Daddy on Her Doorstep

It was beautiful. The internet tour hadn’t given a misleading impression. Late afternoon spring sunshine poured through the kitchen window on the first floor and her bedroom window above. The wide bay window at the side of the house would glow when the morning sun hit those leaded sections of stained glass.

Beyond the borders of a Persian rug, the hardwood floors shone a dark syrup color, and the two couches looked soft and inviting with their stylized floral fabric. There were prints on the walls, wrought-iron fire tongs on a stand beside the grate, a good-quality coffee table and end tables made of solid wood, thick cream drapes at the windows for privacy, carved newel posts and rails on the stairs.

For the moment, however, with the baby kicking and rolling in a very uncomfortable way, the most urgent piece of exploration she needed was to check out the state of the bathroom.

Of course, Andy ran into her at the supermarket on the outskirts of town less than forty-five minutes later.

She was efficient, he’d give her that. She’d asked for directions to the store, and in the time he’d taken to unwind in a lazy, casual way from a day of seeing patients with conditions ranging from ingrown toenails to advanced pregnancy to serious heart disease, she’d—he could hear her faintly through the walls—toured both levels of the half a Victorian house that were now temporarily hers, tested the bathroom facilities, unpacked at least one of the suitcases and taken a long and no doubt critical look from the back porch at a garden he hadn’t touched since last summer.

Now she was shopping, arriving at the spacious, brightly lit supermarket just off County Route 5 only a few minutes after he’d gotten here himself.

He had steak, potatoes, orange juice and bananas in his basket.

She was filling a whole cart, stocking up big-time.

Buying diapers already?

He had to smile. Of course she was buying diapers!

He’d pegged her to a T, in the space of just a few minutes of conversation. He’d met her kind before. A highly intelligent and competent city professional, who would sincerely believe that efficiently stocking up six weeks in advance on non-perishable baby supplies would give her a significant head start in acquiring that all-important “routine” that would miraculously turn the years-long demands of parenthood, whether solo or shared, into a walk in the park.

Boy, was she in for a shock.

It was funny …

And not.

He didn’t know what to feel, actually.

Impressed? It was brave, no doubt about that. Angry? He was so busy with this mix of wry amusement, anger and … something else that he couldn’t quite work out … that he forgot to keep track of her movements through the store and found her coming down the dairy aisle toward him, pausing to reach for yogurt and cheese on the way.

“Oh. Hi,” she said.

And caught him looking at the stack of diapers.

He hadn’t meant to, but they were hard to miss—five big, block-shaped, plastic-covered, newborn-size sixty-packs piled one on top of the other.

Ten diapers a day for a month. Seven a day for six weeks. Take your pick. She’d probably already worked out a theoretical schedule for how often the baby would need changing.

She flushed. “It’s not like they’ll spoil. This way, I get to carry them into the house while I’m not too big and not too sore.”

“Makes sense,” he agreed.

And it kind of did. Of course it was a good idea to get as much done in advance as you could. But it was a drop in the ocean.

They stood there, him with the basket hooked over his arm, her leaning on the piled-up cart. Her hair was gleaming and pretty but a little too tightly wound for his taste. He liked fullness and bounce, soft waves shadowing a woman’s face, something to run his fingers through, something to tickle his shoulders or cheeks or chest when he came in for a kiss. Was the tight style another piece of efficiency on her part?

Knot it and go. Nothing to get in the way.

She was incredibly well-groomed close up, even more so than he’d observed when he’d first seen her on the porch. Soft hands, their long fingers tipped with a French manicure. Neat gold earrings with just the right amount of sparkle and dangle. A touch of lip gloss. Perfectly arched eyebrows with not a hair out of line. Low-heeled ankle boots and that artfully arranged scarf.

And what was the deal with the scarf, anyhow? If he had something like that fussing around his neck, it would either choke him or fall off every time he moved. It’d drive him crazy. She carried it with casual grace. He wondered if he was underestimating her and she would soon carry a baby on her hip the same way.

