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“Me? I didn’t do anything.”
“You’ve been the best friend I ever had.”
“You’ve been a good friend to me, too.”
“Call me when you go into labor,” Amanda said.
“It won’t be for several weeks.”
“But you’ll phone me right away?”
“You’re second on my list. My sweetheart of a dad insists on being first.”
“Are you going to contact Jordan?”
Molly’s gaze fell on the baby blanket his mother had sent. Jordan couldn’t even look at a framed photograph of Jeffrey. He wouldn’t be able to deal with the birth of this child.
“No,” she said sadly. “He doesn’t want to know.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Positive. Now call your father, and give him my love.”
Pleased at her friend’s news, Molly hung up the phone and walked into the kitchen. She felt good. Although she seemed to require a nap every afternoon, she was full of energy now. After putting away the Christmas decorations, she phoned her father and invited him over for dinner.
Ian arrived promptly at six with a bouquet of flowers and a carton of milk. Molly kissed him on the cheek and led him into the kitchen.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, studying her closely.
“I’ve never felt better,” she said with a smile, taking the casserole out of the oven and carrying it to the table.
“I talked to Jordan today,” her father said nonchalantly, smoothing the napkin across his lap.
“Dad, I told you I don’t want to discuss Jordan.” Molly had given up counting the ways Ian had of introducing her husband into their conversations.
“He’s worried about you.”
“Mild winter we’re having, isn’t it?” she said, setting the serving spoon on the steaming ceramic dish. She waddled over to the refrigerator and brought out the salad she’d prepared earlier.
“He calls at least once a day to ask about you.”
She noticed that Jordan didn’t inquire about the baby. Molly ignored her father and served herself some salad, then passed him the bowl. She set the dressing down with a thud. “I was thinking of planting roses this spring. The same variety Mom loved.”
“I was talking about Jordan,” Ian returned stubbornly.
“I was talking about roses,” Molly said with equal stubbornness.
“He loves you.”
“I love that rich deep red you get with some roses.”
Ian slammed his fork down. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with the pair of you. Jordan’s just as bad as you are. Worse. I’ve told him a dozen times that I refuse to answer his questions. If he wants to find out how you’re doing, he can ask you himself.”
Molly shrugged, unwilling to comment.
“You know what he does, don’t you?” Ian went on. “He phones Doug Anderson right from my home. When he hangs up, he repeats everything to me—as if I need a physician to tell me about my own daughter.”
“Dad,” Molly said gently, placing her hand on his. “It’s over between Jordan and me.”
