Donna Clayton - Who Will Father My Baby?

“Because you’re—”

Perfect, she’d nearly said. But she stopped herself, knowing now how much he had detested the description when it had been used years ago.

“—right.” She left it at that. She whispered, “You’re also my last chance.”

“Oh, now…” He shoved his way out of the chair and paced to the counter, where he turned and stared at her. “Don’t do that. Don’t use guilt. That’s not right. Or fair. I haven’t seen you in—”

“I know. I know.” She lifted her hand, palm out, hoping to appease him. Putting him on the defensive would do nothing to help her cause. “I was wrong to say that. I’m sorry.”

His arms crossed protectively over his chest, his shoulders seemed to tighten, his whole body seemed to shrink from her. From the whole idea she was asking him to consider.

“This is crazy. Total lunacy.”

She didn’t know if he was speaking the words to her or to himself, so softly were they uttered.

“Dane, I’m thirty-eight,” she explained. “Time is running out for me. My biological clock is ticking away. I’m surprised you can’t hear it from where you’re standing. Lord knows, I can hear it. Every moment of every day. My chances of having a healthy baby are dwindling with each month that passes.”

She could practically see the thoughts spinning in his mind.

Suddenly he blurted, “You’re a beautiful woman. Obviously successful. Why aren’t you married?” His gaze narrowed suddenly. “You do like men, don’t you? I mean, you prefer them?”

Lacy nearly laughed at his insinuation. But she didn’t dare. She was certain he found nothing even remotely funny about this situation. Come to think of it, neither did she.

“Yes, Dane,” she answered him quietly. “I like men. I prefer them.”

“So—” his hands flew up in the air and his tone rose “—why aren’t you married? Why aren’t you going about this in the regular, normal manner?”

She sighed. Hadn’t she been asked this same question over and over?

“I was married,” she quietly admitted. “It didn’t work out. Richard and I…”

She let the sentence trail. Dane wasn’t interested in what had happened between her and her husband. He was only interested in an answer to his question.

“I’d have loved to go about this in the conventional way.” She paused, the wistfulness in her tone startling her. However, she was too intent on explaining her circumstance to dwell on what it might mean.

She continued, “But that just didn’t happen for me.” As an aside, she softly offered, “To tell you the honest truth, I think my success has a lot to do with the way I’ve been forced to go about this.”

Before she could say more, he blurted, “Lacy, you don’t even know me. Nearly twenty years have gone by since we went to college together. Twenty years! How do you know I haven’t turned out to be a bad person? Why, for all you know, I could be a violent drunk. A brute. A derelict. Or a—”

“But you’re not,” she cut him off. “Are you? You’re none of those things. You’re an honest, hardworking man. When we were acquainted in college, I knew you were intelligent, you were talented, you were energetic. A high achiever. I felt, then, that you could have reached the moon, if that’s what you decided you wanted to do.” Stubbornly, she tipped up her chin. “And just as leopards don’t change their spots, a man’s DNA doesn’t change, either.”

Her bravado had returned. The realization made her nearly giddy with joy and relief. That odd bout of shyness may have hindered her for a while, may have made raising the issue a little more difficult, but now that the topic was out in the open her fighting instincts had better rise to the surface or she was going to come away from this empty-handed.

Empty-handed. Glancing down at her bare and vacant arms, she was deluged with desperation at the thought of never holding a sweet baby. But she pushed the anxiety aside. Now wasn’t the time for hopelessness. Now was the time for ultimate persuasion.

“Those great traits I knew you had—” she looked him directly in the eyes “—the traits I know you still have…I want them. For my child.”

She refused to act apologetic about what she would like for her son or daughter. Who didn’t want a child who was creative and smart and talented and ambitious? Surely he would understand her feelings.

“But, but…” Obviously agitated, he turned away from her, raking his fingers through his hair. Then he faced her again, total incomprehension plain in his eyes. “How can you ask this of a total stranger?”

She sat for a moment, wanting—no, willing—the quiet, the stillness, to become noticeable. She must make him understand her feelings. The importance of this had to be made undeniably clear.

The seconds ticked by, but she didn’t take her gaze from his. Finally, she unashamedly admitted, “Because I’m that desperate.”

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