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“Susan,” he interrupted, not sure what he intended to say. He couldn’t let her finish that remark. “This isn’t about the child. It’s about you, a person I care about, a person who needs a little help. Can’t you let me help while I’m in town?”
He was relieved to discover that she was smiling. “You could take the bed apart for me.”
HE CALLED HER at work the next morning.
“Just wanted to make sure you’re completely recovered,” he explained when she answered the phone.
“I feel fine,” she told him, not bothering to mention the bout she’d had that morning. It had been a comparatively mild one. And she’d eaten two stacks of pancakes for breakfast afterward.
“Good enough to have dinner tonight?” he asked. “I figured since this is Friday night, you might want to get out.”
“I’d like that.” Susan’s eyes filled with tears, and she cursed the stupid emotionalism that was taking over her body.
Making plans to meet him at her place at six-thirty, she rang off, determined to concent
rate on business. The McArthur case was coming up in a couple of weeks and as far as Susan knew, she was still a sure win. Joe Burniker seemed to have lost his touch.
MICHAEL TOOK HER to a little place just across the river where they had a window table for two in a quiet alcove by the water. She’d worn a short black dress, more because it was the loosest one she owned than because she was trying to be fashionable, but she was gratified by the appreciation she saw in Michael’s eyes. He looked great, too, his short dark hair a little wind-tossed, his sweater matching the green of his eyes. She was just so darn happy to be out with him.
“I’m not sure, but I think Seth has woman problems,” he told her while they waited for the pasta they’d ordered.
“No kidding?” Susan’s spirits lifted even more. “I’d given up hope.”
“I’m not sure there’s any reason to hope,” Michael said, frowning. “I think his job’s been getting in the way.”
“Oh.” Susan could understand, but she hoped Seth knew what he was doing. What he might be giving up. She hoped the job was worth it to him.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something.” Michael wasn’t meeting her eyes and Susan’s stomach tightened. It was the first bout of nausea she’d felt all evening.
She nodded.
“What are you going to tell your baby about his father?”
Her heart dropped. Oh. God. That he—they—didn’t have one?
“I’m not really sure,” she answered honestly. “I mean, what do the women say who have artificial insemination?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Would you hate it terribly if I said you were the father?”
“And how would you explain that I don’t act like a father without making the kid feel neglected?”
This was so much more complicated than it was supposed to be. “We’re divorced,” she said. “Lot’s of kids have divorced parents.”
“You don’t think he’s going to figure out eventually that we were divorced seven years before he came along?”
Susan looked across at him, so close to her. She loved him so much. She’d never realized quite how much. “Can’t I just tell the truth?”
“I don’t know.” He grabbed a pen from his pocket and started doodling on his napkin. “I suppose.”
“Michael?” He glanced up. “That napkin’s cloth.”
Going back to his drawing, he said, “I’ll pay them for it.” And then, “Don’t you think he’s still going to wonder why I’m never around?”
Her heart stopping, Susan promised herself she wouldn’t cry. “You aren’t planning to be around after the birth? Ever?”
It was what she’d been afraid of since the night she’d conceived. The night she’d known he was telling her goodbye.