Due in five and a half weeks. First babies weren’t always late.

Would she manage on her own? Did she have support systems in place that she hadn’t mentioned yet?

I’m going to find out …

A danger signal suddenly clanged in his head. His father had accused him in the past of being a soft touch for people in need. You don’t know how to keep your distance, Andy. When you let yourself get overinvolved, all that happens is mess and complication.

Was Dad right? He often asked himself this, because Dad was right about a lot of things and knew it. He was a heart surgeon, and patients came to him from hundreds of miles away. But was he right that Andy had a tendency to become overinvolved?

The question hung in the balance for what felt like too long. He murmured something polite in Claudia Nelson’s direction. See you back at the house. Good luck with your shopping. The words didn’t matter. He was only using them as an exit line. Then he moved on down the aisle.

But when he turned at the end, remembering he needed to pick up some milk, he looked toward her, saw her pick up several cans of tomatoes from a lower shelf and once more straighten and rub the band of tightness around her lower back. Suddenly, she looked far too alone, marooned in the middle of a brightly lit supermarket aisle in her designer maternity clothes.

“She’s not going to go five more weeks …” he muttered to himself in a flash of medical intuition. “One or two if she’s lucky. A couple of days if she keeps on with the superwoman stuff.”

Trying to look casual about it, he wandered back. “Hey, I’ve just thought, would you like to come next door for dinner tonight, since you’ve had a full day? Save you calling out for pizza?”

“I wasn’t calling out for pizza, I was going to cook.”

Of course she was going to cook!

“Save you cooking, even better,” he said, keeping it cheerful and bland. “It’s only going to be steak and green salad and microwaved potatoes.”

“Well, the baby does need iron,” she murmured, half to herself, frowning as if working out complex numbers in her head. “But for vitamins, just a green salad …?”

Andy hid another smile. She probably calculated her nutritional intake on a daily basis. He shouldn’t laugh about it, when this was so much better than the patients he saw who paid no attention to their nutrition during pregnancy at all. “Will an offer of broccoli on the side seal the deal? Fresh fruit for dessert?”

Reading his attitude, she fixed him with a patient, tolerant expression, and drawled, “Organic? Locally grown?”

“Great. We’re on the same page.” And she had a sense of humor, even if she was a trifle scary.

“What time shall I come over?” she asked.

“Six? I don’t want to keep you late.”

“Six sounds good.”

They parted company and he went to the produce section and lost his head a little, throwing into his basket broccoli, cherry tomatoes, mushrooms, mangoes, purple onion, baby spinach, parsley, carrots, strawberries and corn.

Standing at the checkout, he looked at the crowded plastic basket and clicked his tongue. His father was right. Ten different items from the fruit and vegetable group was definitely overinvolved.

Chapter Two

Andy heard Claudia’s neat knock at his front door at five after six, when he had the electric grill heating up, the broccoli and corn in the steamer, the potatoes circling in the microwave and the colorful salad already tossed in the bowl.

He’d even cooked up the mushrooms, parsley and onions to make a gravy for the steak, and the mangoes and strawberries sat on the table in another bowl ready to serve as dessert, little cubes of orange and blobs of red.

His new tenant wanted nutrition and she was going to get it, with bells on.

She seemed a little edgy after she’d followed him into the kitchen and looked at what he had on the table and stove top. “You’re doing all this for me?”

“I’m a doctor, remember? I totally support women eating well during pregnancy.”

“Thank you.” But you still think I’m nuts.

She didn’t say it, but she looked at him, head tilted a little, and he could read her face.

Or rather her chin and her eyes.

The chin was raised, showing her lovely, streamlined jaw. Her eyes were narrowed in a mix of defiance and uneasiness. The dark, gleaming knot still sat tight on the top of her head. She was pretty sure of herself with this planned solo pregnancy thing, and yet something—or someone—had put some doubts in her mind at some point.

“No problems with your half of the house so far?” he asked, throwing the steaks onto the grill.

“No, it’s beautiful, a great environment, a wonderful sense of peace and space and light, just what I was looking for. And the town is lovely.”

