Elizabeth Harbison - A Pregnant Proposal

Susan appeared to consider that for a moment, then nodded. “That makes sense. More proof that you need to get this under control. How about a glass of wine?”

Jen made a face. “I’m not particularly in the mood, but maybe it would help me sleep tonight.”

“Like you need help sleeping,” Susan said with a laugh as she got up. She went to the kitchen and took two wineglasses off the rack. “Matt said he saw you slumped over a pile of papers at your desk yesterday.”

“Oh, no, he saw me?” She imagined herself sleeping, mouth agape, perhaps even drooling, and cringed. “Why didn’t he wake me up?”

Susan popped the cork out of a bottle of merlot. “He said you looked so peaceful he couldn’t bear to wake you. Figured you needed sleep, so he closed the blinds and left you alone.”

“So that’s who closed the blinds! Good lord, I thought I was going nuts.” It wouldn’t have been the first time she’d done something and forgotten about it lately. In the past couple of weeks, she’d even had momentary lapses where she got lost halfway to work.

“Stress can certainly make you feel like you’re going nuts.”

“You can say that again.” She sighed, and pushed her thick auburn hair out of her eyes. “I can’t believe Matt saw me like that. Did he say anything else? Was I snoring?”

Susan handed her a glass and took a sip from her own. “Yeah. And drooling. It sounded hideous.” She laughed. “Come on, you know Matt wouldn’t say if you were.”

“I guess not.” Truth was, she barely knew Matt Holder. As the Director of Human Resources at Kane Haley, Incorporated, his path rarely crossed that of Jen, who was the Benefits Manager. His office was on the 16th floor, hers was on the 14th. Until a few months ago, he was only a face she’d seen from afar. An attractive face, to be sure—with short, wavy dark hair, warm hazel eyes and a crooked smile that transformed his whole face—but not someone she dealt with much. “But still, he went around telling people I fell asleep on the job.”

“He didn’t tell ‘people,”’ Susan said. “He told me, and that was only because he was worried about you. In fact, he was quite worried about you.”

What little indignation Jen had been able to work up deflated instantly. Matt was a great guy and she knew it. When one of Susan’s kids had broken a leg, Matt had come to her rescue, covering a huge chunk of her work and making sure she was able to spend as much time at home with little Margaret as she needed to without penalty. He’d never mentioned to anyone that Susan was missing work. He wasn’t the kind of guy who would go spreading ugly talk about anyone. “No one needs to worry about me.”

“Well, we’re going to anyway. Face it, Jen, you’re cursed with friends who care.”

Jen’s chest began to ache, and a now-familiar burn touched her eyes. “Thanks.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “See what I mean? Everything makes me cry these days.” She picked up her glass of wine and took a sip. It tasted bitter, and burned her throat. She set the glass down as a wave of cold washed over her.

“You’re clearly on an emotional roller coaster,” she heard Susan say, but before she could respond, her stomach lurched.

“I’m going to be sick,” Jen said.

“You’re going to be fine, Jen, it’s just going to take some time to—”

“No, I’m going to be sick. Now!” She leapt from her seat and ran to the bathroom, making it just in time.

When she came out again, Susan had cleared away the wineglasses and had put some graham crackers on a plate for Jen. “Here. These will help. Do you have any soda?”

Jen put a hand to her clammy forehead. “No. I wish I did.”

“Then I’m going to run out and get you some right now. Along with a pregnancy test.”

“A pregnancy test? What are you talking about?”

“Your emotions are swinging wildly, you’re chomping antacids like candy and a sip of wine sends you running for the bathroom. I’ve been pregnant two times and the signs are pretty unmistakable.”

Jen sat down on the cold leather couch and leaned her head back. “It’s not possible. I was using birth control.”

“Which you missed for a couple of days when you and Philip went to St. Louis. Remember?”

Jen frowned. “That’s true.”

“Well, something like that can alter your fertility all month, even if you did double up on the pills for a couple of days when you got home.”

“I’ve heard that, of course. I just wasn’t…thinking.” Something gnawed at Jen’s heart. Was it dread? Or hope? Whatever it was, she dismissed it immediately. “But I had my period a couple of weeks ago.”

Susan raised an eyebrow. “Was it normal?”

She thought for a moment. “Actually, it was really light,” she admitted slowly, but her mind raced. Was it truly possible? “Oh, dear lord, do you honestly think…?”

“Do you have to pee every five minutes?”

“At least.”

“Does the smell of smoke or perfume make you feel sick?”

Come to think of it, she had been more sensitive to smells lately. “In a big way.”

Susan gave a short nod. “I’m getting you a test.”

Jen swallowed hard, but it did nothing to dislodge the lump in her throat. “Hurry.”

Seven months later

Jen woke to the sound of the door buzzer at 7:00 a.m. First she rolled over and tried to go back to sleep, hoping it had been her imagination, but it sounded again. And again. She pulled herself up awkwardly and slipped a robe around her ripe form.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she called, stumbling across the still-dark living room of her apartment. She got to the door and put her hand on the chain lock. “Who’s there?”

“It’s Abigail Sedgewick,” a voice answered, without a trace of apology for the early intrusion. “Philip’s mother.”

As if Jen wouldn’t remember who Abigail Sedgewick was. In the weeks following Philip’s death, she’d had quite a bit of contact with Abigail and her husband, Dutch. They demanded every remnant of Philip that was in Jen’s apartment, from clothing to tie clips to tweezers. They had even taken the engagement ring that Philip had bought for Jen. Everything had “sentimental value” they said, never asking Jen if anything had sentimental value for her.

As it turned out, almost nothing did because her memories of him were colored almost daily with new revelations about his character. Philip, it seemed, had enjoyed many, many liaisons with women—mostly married women—during his engagement to Jen. There were so many gold-ringed weeping women in black at his funeral it had looked like a convent.

Jen leaned heavily against the door and said a short prayer for strength. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Sedgewick?”

“You could open the door, dear, rather than leave me standing in the hall,” came the terse reply.

Jen opened the door a crack and looked out at the perfectly manicured and coiffed woman before her. “I’m not really dressed yet—”

“Not dressed? At 7:00 a.m.?” The look of disapproval was unmistakable. “Most people are already on their way to work by now.”

“I don’t have to be there until nine and it’s only ten minutes—” She stopped herself. She didn’t owe Abigail Sedgewick an explanation for anything. “What can I do for you, Abigail?” The name didn’t trip easily off Jen’s tongue; the older woman had never suggested she call her anything but her formal title.

“It’s about Philip’s tennis racket.”

My God. Has something happened to it? Jen squelched the sarcastic response. “His tennis racket?”

“I believe you have it here,” she said, an unmistakable accusation dripping from her words. “We need it back. It isn’t yours, you know, and it has great sentimental value to his father and myself.”