The Baby Scandal Read online

  “And the drive down from York was simply dreadful—”

  “Oh stop it, stop it.” It bubbled out in a hiss before I could hold it back.

  He froze, startled, then frowned. He set his fork down carefully and placed his hands on the table. I expected him to speak, but he didn’t. He just watched me patiently, his expression guarded, his eyes unreadable.

  The dam had burst and I couldn’t stop. “I don’t want to hear about traffic or business or contractors. I could care less about the crummy weather and the crummy hotels and the crummy stores. Do you know what I want to hear, David?”

  He sighed and leaned forward, gazing into his drink rather than look at me. It made me unreasonably sad and furious at the same time. I wanted to grab him and shake him.

  “I imagine you want an apology.”

  “No!” It came out louder than I wanted it to and the restaurant went silent for a moment. A waiter was at our table in a flash.

  “Is everything all right, miss?”

  “Yes,” I said, voice and hands trembling. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you. I’m sorry.”

  The waiter nodded, topped off our glasses, and melted away again into the shadows. I took a deep, steadying breath and met David’s eyes.

  “I want to know if these last couple of weeks have been as hard for you as they have for me. I want, I want to know—” I was beginning to stutter and I took a drink to steady myself. “Is it just me? Do you do this often? How many hearts have you broken, or does it even matter? Do you ever think of me?”

  I wanted to slap myself to make myself shut up. His face fell a little more with every question, and I had so many more. I took a bite to give my mouth something else to worry about for a moment.

  “Of course I do,” he said quietly. “Every day. Every night. I can’t get you out of my mind, Grace. There were some buildings in York that would have thrilled you. I wouldn’t have noticed them if I’d never met you.”

  I sighed as the tense bubble in my chest deflated slightly. “Tell me about them,” I said.

  “Now, I don’t know all the terminology,” he began. “But there were these rooms with ceilings that must have been fourteen feet high. The floorboards were solid pieces from end to end, and the room was thirty feet long. They must have just cut trees lengthwise to fill the need. There was a painting there which made me think of the view from the gallery. Ironic, really.”

  “Ironic? Why?”

  He smiled softly. “Because I loved it so much, I was considering buying a reprint for my office. When I came home this afternoon, I found that it was already there.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded, and I swallowed tears with a smile. “I chose that because it made me think of you. Of the way you described the view from the gallery, actually.”

  He chuckled and reached for my hand. “Two of a kind, you and I.”

  I hesitated, then began to play with my food instead of taking his hand. He let it drop discreetly, as though he had never offered it to begin with.

  “I’ve missed talking to you,” I admitted.

  “As have I,” he said with a gentle smile. “I can’t remember the last time I had such long, comfortable, friendly conversations.”

  I nodded. “I believe it. I, um…I’ve been working closely with Amelia for the last few weeks. She barely seemed to notice your absence. I admit, I had been wondering how you got away with spending two whole days with me without so much as a text to her, but she clearly doesn’t require your attention.”

  He shook his head almost sadly. “She never has. She wanted the status of marriage more than anything. She’s a socialite through and through. Gainful employment would detract from her freedom and status in that arena. It is much better for her to be married to money.”

  “Is that how you think she sees you?” I asked without judgment. I had come to realize that my preconceptions about marriage didn’t really apply to the two of them.

  He nodded. “I know it is, frankly. She had been trying for years to pin down an eligible millionaire before I came along. At the time, she was still living with her father and had become accustomed to a particular level of comfort.”

  “She doesn’t seem the type to compromise, even for love,” I said pensively.

  He shook his head. “She loves social power and status. She loves using money to beautify her life. She loves leading charities which look good on paper, regardless of how much good they actually do. She loves clothes and jewels. She might love herself. There isn’t much left to give after all of that.”

  “You seem to know her very well in spite of all that.”

  He smiled sadly. “One doesn’t spend five years as a woman’s built-in plus-one without learning a thing or two about her. Though I must say, Grace… No. Perhaps I mustn’t.”

  I reached out for him instinctively. “Please,” I said. “Tell me.”

  His eyes shone as he took my hand. As he closed them, his lips turned up gently at the corners.

  “Oh, Grace,” he said. When he opened his eyes, it was like looking into two perfect galaxies. “I shared more with you in those two days…learned more about you, in those two short days…than in all my time with Amelia. I connected with you on a level I never knew was possible.”

  His confession took my breath away. My lips trembled as I offered one of my own. “I haven’t stopped thinking about the time we spent together.”

  “Neither have I,” he said. “I’ve never felt like this about anyone before. Though I suppose I never gave myself the opportunity.”

  I hesitated for a moment. I almost didn’t want to ask. “Never?”

  He looked away and shook his head. “I am not in the habit of taking lovers, Grace. You were a special case. Honestly, I find you irresistible.”

  My mind was racing. I was no naïve girl anymore; I’d heard all the lines. Nobody understands me but you; I’ve never acted this way before; you’re special. They had never been anything but lines before. I wanted to believe that it was different with him, but I found myself drawing away. Hiding behind pseudo-psychoanalysis and logic. My brow furrowed as I reached a conclusion I didn’t want to reach.

