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“Um, Mr. McKinley, how come you’re parked in the street, not turned into the driveway?”
“I was on my way to the store when my sister called, so I pulled over.”
“Oh, right. It … uh … threw me a little, when you came across the grass. I didn’t know who you could be.”
“Yeah, I can see how you could get the wrong idea. Sorry about that.”
“It’s fine. Just wanted to explain. I don’t normally react like a deer in the headlights when a perfectly respectable man says hello to me.”
“Good to know.” He gave another smile-and-frown, kind of crooked, and she felt she still hadn’t been fully on message. I’m not a jittery flake, I’m on top of everything I do. But if she didn’t let it go at this point, she would only make things worse. “And it’s Dr. McKinley, if you want to get technical.”
“Oh. Dr. McKinley. Okay.”
“Let me help you get your things inside and show you around,” he said easily. “I saw you lose your balance on the swing just now. Are you okay?” He stepped closer.
“I’m fine,” she said firmly.
“Sure?”
“Quite sure.” What did he want from her? He was still studying her, frowning. If only he would look away, she might just rub her lower back again because it ached so much from the drive and the hefting of baggage. She didn’t want to rub it while he was watching, because even now that she knew who he was, she didn’t want to telegraph the vulnerability she disliked so much.
She could still hear her mother’s voice on the subject of the baby, still see her openly scathing expression. Are you crazy? The words had come out harsh and strident and a little fuzzy after several glasses of good wine. Doing it on your own, by choice? There’d still been a wineglass in Mom’s hand as she spoke, held very gracefully by its slender crystal stem but threatening to spill. Do you have any idea? It’s nothing like getting a degree or taking the partnership track, Claudia.
Just as getting through a bottle or two of French chardonnay or very nice Australian shiraz every night in the privacy of her own home, while wearing expensive jewelry and glittery clothes, was nothing like being an alcoholic, in Mom’s view.
Claudia’s argument that she was thirty-four years old, she was a highly competent professional with a corner office that she’d well and truly earned, she was financially secure, she was dealing in a sensible, practical way with the fact that there seemed to be zero decent available men in New York City and she had thought her decision through with enormous care and a detailed budget, hadn’t swayed her mother’s opinion one jot. “You’ll find you’ve bitten off way more than you can chew, my girl.”
Forget about it, Claudia, she lectured herself now, it was months ago.
But darn it, she just couldn’t help rubbing her back, and Andy McKinley had seen.
“I’ll just mention,” he said carefully, “that I’m a family practitioner, with a sub-specialty in ob-gyn.” He took a key ring from his pocket.
“I’m not due for five and a half weeks. And since first babies are often late, I’m working on six.”
“Mmm, so you are planning to have the baby here in Vermont?” He unlocked her front door, extended the handles on her suitcases and wheeled them both into the front hallway. He had strong wrists with a tan line on them that suggested he liked to ski.
“That’s right.” She explained briefly in what she privately called her spreadsheet voice, “I wanted a calm atmosphere for the last weeks of the pregnancy, and for the birth. I wanted my body to recover and to get our bonding and our routine in place in peace and quiet for six weeks or so before I go back to the city and then to work.”
“So you’re going back to work …?”
“When the baby is three months old. I’ll spend my last six weeks of maternity leave back in the city, getting systems in place. I’ve already researched nanny agencies and I’m on the books of the best one in the city,” she said, then added so that he wasn’t left in any doubt, “I’m going to be a single parent. I’ll just say it up front. This was a planned pregnancy, using a sperm-donor father, at a highly reputable Manhattan clinic.”
“Got you.”
“It’s good to get these things out in the open, I think, rather than have you wondering, and making things embarrassing for both of us.” She smiled, again making it brief and cool to give him his cue.
“Right,” he said, nodding and smiling back. Again it was a little crooked, she noticed. As if his view of the world was a complicated thing. As if he stood back from life, faintly amused by the whole messy business. “Thanks for filling me in.”
“Well, it doesn’t make sense not to.”
“Six weeks before, six weeks after. I guess that about takes care of your three-month lease.” He sounded cheerful about it, but maybe she was a little defensive after her mother’s often-repeated refrain of, You’re crazy. She thought she detected some hidden … what? … Criticism? Skepticism? Amusement?
All three.
Why did people have so much trouble believing that a pregnant woman could be organized? That a single-by-choice mother could make good decisions? That even being a single-by-choice mother was a good decision? That proper planning and budgeting did actually lead to a more successful outcome, and babies on a solid routine were more content? It was basic common sense!
And why did people think it was any of their business, even if they did happen to be doctors who knew about babies?
“There’s no need to show me around,” she told him, cool about it once again. “I’ve seen your photo tour on the internet and I’m confident there’s everything I’ll need. As long as the furnace is hot and the refrigerator is cold?”
“Checked them both this morning.”
“Great. Thanks.”
“I’ll bring your boxes in.”
She would have argued, but her back told her not to, so she simply thanked him again, gritted her teeth and waited until he’d shunted the remaining two boxes inside.
“Want me to take those suitcases up?”
“Thanks, no, I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then. I’m right next door, if there’s anything you need.”
“The nearest store?”
“Straight on down the street, make a left at the end, then a right on Route 11, and you’ll hit a shopping plaza on your left in about half a mile.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He gave a casual click of his tongue in farewell and sloped off along the porch to his own front door. Was he whistling?
He didn’t seem like any doctor she’d met before. Nothing like the rather stuffy, fifty-something, highly recommended and very expensive ob-gyn she’d been seeing in Manhattan. More like a rancher with that pickup he’d climbed out of.
If you went by the whistle, he was Tom Sawyer, all grown up. If you went by the crooked nose, someone who’d had a minor accident while skiing or climbing, or even a punch-up outside a bar. Or maybe a construction-crew boss. Someone who knew what he was doing, but was laid-back about it. Someone good with his hands and with tools.
This place, for example. Had he remodeled it himself?
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.