“What else are you looking for?” he asked before stopping to consider what a personal question it was. He added quickly, “Here in Radford, I mean.” The addition made his query somewhat more acceptable.

“Well, I’ve chosen the Spring Ridge Memorial Hospital for the birth, if that’s what you mean.”

“Mitchum Medical Center is closer.” Radford itself was too small to warrant a hospital.

“Mitchum didn’t have the high-level neonatal facilities I was looking for. Not that I expect to need them.”

“Still, it’s a good hospital.” He sent patients there all the time, delivered most of his babies there.

“Oh, I’m sure it is. I wasn’t implying—”

“It’s fine. Just wanted you to know there is a good hospital ten minutes from here.”

“An hour to Spring Ridge isn’t that far.”

“They have an excellent neonatal transport team, if a baby has to be moved.”

“Don’t they say it’s always better to move a baby when it’s still inside the mom?”

Were they arguing?

She seemed to realize it, too, and pulled back from her defensive position. “As you point out, though, ten minutes is closer. I’ll take your advice and look at Mitchum Medical. Maybe it’s not too late to book in there, if it has everything on my checklist.” There was a tiny pause, then she added, “It’s so good of you to have me over. I wasn’t expecting that from a landlord. Can I put plates on the table? How can I help?”

He directed her to the crockery and silverware, and she went out and laid them on the formal dining table that he almost never used, when he’d envisaged eating here in the kitchen. The choice seemed typical of the differences between them. She liked structure, he was laid-back. She preferred planning, he liked to go with the flow. She dressed for dinner, he stayed in his jeans.

And, in fact, she seriously had changed outfits, he registered. This ensemble was green, like the outfit she’d been wearing earlier, but the green was a little darker, the fabric silkier, and instead of one stretchy top, she wore some kind of tank or T-shirt or blouse with a matching jacket on top. It would probably appall her to learn that he’d taken this long to notice the difference.

It might appall her even more to know that he was struggling not to notice other things. The fineness of her skin. The way she smelled. The mix of lean grace and pregnant clumsiness in how she moved. He was appalled about it, himself. This was not the kind of overinvolvement Dad talked about. It was worse.

They sat down to eat, and asked each other the usual polite questions. Do you have family in the area? You must enjoy your work?

Her answers were almost the same as his. She loved her career. She had family in New York City.

“Although it’s really just my mom,” she said. “My parents divorced a long time ago, and I’m an only child. My dad’s still in Allentown.”

“Pennsylvania?”

“That’s right. I’m not sure what Billy Joel was thinking, setting a song there. There is nothing romantic or interesting about Allentown! And I was born there, so I’m allowed to say it.” She wasn’t smiling. Sounded almost angry about it, as if she and Allentown had been through a bitter and drawn-out breakup.

Well, maybe in a way they had …

“Your dad likes it, though,” he pointed out gently, with some sympathy for the unknown man who’d chosen to remain in a small working-class city on a pretty river, instead of moving into the fast lanes of Philadelphia or New York.

“He must.” Don’t go there, said her tone and her elbows, pinching in at her sides, making her shoulders and whole body look tense.

Andy wanted to tell her to lighten up. He wanted to tease her or tell jokes until she smiled. His sister Scarlett was like this, so driven and rigid. He’d been like this once himself. Successful but unhappy and riding for a fall and not even knowing it. He scrambled for something to say, finding inspiration in the way the silky fabric of her jacket caught the light. “Some of my pregnant patients will want to know where you get your maternity clothes.”

“Oh!” She beamed suddenly, and the wide smile softened her whole face. “You think?” For a moment she’d lost the stiffness and narrow control, and the difference in her seemed to light up the whole room. “I do love this outfit!”

She ran her fingers lightly down the sides of the jacket, unconsciously emphasizing breasts made fuller by pregnancy. Then she straightened the neckline of the top beneath and Andy felt an unwanted—and unwarranted—tightening in his groin. She had such graceful, sexy hands, all smooth skin and long fingers and neat nails. And to watch her touching herself in unconscious sensuality …

But she was his tenant, and she was pregnant, and the baby had a file number in a fertility clinic for a father, and he wasn’t going anywhere near any of that. Dad would be proud. He chewed some steak, instead.

