would've been to ensconce a housekeeper in the guest room, close his bedroom door at night and relax in his masculine sanctuary. Now he was practically going to have to make an appointment to step into his own shower.

Then there was Andy. Not only understandably upset and confused, but also on the lookout for evidence that he and Pam were behaving like a horny teenager's version of newlyweds. He rolled over on his side, sat up and grabbed the bedside phone. No point postponing the inevitable. He punched in Shelley's phone number, steeling himself for her reaction.

Which was every bit as histrionic and patronizing as he had anticipated. Ten minutes later, after hearing how disappointed Shelley was that now Andy wouldn't receive all of his father's attention and being berated for putting his new wife's needs ahead of his son's, he managed to beg off and call Andy to the upstairs extension. That conversation had been pure Shelley! The very accusations she'd tossed at him were what she'd been guilty of for years. With her, men came first. Andy, second.

He sat, head down, hands dangling between his legs, the weight of the day's events cowing him. A few minutes after he heard the shower shut off, he mustered the energy to rise and knock on the bathroom door. “Pam? Are you about finished in there?”

When she opened the door, a misty cloud of steam hit him in the face, along with a smell like June roses.
His vision cleared, and he gawked. Standing before him in a fluffy peach-colored terry-cloth robe was Pam, her head wrapped in a towel, her smooth, clean skin flushed from the heat, her tawny eyes fringed with long lashes. “I'm done. Do you need in?”

He gulped. “In a while. I thought maybe we ought to settle a few things before we turn in.”

“Like?”

“Our morning routine, for starters.”

She edged past him toward the bedroom, where she sat at the foot of the bed toweling her hair dry. “As you can see, I'm an evening shower person. I'll need about fifteen minutes in the bathroom in the morning.”

He couldn't take his eyes off her. When she raised her arms to massage her scalp, the robe gaped, revealing a sheer nightie it would be folly to think about. Tendrils of hair trailed down the nape of her neck, and he wanted nothing more than to throw off the towel and plunge his hands into her hair and…

“What about you?”

Me?
“What about me?”

“The bathroom,” she prompted.

“Oh, yeah. I get up at six. I'll be cleared out of there by six-thirty.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets to have something to do with them.

“You know I've been thinking,” she went on. “If we're to pull this off, we need to know a little more about each other. Our histories, likes, dislikes, that kind of thing.”

It made sense. “We haven't had much time to consider stuff like that, have we? But what about Andy? He'll suspect, if we talk around here.”

“I was thinking maybe we could slip off campus for our lunches this week.”

Now her hair fell to her shoulders and she worked on drying the ends. Without makeup, she looked younger. Something about the intimacy of her sitting on his bed in her nightwear tangled his tongue. “Sounds good. Tomorrow then?”

She nodded. “Also we have to think about how to make the announcement of our marriage.” She lowered her hands and spanned them across her abdomen. “The sooner the better,” she whispered.

That made sense. You didn't have to teach in the math department to compute nine months. “What about the all-school assembly day after tomorrow?”

“That would certainly kill all the birds with one stone.” She looked up, her eyes holding a spark of humor. “Or we could just tell Geraldine Farley.”

He grinned. Mrs. Farley, one of the school patrons, was notorious as Keystone's number one gossipmonger. “The assembly's far safer. Besides, we wouldn't want Andy to think our marriage is a secret. I'll tell him in the morning that we're making the announcement Thursday.”

Pam stood, her bare feet unaccountably arousing. Grant resisted the urge to let his gaze lift to her bare knees. “Tonight went better than I expected,” she said. “With Andy.”

“I wish I could say the same for my conversation with his mother. No telling what poison she fed him when they talked.”

Pam moved closer, the heady fragrance of rosebuds disarming him. She laid a hand on his arm. “Don't borrow trouble.”

“I'll try not to.” He stepped around her to turn down the bedspread. Then he hesitated. “Are you sure you don't want this bed?”

“I'm sure. See you in the morning.” At the door, she paused and turned back to him. “Thanks, Grant. For everything.”

