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He suspected, most certainly after that box hadn’t brought about any hint of the faith she’d once expressed so adamantly in them, that time was already making its delivery.
He just had to hang tight. To stay the course. Stick with the plan.
Which was why, Tuesday night, he sought her out in her office before bedtime. “I just wanted to let you know,” he said from the doorway, still dressed in the uniform he’d worn to the base that morning despite having no meetings or appointments. “I won’t be going with you to tomorrow’s appointment.”
The decision, while potentially painful to her, was the right one. Building castles in the sand, ones that would be washed away with the tide, was far more damaging in the long run.
Hardly glancing up from her computer, she nodded. “I already figured as much,” was all she said. And then, “I’ll be ready for bed in about ten. I’m just finishing up a report for Steve to present in the morning.”
Surprised at the ease with which he’d pulled that off, most particularly after pondering on it so acutely over the past many hours, Winston went back to watch a little bit more of the baseball game he’d had on.
* * *
In a pair of thick black spandex pants, a cross between leggings and pants sworn to be the new dress pant, and a mid-thigh-length tapered white three-quarter-sleeved blouse, Emily stopped in the kitchen for a cup of tea Wednesday morning before heading off to her appointment. Routine usually meant that she showered first and left the house while Winston got ready every morning. She had clients and early meetings, and LA traffic to deal with.
But the clinic didn’t open until eight. And it was a five-minute drive. With traffic.
Winston, in his usual khakis and tie, came walking down the hall toward her ten minutes before she had to go. Somehow she’d figured he’d stay in either the bedroom or the office until she left.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he announced. “I’m opting to accompany you to the appointment. In separate cars. I can head straight to the base from there and you can head on to LA as you were planning.”
She stared at him. Really needing to figure him out. More than the sex, even the conversation, she missed the way she knew Winston, could tell where he was coming from, how he meant his words, just by watching his face.
“If you’re doing this out of guilt, don’t,” she told him, still sitting at the table, taking a sip of her tea. “I’m truly fine going alone.”
A lot of women, even those with husbands who were fully engaged in all ways, went to doctor’s appointments alone. “I’ll have a video of the sonogram if you want to see it,” she added, figuring the mention would send him on his way.
It should have. Every single mention of anything to do with any baby details had had that effect on him so far.
“I’d like to come, Emily. Unless you’ve changed your mind about wanting me there.”
What was he doing to her?
“Of course I haven’t.” She stood, grabbed her purse and keys, going back to get the cup of tea she’d forgotten and almost left sitting on the table, emptying it and putting it in the dishwasher. Chamomile tea. To calm and soothe. Just in case it really worked. “You ready?”
She led the way out the door, to the clinic and then to the examining room the nurse indicated. Watching for Christine, she wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed that the managing director was nowhere to be seen. Not sure if she wanted to introduce the whole Winston being there thing with her or not.
It didn’t mean what it looked like—didn’t indicate that he was on board.
Or did it?
She lay down as instructed by the technician. Lifted her shirt up to just below her breasts. Tried not to squirm when the cold liquid was squirted on her belly. And to keep an eye on Winston, just to convince herself that she wasn’t dreaming and he was really there.
As their love would have demanded.
Their longtime dream might be coming true in unforeseen ways, with god-awful detours, but it really was happening.
She and Winston were having their first ultrasound, to get the first look of their first child.
The monitor sliding across her stomach brought her back to the room, the reality of a screen that would show the truth of what was inside her.
Not a dream.
But a healthy fetus? Suddenly nervous as hell, she stared at the screen, with intermittent glances at the technician. Winston, who’d declined the seat he’d been offered, stood between the technician and the door, meaning, once the test began, she could no longer see him.
She could sure hear him, though. The man had so many questions, and asked them with such swiftness, one after the other, that she didn
’t have time to worry about what the screen might be showing them.