  “Do you think…I mean, have you ever considered whether your long-term deprivation had something to do with your feelings for me? If you never consummated your marriage, and if you aren’t in the habit of taking lovers, wouldn’t the sex have clouded your mind and made your feelings out to be bigger than they were?”

  I wanted him to argue with me outright, to tell me that I was being ridiculous. Instead, he looked thoughtful for several minutes while he twisted his spoon this way and that on the napkin.

  “I considered that as well,” he said finally. “But I soon discovered that it was not your body that I missed. Though I loved every moment of it, and it was a great relief, it wasn’t what hurt my heart to be apart from.”

  He touched my hand and a lump rose in my throat. Logic, satisfied, fell to the wayside as words I had fought to keep inside bubbled to the surface.

  “I’ve missed you terribly,” I whispered. “Working in that house without you was torturous. I was furious at you. I thought I was furious that you lied to me, but that wasn’t it at all. I was furious that you weren’t really Dan. I could have fallen in love with Dan.”

  “What’s in a name?” he said softly, a touch of despair in his eyes.

  I forced a smile. “An honest, handsome, single decorator with an insanely strong work ethic and a brilliant imagination.”

  Chagrin fell over his face and he nodded. “I see. Of course.”

  I turned my hand over and squeezed his gently. “That doesn’t change the fact that the two days we spent together were two of the best days of my life.”

  He smiled at me. “I feel the same.”

  Guilt twanged just under my heart and I pulled my hand away, focusing on the last little bit of my meal. I dawdled over it, wishing the evening never had to end.

  “I’d be happy to drive you back to y
our hotel.” His voice was as warm and soft as an embrace, full of desire and unspoken pleas.

  My heart fluttered as a guilty wish rose in my chest. I knew it was wrong, but I wanted it so badly I almost didn’t care. I could almost feel his body on mine, that explosion of passion. I was hungry for it and found myself making excuses and justifications for going through with it. We finished and he paid, then walked me outside. We paused under the awning. As the snow fell around us, I was strongly reminded of that day on the Thames.

  He gazed into my eyes and wrapped his arms around me, moving as though he were in a trance. Desire flooded my body as he dipped his head, his lips hovering millimeters from mine. Alarm bells rang in my head and I pulled sharply away. His brow furrowed in confusion.

  “Wait,” I said. “I need to know something before this goes any further.”

  He waited. I gulped a steadying breath, bracing my hands against his strong chest. Gazing up into his eyes, I almost dismissed my question out of hand. If I just ignored reality and conceded to my feelings, would it really be so terrible? Yes.

  “If you are so miserable with her, and if you don’t love one another, why keep up the façade? Divorce isn’t socially destructive anymore, and even if it were, you could easily annul the marriage, couldn’t you? Why do you stay?”

  He looked away pensively. I could see his mind working in the tiny, subtle expressions on his face. Before I could identify any of the emotions he was wrestling with, his expression closed.

  “I have my reasons, and there is nothing to be gained from discussing it further. Come, let me take you to your hotel.”

  I gasped, hurt and angry. How could he be so patronizing to me, after spending all night admitting to his feelings for me? I was just as much a part of this as he was. Revealing his own justifications to me was the least he could do. Otherwise, I would be forced to accept that the marriage was more than it appeared and that I would be nothing more than a mistress to him forever. I would not do that, not to myself and not to another woman.

  “Very well,” I said icily. “I’ll be on my way. I hope you and Amelia have a wonderful Christmas.”

  He looked as though I had just slapped him, shocked and hurt. I gritted my teeth against the impulse to comfort him and hurried out to the curb to flag down a cab. He took a few steps after me and then stopped. As the cab pulled away, I looked back to see him standing in the falling snow, gazing after me as though I had just broken his heart.

  It doesn’t matter, I told myself. I can’t fall for him. He’s married and seems intent on staying that way. If the marriage was falling apart, maybe that would change things for me. But it isn’t. For as sick and twisted as it might be, it’s stable. That’s obvious. They have an understanding, and if I won’t be clued in on that understanding, how can I let him touch my heart? Or my body, for that matter.

  I gazed out at the bejeweled city through my tears. New York would be equally beautiful, decorated to the nines in holiday splendor. I would spend the holiday as I usually did, cozy in my mother’s house, reminiscing with her about years past when she and my father would throw amazing parties. She would wax poetic about how he used to get eggnog-drunk and slow-dance with her under the mistletoe.

  She would mention sadly that it was a shame I hadn’t experienced that level of dedication yet. She would get into the punch and her filter would drop, and she would begin talking about grandchildren. I would smile and promise that I would get on that just as soon as I had the time. She would brush it off as the ramblings of a silly old woman. Eventually, we would open each other’s gifts and she would start to cry.

  I sighed, wondering how many more years I would spend Christmas with just my mother.

  Chapter 16

  Grace

  January 21

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were using my house to run away from something.” My mother crossed her arms and stared at me pointedly as I dipped my roller in the paint again.

