It Started with a House... (10 page)

Halting in the middle of the kitchen, Genevieve looked ready to flee back to the bathroom, this time to be ill. “They know you're here?”

“They were glad to hear from me. You've been acting stranger than when you had the bug that we now know was morning sickness.”

“Is.”

Unable to contain the joy bursting from every vein and pore, Marshall sighed. “Ah, Genevieve, all I'm saying is that now would be as good a time as any for them to realize there's a man in your life.” Coming toward her, he stopped only to slip his arm around her waist to draw her close, closer, until they were pressed abdomen to arousal. “Whatever you decide, know this—I'm not
going away any more than that fetus in your womb is going to stay the size of a pinhead. Think about it. And while you're at it, think about this.”

Lowering his head, he kissed her as if his life depended on it.

It did.

 

Genevieve listened to Marshall drive away, her legs still too weak to rise from the chair she'd collapsed into when he'd finally released her. He'd certainly had his say.

He'd frustrated and troubled her as much as he'd sent her hormones into havoc, but he was right about her having stayed in poor communication with the girls at the agency.

She reached for her BlackBerry and rang the office number and breathed deeply, hoping she could be as calm and reassuring as she needed to be.

Ina must have been watching the keyboard because the first ring had only started when she pushed the line button.

“Thank you!” she declared as soon as she lifted the handset. “Do you know we were debating calling the police?”

“What did you three do, flip a coin—heads it's Marshall, tails it's 911?”

“So Mr. Roark found you?”

“I wasn't exactly lost.”

“He's a nice man and he cares about you very much. How are you? You don't sound like yourself.”

And probably never would again, Genevieve thought, but forced herself to look at things from her receptionist's
perspective. “I'm okay, just a bit nasally. I'm sorry for making you worry. Is everything and everyone okay over there?” The best way to keep attention off her was turn it back onto the office.

“Sure. Except for people whose calls you're not returning. Hint, hint.”

“That's the other reason we're talking,” Genevieve said. “I need you to do that for me.” She went through the list of people she wanted to reschedule. “Any questions?”

“Only a dozen. I'll edit them down to one—when do we see you again?”

“Tomorrow. I'm pretty sure I'll be back on track by then.” Now that she knew what “ailed” her, she could work to keep symptoms under control…after she did some online research. She wasn't yet ready to confide in friends and employees any more than she was ready to disclose anything to the general public.

“Did you hear that?” Ina said above chatter in the background. Then she giggled. “That was Avery saying that we can buy you more time if you're contagious.”

Genevieve replied, “I think you're safe. But thanks again for keeping things operational so well.”

“Not so fast,” Avery said, getting on the line. “Are you sure you should get back yet? You're sick, right? You didn't take off to have some plastic surgery done or a boob job?”

That woman,
Genevieve thought. She really should pair her up with her mother. Too tired to think up a better comeback, Genevieve simply replied, “I think I'm finally developing what you all complain about in the autumn and spring—allergies.”

“Uh-huh. Taking anything?”

“You know I don't like pills.”

“What did Roark-the-licious think the problem was?”

Avery was too sharp for her own good. “Did you get the contract on the Merriman house?” she asked instead.

“You must be feeling better. You're dodging questions as well as you ever did. Merriman—we're doing a second viewing tomorrow morning. And I got a referral today for a nice little two thousand square footer that should last about twenty-four hours after we put it online and stick the sign in the yard.”

“That's what I like to hear. And Raenne?”

“Poor sweetie…her great white fisherman stepped on a rusty nail left by their roofing people and she's getting him through a visit to E.R.”

It wasn't long ago that Raenne's husband, Rick, went crazy with a staple gun on their wind-damaged roof and stapled his thumb to the shingles. The man was a danger to himself out of a bass boat. And expensive. “It's a wonder he didn't fall off the roof.”

“It's a wonder he got up the ladder in the first place,” Avery countered.