Later, lying in bed, he longed for the oblivion of sleep. It had been an exhausting day—school starting, telling Andy, moving Pam, calling Shelley. Heck, Pam was right. He didn't need to borrow trouble. He already had plenty.

The ex-wife from hell.

A son who barely tolerated him.

And a pregnant wife-for-a-year. One who aroused in him emotions long dormant and potentially dangerous.

 

“H
EY
, G
ILBERT
, wait up.” A string bean of a kid with a blond buzz cut and hands the size of fielders' mitts grabbed a notebook out of his locker, slammed it shut and loped after Andy. “Aren't you Coach G.'s son?”

This guy was only about the thirtieth jerk who'd asked him that same question. As if he didn't have an identity of his own. “Yeah, I'm Andy.”

“Hey, welcome to Keystone. I'm Chip Kennedy. Are you a sophomore?”

Andy grunted assent, wishing the creep would leave him alone.

“So am I. I'm hoping to start this season. I'm a forward. How about you?”

“I don't play basketball,” Andy said, frowning.

“No kidding? You look like you'd be a natural. What are you? Six-one?”

“Six-two.”

“How come you don't play?”

Chip was a regular Regis Philbin with the questions. What answer would he buy? “I've been living with my mother. She's not into basketball.” That was an under-
statement. Last year she'd made it to only one of his games and had been more interested in flirting with their center's divorced father than in watching him score nineteen points.

“Maybe you could come out for the team here. Give it a try.”

“No.” Andy didn't even bother to be polite. Chip was bugging him. Gratefully, Andy realized he was at the door of his English class. “Gotta go.”

“Good to meetcha. See ya tomorrow.” Chip moved on down the hall and Andy slipped into his seat at the back of the class. He opened his textbook at random and pretended to study a chart called “Elements of the Short Story.” It was getting harder and harder to be anonymous around here, and after tomorrow's assembly, there'd be no hiding, especially in this class where all the kids would figure he was getting special attention from the teacher.

Ms. Carver was talking in her chirpy voice about the dude who wrote “The Tell-Tale Heart.” He sounded like a screwball, but, man, could he write. When she finished, there was a kind of interesting discussion he pretended not to listen to about how Poe's choice of words enhanced the dramatic impact. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed this one chick wearing jeans and a tight purple T-shirt. Her straight glossy black hair was tucked behind her ears. He could tell from the way she sat—straining forward eagerly—that she was a good student. Not to be confused with him. He had no intention of doing any more than necessary.

“…so for Friday, I want you to write a paragraph about a place that's special to you. In it, try to use words that convey the sights, sounds and smells particular to the scene you're describing.” Ms. Carver was a slave
driver—for Friday they also had to read Poe's “The Masque of the Red Death.” Andy snorted under his breath. This great writer dude couldn't even spell “mask.”

When the bell rang, she flashed the class that big smile he'd noticed. It was like she really enjoyed teaching. Maybe even liked the students. Some of them. But he had to watch out. Just because her cat was okay didn't mean he had to like her, because, bottom line, it was weird to see his dad with her. Maybe it was because he was living with them, but his father and…Pam…seemed sort of stiff.

God, he dreaded tomorrow. He'd feel like a freak when the whole school found out that his dad had married Ms. Carver. Prob'ly then old Chip would ask even more questions.

He picked up his books and sauntered toward the door, not looking to one side or the other. In the hall, waiting for him, was the dark-haired girl he'd eyeballed in class. “Andy?”

“Yeah?”

She grinned, and he noticed the bands on her teeth. A lotta kids wouldn't smile for months after they got braces, but she didn't seem to mind. “I'm Angela, and we have Algebra II together next period. Wanna walk with me?”

She wouldn't try to talk him into playing basketball and she was kinda cute, so what could it hurt? “Okay.”

While she talked, she nodded and smiled to other kids passing in the halls. “You going to the football game Friday night?”

Right, like he was gonna get all hyped up about the Keystone Knights. “I don't know.”

