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Acid burning in his stomach, Michael watched his father hurry out. Fred Hanson had been ahead of his father by two years in school. Yet that hadn’t stopped Sam Kennedy from beating the older man out of a first-place win at the state-wide school science fair during Fred’s senior year.
The win had cost Fred a scholarship. One that went to waste when Sam had to marry his pregnant girlfriend instead of attending college.
And Sam Kennedy had spent the rest of his life settling. Because once you had children, if you were a good person, a worthy parent, your own needs didn’t matter anymore. Your primary purpose then became to meet the needs of the lives you’d created.
Sam and Mary spent every waking moment doing just that.
“SUSAN, Joe Burniker called....”
Jumping, scaring Annie, whose head she’d been resting her hand on, Susan smiled guiltily at her secretary. This was the third time in as many days that Jill had caught her daydreaming. She’d known about the baby for a whole week, and the shock still hadn’t worn off.
“I’m sorry, what was that?” she asked, sitting up at her desk. She grabbed a pen, trying to look like she belonged there.
“Are you okay?” Jill was frowning.
“Fine. Who’d you say called?”
“Joe Burniker, and it’s okay if you don’t want to tell me, but I’d like you to know that I’m here if you need to talk,” her secretary said in a rush. They were the most personal words she’d ever said to Susan.
Susan put down the pen. Arm folded across her chest, she met her secretary’s eye. “I’m pregnant.”
“Oh.” Jill’s expression filled with consternation—and embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” she said, looking anywhere but at Susan.
“I’m not.” Susan grinned.
That got Jill’s attention. “You’re not?” She stared at Susan.
“Nope, I planned the whole thing.”
“But you’re not, I mean—” Jill broke off.
“Married?” Susan helped her out.
“Well.” Jill glanced down. “Yeah.”
Taking pity on her secretary, Susan pulled herself together. “I’ll be a good mother, Jill,” she said, sounding far more controlled than she felt.
Jill’s gaze shot up, her eyes locking with Susan’s. “I never thought any differently.”
“It’s perfectly acceptable for single women to adopt babies these days,” Susan said, preparing to repeat herself several more times as her associates discovered her condition. “I just chose to have my own, instead.”
“Then you’re not planning to marry the father?” Jill asked.
“No.” But she couldn’t leave it at that, couldn’t have them thinking she’d been foolish enough to get knocked up by someone who’d deserted her. “In fact,” she added, “I chose him deliberately because I knew he wouldn’t want to marry me. I don’t want to share this child.”
So what if the words were only half-true? No one but Susan was ever going to know that.
EVERY DECISION Laura Sinclair made—which included forcing Seth Carmichael out of her life—was with her kids in mind. She’d made a huge mistake staying with their father when it was obvious his abuse wasn’t going to stop. But since she’d been freed from that tyranny, she’d never once broken her vow to put the kids first. Always.
She just wasn’t sure of the best way to handle her current dilemma. Which was worse—the physical problem posed by the bees swarming their house or the potential emotional problem if she called the only person she could think of to ask for help?
Her long blond hair hanging loose, she stood outside her little house on the second Saturday in April, arms wrapped around her middle, staring at the dirt that made up an excuse for a yard. She’d just come home from dropping the kids at a birthday party—one neither had been eager to attend—to find her kitchen infested with bees. The buzzing had been like something from an Alfred Hitchcock movie.
And there was no money, anywhere, to pay for a pest control company to get rid of them.
But, perhaps, if she was lucky, she could still see to the kids’ physical safety without jeopardizing their fragile emotions. She studied the holes in the toes of her tennis shoes for a second, glanced at the Pooh bear hanging limply across her stomach on a T-shirt worn and stretched from too many washings. But at least it was wrinkle-free, tucked into her jeans, and clean. And loose enough to hide the extra weight she’d lost. Either way, it would have to do.
Mind made up, she marched next door, explained about the army of bees keeping her from her phone and asked the crochety old couple if she could use theirs. And coughed up the quarter they charged her.