“Clothes are so important,” she said, still energized by the subject. “Well, to me. I love beautiful cuts and colors and fabrics. And you’re right, it’s hard to find nice things when you’re pregnant. I researched it early on, and put together a whole list, stores and catalogs and online, grouped by price range. I could print it out if you think your patients might find it helpful. It would be no trouble.”

So she had a streak of kindness and an appreciation of beauty, along with the rigidity and cool-headed efficiency and drive …

“Really?” he said. “You would?”

“Of course, or I wouldn’t have said it.”

“I might take you up on that. I’ll ask our practice nurse, Annette. Some patients do ask her about that kind of thing.”

“And does Annette have time to answer? I found in Manhattan it was all such a rush. Sit on this bench and have blood taken. Sit at that desk and fill out the questionnaire. I’m hoping it’s a little more personal up here.”

“It’s probably less efficient, though, I should warn you.”

“I can do efficiency on my own.” The crispness was back. “From my obstetrician I need time and attention and openness to the needs of a first-time, single-by-choice mom. If I’ve taken the trouble to write down my questions in advance, I expect a doctor or nurse to take the trouble to give me answers.”

“You’re not wrong …”

“No. But you’d be surprised. People act as if there’s some mysterious, floating magic about having a baby. There’s not.” She was indignant, fluent, still energized. “I’ve done my reading, I have my birth plan in place, my labor partner Kelly is on standby. She’s my best friend, newly married and hoping to be a mom within a year or two herself, and she’s been at the classes with me. She’s coming up here a week in advance of the birth. She’s giving me a portable crib as her gift for the baby, bringing it when she comes.”

“Very practical,” he agreed. As long as the baby co-operated and came at the right time.

“I heard from her this afternoon and it was delivered to her place today. We researched all the available models together and chose the best one. In fact, I’ve researched everything I could, and I’m not going to apologize for that. I keep hearing, Think about that when the time comes, and, You can’t know how you’re going to feel until it happens, and it’s driving me crazy.”

“I can understand that,” he said neutrally, while the doomed and dangerous words birth plan echoed in his head. In his experience, Fate took a perverse delight in throwing the best birth plans out the window from the moment labor began.

Better not tell her that.

Most definitely better not tell her that right now, when she was rubbing her lower back again and wincing as the pain tightened and then let go. “Braxton Hicks,” she said knowledgeably. “I think it was the drive up. I should have taken a break to stretch.”

She took a conscientious second helping of salad with no dressing. They talked about what a pretty drive it was, that last hour after you crossed from New York into Vermont. He offered her the fruit for dessert, and she ate this with the same attitude of confidence that she was doing the right thing. They talked about scenic attractions and prenatal yoga classes and where she might find a health-food store.

He offered her coffee to finish but she said no thank you, and by ten after eight she was pushing back her chair, running one hand over her belly and the other down the silky side of her outfit once again, and saying that she should go.

He leaped around the table to get the chair for her, but didn’t quite make it in time. She was already on her feet and stepping away, her thumb tucking beneath the draping of her scarf to straighten it, while his hands came to rest uselessly against the chair back and his shoulder almost rammed the side of her head.

For some reason, they both froze.

No, not for some reason, for the reason.

The age-old reason.

The age-old thing that happened between a man and a woman.

The words for it were never right, never good enough. The clichés were like overwashed fabric, faded and weak. There was nothing weak about this. It was a slam in the gut, an overpowering onslaught against Andy’s senses.

It had both of them in its grip for seconds he couldn’t have counted even if he’d tried. Five? Forty? More? He saw the echo of his own awareness in her bright eyes, suddenly narrowed, and when he dropped his gaze to her full mouth, this didn’t help, because her lips had parted and the light caught the sheen of moisture there and he could hear the breath coming in and out of her, too rapid and shallow.