“Everyone goes. We're supposed to be pretty good this year. See that guy standing at the water fountain?”

Andy took in the form of a solidly built kid about six-five who looked about twenty-three. “What about him?”

“That's Beau Jasper. He's a senior. Last year he broke the school scoring records in both football and basketball.”

Andy hated the worshipful look on her face. Girls. They were always after popular jocks. He doubted his tennis playing was in the same league with Beau Jasper's accomplishments.

“Here we are.” Angela paused outside the math class, looking at him as if wanting him to say something. What?

“Maybe I'll see you around.”

He found his desk, aware she was trailing after him. “Yeah, maybe.”

She sat down and started pulling her homework out of her notebook. He couldn't figure it. For some reason, she'd seemed kinda sad. What could he possibly have done to upset her?

Heck, he upset everybody these days.

 

T
HURSDAY MORNING
Pam had an even bigger case of stage fright than when she'd played Auntie Mame in a local little theater production. The assembly was between second and third periods. She didn't know which would be worse—this awful anticipation or the aftermath when the reactions came. She and Grant had agreed to sit together, since it might look odd if they didn't. After what seemed the longest second period class she'd ever endured, the bell rang and she made her way toward the auditorium, scarcely aware of the
jostling students, banging locker doors or buzz of conversation. Near the back of the auditorium, she spotted Grant. He signaled her and she slipped into the seat beside him. “Ready?” he said under his breath.

“No, but do we have a choice?”

He didn't answer her rhetorical question, but merely shrugged. Ralph Hagood calmed the crowd and then introduced Jim, who traditionally talked with the students at this first assembly of the year.

The tension in Grant's body was almost palpable. But it was no match for hers. Once Jim shared their news, there would be absolutely no turning back.

Pam gripped the armrests and waited. How would she and Grant pull off the masquerade? They were still tiptoeing around each other at home, being excessively polite, each taking care to observe the other's space and privacy. Even roommates weren't so formal with each other. Fortunately Andy seemed lost in his own world, so perhaps he hadn't noticed the strain. Lunch yesterday with Grant had helped some, but it was going to take more than a few meals to establish routine familiarity.

He could be very sweet. Although he clearly had no affinity for cats, she had found him yesterday, his face screwed in distaste, holding at arm's length a pooper-scooper. When she'd asked him what in the world he was doing, he'd said, “I remember Jack Liddy complaining about having to empty their cat's litter box while Darla's pregnant. Something about a disease cats carry. I figured with all that's on your mind, you didn't need that worry.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced at Grant. To all outward appearances, he would seem to have his attention glued to the headmaster. But what must he be
thinking? Did he want to bolt and run? She wouldn't blame him.

For a fleeting moment she thought of Steven. For the first time, she had a flare of anger. She wouldn't be sitting here with a teeth-rattling set of nerves if only… She hugged herself against the chill of the air-conditioning. But there was no
if only.
Never had been. There was merely Jim Campbell's voice, now moving from a serious to an upbeat tone. Then she heard the words “I have an announcement to make.” She found herself clutching Grant's arm in the effort to still the pounding of her heart. “…so I ask all of you to join me in a congratulatory round of applause for the happy couple.”

The buzzing in her head was replaced by a roar of approval, then by deafening applause. Grant reached for her hand and drew her to her feet. For a moment she wanted to believe in happy endings—all around them students and faculty were grinning delightedly as if each of them had personally been the matchmaker.

“Hey, Coach! Aren't you gonna kiss her?” The suggestion spread like an August grass fire. “Kiss, kiss, kiss!” The chant reverberated throughout the auditorium.

Grant looked down at her, a shy grin creasing his mouth. He raised his eyebrows in question.

She took a deep breath. “Act 1, scene 2,” she whispered as his arms went around her and he bent his head. Then his mouth was on hers, his hands caressing her back. With a jolt, she realized that he was an accomplished actor. Her hands twined behind his neck as if they'd been choreographed to do so. The part of her not blushing with embarrassment at the spectacle they were
making of themselves made an important, unexpected observation.