“Did she have to reschedule a closing?”

“Thankfully nothing is pending in that department before Wednesday next week.”

Feeling her tummy rebel from the stress of trying to stay upbeat, Genevieve wished them a good night and disconnected. It was a relief to have that over with for the moment, but she really needed to call her mother,
who was thoroughly capable of calling Marshall should the mood suit her.

Sydney picked up immediately. “Darling, what on earth? This is the longest you've been out of touch since—well, too long.”

She'd almost said, “Since Adam died,” and Genevieve was grateful she'd caught herself in time. No need to assist her mother in dissecting and performing psychotherapy on her life. “I apologize for that.”

“When I last called your office Ina thought you caught a bug. Did you go see Dr. Kelly for a shot and antibiotics?”

“Oh, I wasn't that far gone.” Except emotionally. “I took a relaxing drive in the sunshine without once looking at property and had a couple of lazy naps.” The sun had been shining, she told herself, so it wasn't a total fib, and actually the soup Marshall made her was healing.

“Excuse me? The last midday nap you had was the day I stopped breast-feeding you.”

Good grief, Genevieve thought, resting her head in her hand. She did not have the strength for this now. “Mother, you never breast-fed me. Are you getting me confused with one of your fictional children again?”

“The point is,” Sydney replied with a note of haughtiness, “as soon as you started on solid foods, you kept the hours of a Wall Street workaholic—alert and checking on me and everything else in the house from seven to seven, then sleeping like your crib was wired to our bed, reacting to the slightest creak.”

“Too much information, Mother.”

“A fact of life,” Sidney replied. “I only hope I'm still alive when you learn that.”

“Me, too. But only so I get to hear how you explain to a toddler that you're too young to be called Grandmother or Nana and want to be called Aunt Sydney.”

“Exactly why did you ring me?” Sydney drawled. “Like you, I do have a day job.”

The words stuck in Genevieve's throat. “I wanted to tell you…well, funny that you were just mentioning…” She couldn't do it over the phone. “Do you want to have lunch in the next few days?”

Brightening, Sydney replied, “Why that's lovely, dear. Better yet, let's have another foursome dinner with Marshall. That went well, didn't it? Even Bart likes him, and you know how protective he is of you.”

“Give him my love. Umm…let's make it just the two of us this time, okay?”

“If that's what you want. Tomorrow would be perfect for me.”

“See you at noon.”

“Are you sure you don't want to tell me something now? You sound a bit—stressed.”

Genevieve had learned to avoid “the whole truth and nothing but” with her since before she'd graduated from high school. “You complain that we never talk enough,” she demurred, “and just when I try to block you some time—”

“Okay, okay.” Sydney could be heard tapping a pen on her desk blotter. “Does tomorrow make me sound too anxious?”

“Works for me,” Genevieve said with forced enthusiasm.

“Do you want me to meet you somewhere or will you pick me up?”

“I thought I'd pick up something and bring it to you.”

“I see. You really do want to talk. Well, why don't I have Dorothy prepare something for us then?”

“My treat. Holler if your schedule changes,” Genevieve said, neither affirming or denying the intent of her visit. “I will, too. Bye.”

It was a terrible way to end a conversation—leave a hundred-and-one questions in her mother's mind—but she didn't see a way around that short of saying, “Wait and see.” Had she tried that, her mother would make Pulitzer Prize–winning journalists look like amateurs as she sniffed out her story.

Before she lost her courage—and the last dredges of her energy—she made one more call. She keyed the personal number of her physician, Dr. Paige Kelly. She and Paige had gone to school together and had remained good friends. As she hoped, her old schoolmate knew Genevieve would not abuse a private number and called back within minutes.

“What's wrong?” were the general practitioner's first words.

“Are you on the run or can you slot me five minutes of your time?” Genevieve asked, knowing this was the one person she could confide in.

“When I see your number on my cell, you can count on it being safe. Talk.”

