Jennifer Greene - The Baby Bump

He didn’t care if he was making sense. She’d had a rotten morning—a stressful visit with him, then a stressful visit with the lawyer, no easy answers about her grandfather. And he hadn’t known until he’d sneaked the information that the father of her baby was both a doctor and a louse.

She was flying solo. Flying solo with a pregnancy and no help in sight.

But he’d gotten her fed. And teased. And almost laughing. She’d forgotten it all for a while.

Sometimes that was the best a doctor could do. Offer some stress relief. There was no way any doctor could cure all ills … much less all wrongs.

When she glanced at a wall clock, he did, too. He was startled at how much time had passed. Ruby was going to kill him. He was ten minutes late for his first afternoon patient.

“Yeah, I didn’t realize how late it was, either. I need to get back to my grandfather.”

He put some money down, knowing the Feinsteins wouldn’t give him a check, and eventually steered her to the door. There was the usual gauntlet of “Hi, Doc!” and “Ginger, so glad to hear you’re back in town” and other ferocious attempts to stall them. He kept moving them as fast as he could.

Outside, the sky was pumping out clouds now. A whiskery wind tossed paper and litter in the air, lifted collars. The temperature was still warmish, somewhere in the sixties, but there was rain in the wind, and the bright sun kept hiding from sight.

“I see your car,” he said.

“You don’t have to walk me there. You have to be in a hurry to get back to your office.”

“It all comes with the service. A lady faints, she gets walked to her car.”

“What if she isn’t a lady?”

“If a wicked woman faints, she still gets walked to her car. It’s in the rule book.”

“What rule book is that?”

“The South Carolina Rules for Gentlemen rule book. My mom made me memorize whole passages before I was four. She called it getting ready for kindergarten.” Walking next to her felt like foreplay. It was kind of a test of rhythms.

Whether they could walk together, move together in a natural way. How his height worked with hers. Whether she could keep up with his stride. Whether she wanted to. Whether she galloped on ahead when he wanted to amble.

Fast, too damned fast, they reached her rust bucket of a Civic. She dipped in her shoulder bag for her car key, found it, lifted her head and suddenly frowned at him.

“What?” He had no idea what her expression meant. Even less of an idea what she planned to do.

She popped up on tiptoe, framed his face between her soft palms and kissed him. On a guy’s scale of kisses, it was only a two. No tongue. No pressure. No invitation.

More … just a short, evocative melding of textures. Her lips. His lips.

Like a meeting of whipped cream and chocolate.

Or like brandy and a winter fire.

Or like the snug of gloves on a freezing morning.

Or like that click, that electric high-charge surge, not like the million kisses you’ve had since middle school, not like the any-girl-would-do kisses, but the click kind. The wonder kind. The damn it, what the hell is happening here kind.

She pulled back, sank back, cocked her head and looked at him. Her purse fell.

He picked it up. Her keys fell. He picked those up, too.

When he got his breath back, he said carefully, “Do we have any idea why you did that?”

“I’ve been known to do some very bad, impulsive things sometimes. Even if I regret it. Even if I know I’m going to regret it later.”

“So that was just a bad impulse.” He shook his head. “Sure came across like a great impulse to me.” Before she could try selling him any more malarkey, he said, “I stop to see your grandfather at least twice a week. Always short visits. He pretends it’s not about his health. So do I. Which is to say … I’ll see you soon. Very soon. And that’s a promise.”

But not soon enough. His heart slammed.

Of course, that was the man talking, and not the doctor. Sometimes it was okay to be both roles … but not with her, he sensed. Never with her.

Ginger had barely pulled in the drive when the rain started. It was just a spatter when she stepped out, but the sky cracked with a streak of lightning by the time she reached the porch.

Thunder growled. Clouds started swirling as if a child had finger-painted the whole sky with grays. Pretty, but ominous. Inside, she called, “Gramps? I’m home!” The dark had infiltrated the downstairs with gloom, somehow accenting the dust and neglect that seemed everywhere. Still, she heard voices—and laughter—coming from the kitchen.

At the kitchen doorway, she folded her arms, having to smile at the two cronies at the kitchen table. The game looked to be cutthroat canasta. Money was on the table. Cards all over the place. From the time she’d left that morning, a set of dirty china seemed to have accumulated on the sink counter, but the two old codgers were having a blast.

She bent down to kiss her grandfather. Got a huge hug back. And for now, his eyes were lucid and dancing-clear. “You’ve been gone all day, you little hussy. Hope you spent a lot of money shopping and had a great old time.”

“I did.” The two rounds of fainting and encounters with Ike were locked up in her mind’s closet. Her grandfather recognized her. Had a happy, loving smile for her. “Cornelius, you’re getting a hug from me, too, so don’t try running.”

Cornelius pretended he was trying to duck under the table, but that was all tease. He took his hug like a man. Cornelius was smaller than she was, and possibly had some Asian and black and maybe Native American blood. For certain no one else looked quite like him. Ginger had never known whether her family had adopted him or the other way around, but he and Gramps were of an age. Neither could manage to put a glass in the dishwasher. Neither obeyed an order from anyone. And both of them could while away a dark afternoon playing cards and having a great time.

“All right, you two. I’m going upstairs for a short nap.”

“Go. Go.” She was promptly shooed away, as Cornelius chortled over some card played and both men issued raucous, enthusiastically gruesome death threats to each other.

Apparently the morning had been tough on her system, because once her head hit the pillow upstairs, she crashed harder than a whipped puppy. She woke up to a washed-clean world and the hour was past four. After a fast shower, she flew downstairs to find her boys on the front veranda now, rocking and sipping sweet tea and arguing about a ball game.

When Cornelius saw her, he pushed out of the rocker. “We was thinking you might not wake up until tomorrow, you were looking so tired.”

“I was a little tired, but I’m feeling great now.”

Cornelius nodded. “I’m headed to the kitchen. Got some supper cooking. Can’t remember what all I started right now, but should be ready in an hour or so.”

“That’d be great, you.” She planned to head into the kitchen and help him—but not yet. Her gramps’s eyes were still clear, still bright. She pulled a rocker closer to him, sat down.

“Gramps. All these years, you had Amos Hawthorne managing the land, running the farm. But no one’s mentioned him, and I haven’t seen him around.”

“That’s because he’s not here anymore. I had to fire him. I don’t remember exactly when it happened. But he stopped doing what I told him. He badgered and badgered me, until I said I’d had enough. Let him go.”

Ginger gulped. “So … who’s handling the tea now? The shop? The grounds?”

“Well, I am, honey child. Me and Cornelius. We closed the shop after …” He frowned. “I don’t know exactly when. A little while ago.”