Anne Peters - My Baby, Your Son

“So why are you telling me now, Ma?” Jared didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking. After all these years of blaming April, despising April, was he now ex- pected to forgive and forget?

Angry, suddenly, he shook off his mother’s hands, rounding on her and Colleen. “Why are the two of you all of a sudden working so hard to convince me that she is the victim here instead of me?”

“We’re not,” Colleen exclaimed defensively. She wiped at her cheeks. “It’s just that—”

“It’s just that there’s more to consider here than your hurt feelings or April’s,” Maeve interrupted with some im- patience. “As far as I’m concerned, Tyler’s well-being is the only thing that matters.”

“Which is exactly my point!” Jared leveled a rigid fin- ger at his mother. “What do you think it’s going to do to Tyler when after a month, two months, or three, the famous Ms. Bingham gets tired of languishing in our backwater town and bored with playing Mom, and hightails it back to the bright lights? Huh?”

He grimly forestalled the defense he saw Maeve draw breath to offer. “Which she will.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“She will.” Convinced of it, Jared stared hard at his mother in an effort to convince her, too. He noted with a pang that his father’s death had scarred his mother’s face, just as the simultaneous death of Regina had irrevocably scarred his own soul. Though not for the same reason.

“She will,” he repeated, but quietly this time. Loving his mother for all she was and all she had done for him— and for Tyler—Jared bent and kissed her cheek. “I’m sorry, Ma, but I’d stake my life on that.”

“But, son,” Maeve’s hand kept him from straightening. “Don’t you see? If you fight her, it’s not your life that you’re putting at stake. It’s Tyler’s.”

They looked at each for a long time, mother and son, as the truth of Maeve’s words wrestled with the bitterness in Jared’s soul. And when, with an oath, Jared finally straight- ened and turned away, Maeve gestured to Colleen and qui- etly led the way out of the room.

April was lying down with an ice pack on her head when the phone rang. Even though she had set the volume control at the lowest setting, the whirring sound reverberated through her head with all the force of one of Mozart’s cres- cendos. Not since the collapse that led up to this prescribed rest period had she suffered a migraine of this magnitude. She had felt it coming on in the aftermath of her encounter with Jared O’Neal and Colleen Simpson. The stress, her overwrought state, all were like poison to her constitution. Only the hope that the call might be about Tyler motivated her to pick up the phone. Indeed, it was the only reason she had not unplugged it.

Gagging back nausea, she kept her head as still as pos- sible as she groped for the handset on the low table next to her with her eyes closed. “‘Lo?”

“Hello, er…April?”

Jared. April tensed. Pain lacerated her skull. It seared both of her eyes like a hot poker and drove an involuntary groan from her lips.

“What’s the matter?” Something like alarm sharpened Jared’s tone. It assaulted April’s ears and head like a ham- mer blow. “April?”

“Please,” she croaked. “Not so loud.”

“Are you sick?” Jared asked in a more moderate tone that—incongruously to April—held an unmistakable note of concern.

“M-migraine,” April whispered hoarsely. “But never mind that T-Tyler?”

“Yes.” Jared cleared his throat. “He’s, uh…. Well, he’s the reason I’m calling. But look, it can wait until—”

“No…” Heedless of her head, dizzy with pain, April rose up on one elbow as though that would lend force to her whispered plea. “Please. Is it all right? Are you going to let me see him? Talk to him? When?”

“Well, it can’t be right away.”

Not right away? Gasping, her disappointment an even more devastating pain than the one in her head, April col- lapsed back against the pillows.

“You see, he’s gone camping with my sister Leslie’s family for a couple of days.” There was a pause that gave April time to realize—and appreciate—the fact that Jared was trying to establish some sort of rapport. His next words bore that out.

“You remember Leslie,” he said with a strained, self- conscious little chuckle. “She’s the one who was always practicing the clarinet in the hayloft and spooking the cows.”

“Yes…” April also recalled that Leslie was two years older than Jared, the second oldest, after Conan, of the six O’Neal offspring.

“They’ll be back Wednesday or Thursday.”

Two more days, maybe three. It seemed like such a long time. Though she knew it was foolish—she had waited this long, what did a couple more days matter?—April felt tears of disappointment sting the backs of her eyes.

She refused to let them fall, even when Jared added to the devastating letdown by saying, “And I’ll also need some time to talk to him. I need to prepare him. I mean, he knows you exist, but we can’t just spring your imminent entrance into his life on him out of the blue.”

“I understand.” The suppressed tears constricted her voice. “You’ll, um…you’ll let me know?”

“Right.”

“Thank you,” April whispered, but Jared had already severed the connection.

With a tremulous sigh, April let the phone slip out of her hand. She lay perfectly still, letting the fact that Jared had decided not to fight her soothe her like a balm.

Not till a pool of water had collected in each of her ears did she realize that holding back the tears hadn’t worked.

At his end, Jared, too, was distraught. It had been a dif- ficult phone call to make on all levels. He put down the phone and, with his elbows propped on his father’s desk, cradled his head in his hands, thinking, I don’t think I can do this. I don’t want to do this.

He didn’t want to trust April. Didn’t want to risk Tyler getting hurt. But most of all he didn’t want to get sucked in once again by April Bingham and her problems. He didn’t want to care.

“Damn.” Pinching the narrow spot between his eyes, he bowed his head and sucked in a number of ragged breaths.

So she still got those headaches. Was he to blame for this one?

Jared dug his nails into his scalp, remembering the first time he had seen her with one. He had been looking for her to ask her to go swimming. Her aunt had come to the door.

“I don’t know, Jared,” Marje had said in that elegant British way of hers. “April is terribly upset.”

“What happened?”

“Her mother rang. From England. She announced her imminent arrival—she’ll be here two days from now—and I’m afraid April isn’t taking it well. She was so enjoying her holiday, poor lamb.”

And now it’ll be back to the salt mines, Jared had thought. “Where is she?”

“April? She fled upstairs to her room, white as a sheet.”

“Can I see her? Please?”

Marje had considered this for a moment before tossing up her hand. “Sure. Why not. If anyone can cheer her, it’ll be you.”

As Jared bounded up the stairs, she had called after him, “Mind, you leave the bedroom door open!”

Jared knocked on the door, then right away pushed it open and stuck in his head. “April?”

No answer. A quick scan of the room revealed that it was empty. Puzzled—maybe she’d gone to the bath- room?—he’d hovered in the doorway, and that’s when he heard it. A keening sort of whimper. And it came from the direction of the closet.

Two strides took him there. He wrenched open the door. There was April. Curled into a tight little ball with her arms wrapped around her head, rocking, moaning.