“I need an ob-gyn's number. Someone less than local, who you respect and whose staff will keep their mouths shut.”

“Genevieve.” Paige drew a deep breath. “Don't tell me?”

“Yeah, go ahead and say it. I'm worse than an out-of control teenager.”

“As a true friend, I can't. I'm too happy to know you actually met someone who made you feel like a desirable woman again. As your doctor, okay, you took a stupid risk. Do you at least have a sense that he's healthy?”

“Yes, that's the least of my concerns.”

“That's reassuring. And the pregnancy? Are you planning on going through with it?”

Genevieve's eyes burned with new tears. “Oh, Paige. How can I not? You know my moral position and on top of that, this might be my last chance.”

“At thirty? I doubt it. But good for you. I know you have the courage to get through this. So do I know the father?”

That would be
the
question for the next weeks, maybe months. “He's new in town.”

“No!” Paige gasped. “That Dallas hottie—the one whose wife died not long ago?”

“Thanks, friend.” Genevieve all but ground her teeth. “You've just fulfilled my worst nightmare. If you can put that together when we haven't talked in two months, my hope of keeping this under the radar for a bit is as naive as thinking Marshall won't pressure me into marriage every day until I crumble under pressure. How on earth did you hear about him?”

“I happened to spot him in the hospital a few times during those last days.” Paige whistled softly. “Boy, the old adage about still waters running deep is true. You are something else, girlfriend.”

“Paige, be kind. I already have morning sickness. I
thought for the first time in my life that I'd caught the flu. Don't make me vomit all over this BlackBerry.”

After a wry laugh, her doctor replied, “Stock up on soda crackers and biscotti. With luck, that part of things will stop shortly. You didn't take any cold meds for those misdiagnosed symptoms, did you?”

“Nothing. I haven't even touched a glass of wine since the night it happened. I guess I did have some kind of sixth sense.”

“You're going to be such a good mommy. But what's wrong if he proposes? I would think that would be a relief.”

“He did. It's just that we barely know each other.”

“I would say you know one important thing—he's fertile.”

“Paige—”

“Okay, I'm searching through my Rolodex,” Paige said, flipping cards. “Ah! I've found her. Tracy Nyland. She's our age, maybe a few years older…I remember liking her. Her office is between here and Mt. Pleasant. I'll give her a call and put in a good word for you. Got a pen?”

“Ready,” Genevieve replied.

After she hung up with the ob-gyn's office, Genevieve continued to sit in her chair and felt fatigue weigh her down to where she couldn't have risen at that moment if she'd wanted to. Nevertheless, things had been set in motion. Tomorrow she would have lunch with her mother. Next week she would meet with Dr. Nyland. The baby would get the best care. It was a start.

Finally pushing herself to her feet as though she was days away from giving birth, she checked that the back
door was locked and passed through the living room to check the front door before she went to lie down again. On the way her eyes met Adam's in his favorite military portrait.

“Hey, you,” she murmured. “Where are you these days? I haven't felt you for such a long time. I suppose that's a sign that I should let you go and get on with things, huh? But you know I don't want to. And you probably can see what a mess I've made of my life. I'm confused and afraid, Adam. Do you even want to hear that I still miss you?”

There were no apparitions, no angels, not even voices in her head. And yet she felt only love projected from that photo. Stroking her fingers tenderly down the dress jacket of his uniform, she continued to her room.

She must have napped, but when the phone rang again she was awake and staring at the ceiling, although it was completely dark except for the night-light she'd turned on when she'd first returned to the bedroom. Caller ID told her that it was Marshall.

“You don't have to keep checking on me,” she said after picking up the receiver.

“Humor me. I left you in a bad state.”

Partly due to her poor behavior. “Want me to start filling out a journal as to where I am when, what I'm doing and thinking, and turn it in weekly?”

“Daily, please. With special attention to the ‘what are you thinking?' part. How needy or paranoid does that sound?”