  “Or maybe I just saw how bad it was when I came home for Christmas,” I said pertly. “You really can’t let the house fall down around your ears, Mom. Don’t make me put you in a home.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Try me.”

  “Well, regardless, I think you’re keeping yourself distracted from something. Is it your work? A boyfriend?”

  I clenched my jaw and rolled the light green paint over the wall that supported the stairs. Yes, my mom’s house was in desperate need of attention; and yes, I was putting in twelve-hour days at her place so that I wouldn’t spend all day pining over a man I couldn’t have. I reached up overhead with the paint roller, and the room immediately began to spin.

  “Oh,” I suddenly let out, squatting down quickly and dropping my head between my knees.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “What brand is this? I think the fumes are getting to me,” I said, still trying to regain my equilibrium.

  “The usual,” she said pensively. “Come sit down. I’ll get you something to drink.”

  “No, it’s okay,” I said, forcing myself to my feet.

  I took a deep breath against the sudden wave of nausea and nearly propped myself up against the wet wall. My mother took my arm and firmly led me into the kitchen.

  “Sit down,” she said in a tone which left no room for argument. She pushed me into the chair, then brought me a glass of water.

  I sipped it tentatively, worried that it wouldn’t stay down.

  “It must be the fumes,” I said again after a moment. “Maybe I’ll set up a fan in there to help.”

  “It’s not the fumes,” she said decisively. “It’s the moodiness and the afternoon naps and the sudden taste for pickles and the crying in the bathroom.”

  My eyes widened. “I didn’t know you knew about that.”

  “I didn’t want to say anything. I assumed you would tell me what it was all about eventually. But I think it’s too late for that. When was the last time you had a period?”

  “Three years ago,” I said wryly. “I got the implant, remember?” I lifted my arm and gestured to the tiny silver-white, semi-circle scar where the implant had been inserted four years before.

  “Mm-hm,” she said, her eyes narrow. “Take a test.”

  “What?”

  “A pregnancy test. You know what, smarty-pants. You sit there while I go get one.”

  “Mom,” I said, exasperated. “I can’t get pregnant. It’s impossible.”

  “Oh? How long are those implants good for?”

  “Five years.”

  “How long have you had it?”

  “Four years. I’ll be making an appointment to get it replaced in August.”

  “Hm,” she said, shaking her head. “You sit there. I’ll be right back. Don’t go painting anything while I’m gone. I can’t have you falling down and breaking yourself.”

  “It’s a waste of time,” I called to her as she left. “It’s probably just stress or something.”

  The front door closed and I rolled my eyes. There was no chance, I was sure of it. That was the whole point in getting this thing, after all. It’s not like bodies burn through hormones at different rates or anything, right?

  I shook my head. It was ridiculous. But I knew she wasn’t going to drop it until I showed her a negative test, so I sat there obediently and waited for her to return.

  She was back within half an hour with two different tests. She tossed a box at me and pointed to the bathroom with the same look on her face she’d used when I was a kid and didn’t want to brush my teeth. I shook my head with a smile, letting her know that I was just humoring her.

  All of that faded a few minutes later when two pink lines showed up in the little window.

  “Impossible.” I breathed out in exasperation. I left the test on the edge of the bathtub and hurried out to the kitchen, where I downed three glasses of water one after another.

  My mother watched me with a knowing smile.

  “Do
n’t jump to any conclusions,” I said firmly. “These things aren’t a hundred percent.”

  “Neither is birth control,” she said with a shrug.

  I narrowed my eyes at her, then paced the kitchen for twenty minutes. When the water had done its job, I took the second test from her and hurried back to the bathroom. Same result.

  Shaky and pale, I brought both tests out to the kitchen. I locked eyes with my mother and sat back down, placing the tests on a napkin on the table. I stared at them numbly for a few minutes.

  She sat down as well, barely glancing at them. She had already known.

  “How do you feel about this?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “I…I don’t know.”

  She nodded. “I figured. Who’s the father?”

  My throat tightened, and so did my fists. Tears broke through my defenses, streaming down my face, turning the tests into little white and pink blurs on the table. I wrestled my voice under control with a great deal of effort.

  “David Harris,” I said, wiping the tears from my face.

  “Harris…why do I know that name?”

  I sobbed, burying my face in my hands in shame. She gasped slightly.

  “Your last client, wasn’t her name Harris?”

  I nodded, unable to speak for sobbing.

  “Grace. Grace, look at me. Did you sleep with her husband?”

  “I didn’t know,” I wailed. “I swear I didn’t know. He told me his name was Dan. I thought he was a decorator!”

  “Oh, sweetie.”

  She rubbed my shoulders, and I curled into her, sobbing into her shoulder. She rocked me like a baby, whispering soothing nonsense, for a long time. When I finally managed to wrestle myself back under control, I felt cold and empty and gray all through.

  “What am I going to do?” I wailed.

  “The first thing you’re going to do is tell him,” she said firmly.

  “Oh Mom, I can’t do that. It’s too terrible.”