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20
HIS HEART SKIPPED. “WHEN?”
“Now.”
“I’m fifteen minutes out.” Thirty at least, but he didn’t want her to change her mind.
“I’ll see you then.”
It took five minutes for him to get past the accident; then he herded the Honda as though driving in the Le Mans and reached the house twenty-two minutes after getting her call. He went in through the unlocked front door and found her standing in the center of the living room.
She was wearing a snug white skirt and a sleeveless red top with white buttons down the front and wide straps over her shoulders. She looked great.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
“I was o
n 114 when you called. There was an accident.”
“I didn’t give you much notice.”
He shrugged off his jacket and laid it over the back of the nearest chair. “How have you been?”
“Fine. What about you?”
“I’ve been okay. Airline keeping you busy?”
“Always.”
“This heat sucks.”
“I can’t remember when it last rained.”
“That time of year, I guess.”
Up to that point, they hadn’t broken eye contact. Now she did. She looked toward the window, where the louvered shutters let in only slivers of sunlight. “I asked you to meet me today so I could tell you in person.”
His stomach dropped. “You’re pregnant.”
She shook her head.
“No?” he asked, making sure.
“No.”
“I thought maybe you would be. We doubled the chances last time.”
Her eyes flicked back to him briefly, then away. “I’m not pregnant. But I…we, Foster and I, have decided to try A.I.”
His encounter with Rodarte, his meeting with the Vista boys, her call, the wild drive here, seeing her, all had combined to jumble his brain. Her words didn’t compute. He shook his head slightly. “Sorry?”
“Artificial insemination.”
“Oh. Right.” Again his stomach took a dive. “Instead of us—”
“Yes.”