She knew. She understood. She felt it.

I am not going to kiss you, Claudia Nelson. I am not going to pull that tight little knot down from the top of your head and run my fingers through your hair …

Nothing was going to happen between them, not tonight and not ever.

She must have reached the same decision. Her laugh was nervous and short. She reached up to twist a tendril of hair between her fingers. “Sorry, I really didn’t expect you to get the chair.”

“You looked tired, is all.”

“I—I am. I’m sleeping so badly.” She shrugged, smiled and frowned, all at the same time.

“Better get used to that.”

“Not every baby is a bad sleeper. I’ve read up on strategies …”

“I’m sure you have,” he drawled, trying not to smile.

She looked at him sharply, and there was a moment when the tension in the air could have switched. Awareness to argument. Sizzle to sniping. But they let go of both moods and she headed purposefully for the front door. “I’ll take a bath. That seems to help.”

“Might help soothe the baby, too, in a month or so.”

“Yes, a lot of the books say that. Thanks for the meal, Dr. McKinley, I really appreciate it.” And I’m calling you Dr. McKinley so you’ll forget what you saw in my eyes.

He cleared his throat. “I’m right here, any time you need me.”

“I’m fine. I’ll take it easy tomorrow, settling in.”

His last glimpse of her as she went along the porch to her front door was of her hand reaching around to her arched back once more, massaging it in a rhythmic circle just above the peachy curve of her backside with the flat of her fingers.

After this, they barely saw each other for several days.

Well, saw each other, but never for long at close hand.

She waved to him from the porch swing a couple of times as he was heading to or from work. He passed her in the street when he was jogging and she was walking back from the store, and they stopped for twenty seconds of greeting.

He heard her on her cell phone one morning, standing in the front yard to catch the best reception. “That was after the merger … Did you look under the original company name? … No, they’re very similar.” It sounded as if her office was having trouble letting go of her, or more likely the other way around.

One night, coming home after dark, he could see her front window lit up and there she was curled under a soft mohair blanket on the couch with a book in her hand. Even from this distance, he thought he could see a picture of a pregnant woman on the cover.

The weather warmed up a little, and he caught sight of her on Saturday afternoon, on a yoga mat in the garden, doing her pregnancy yoga exercises in a white ruched tank top and black stretch leggings, closing her eyes and breathing in, stretching her arms slowly upward, out and down, facing the beautiful sun, making a prayer position with her fingertips poised just below her chin.

That night, he was called out to assist in a delivery of triplets, and had about three hours’ sleep.

On Sunday afternoon, she must have taken a nap—he’d tried, after his long night, but couldn’t—because when he went into the garden himself, to put in a few hours of much needed work, a glance up at her bedroom window showed the blinds tightly closed.

When he’d raked the lawn clear of the last fall’s leaves, tidied the shrubbery into shape and pruned the climbing roses along the side fence, he looked again and found the blinds open this time, to let in the late-afternoon light. He thought he could see a figure moving in there, but she was in the shadows, not near the window and the light. If she’d noticed him down here, it didn’t seem as if she planned to come out and say hello.

Chapter Three

“Have an amazing time in Aruba, you two,” Claudia told Kelly, on the phone.

She moved farther away from the window. Her landlord had just put down his pruning shears and looked in her direction, and she didn’t want to have to wave and smile—or more truthfully, she didn’t want him to know that she could see him so well from up here, and that she was looking.

He was wearing a pair of grass-stained khaki shorts, an ancient chambray shirt with the sleeves ripped off at the shoulder seam and some kind of boots, scuffed and clunky, with a scrunch of thick woolly sock appearing at the top. His bare legs were packed with knotty muscle and his dark hair had a twig and two leaves in it.

The sun shone on his uneven, sporty tan. His face and neck were nicely bronzed. His forearms were ropey and brown and dappled with sun-bleached golden hair. His upper arms and those strong, knobby shoulders were paler, but they’d soon darken up if he kept to the gardening routine.