Kasey Michaels - Jessie's Expecting

She eyed the refrigerator, knowing she had plenty of healthy salad-makings in the bottom crisper drawer. Then her eyes slid to her left, to the smaller freezer door of the side-by-side appliance, knowing that she had a half gallon of double-Dutch chocolate ice cream nestled inside. Calling to her. Singing to her.

“It’s a milk product, right?” she reasoned with herself as she headed for the wall of white-painted wooden cabinets and retrieved her favorite bowl from childhood—the one with Pebbles Flintstone on it. “It’s just in a more…more convenient form, that’s all.”

In the end she left Pebbles on the counter and picked out a nicely pointed tablespoon, snagged the cardboard ice cream container and returned to the porch. After all, there was no one else around to see her, to want her to share with them. Not that she would, she decided, holding the rounded container close against her as she sat down on the low brick wall surrounding the porch and watched the steady parade of families making their way down the sidewalk on their way to the beach.

Suddenly she was crying again. That was just about all she did these days. Cry. Or think about crying. Or go mop up after crying. If this was what hormones could do to a person, Jessica was definitely in favor of banning them.

Still, it was nice to sit here and look out at the people passing by. The happy people passing by.

She could remember holding Maddy’s chubby little hand as they followed their big brother, Ryan, down that same sidewalk, Allie and their beloved Grandpop bringing up the rear, loaded down with beach umbrella, blankets, sand chairs and three sets of sand toys. Even when their parents had still been alive, it had been Allie and Grandpop who’d taken them to the shore, taught them to jump the waves, helped them build sand castles on the beach.

Carefree days. Happy summers. Their fun-loving, jet-setting parents were gone, lost in a plane crash, but as they’d never been around very much, the Chandler children had adjusted well, as if anyone could resist the loving arms of Allie and Grandpop for more than a moment.

Now Grandpop was gone, and Allie was, thanks to the miracles of modern cosmetic surgery, looking younger every year. Maddy was married and happy. Ryan was running the family business and showing all the signs of becoming a stodgy, rather than happy, bachelor.

And Jessica? Ah, she thought, placing her hand over her flat stomach.

Oh, yes. Can’t forget Jessica.

Because Jessica, heading for thirty, a hormonal mess with a queasy stomach and her mind filled with notions that had nothing to do with her usual sane approach to life, was about to become a single mother.

She took another bite of ice cream, let it melt on her tongue. Thought about the day she would tell them, tell them all, that she was about to become a mommy.

She smiled sadly. That’ll teach them to lull themselves into believing this particular middle child wasn’t capable of upsetting an applecart or two….

Matt drove over the Ninth Street Bridge and onto the island that was Ocean City, still rehearsing his lines, rearranging them in his head, mentally striking out whole paragraphs and inserting new ones.

Abraham Lincoln had said more in the short Gettysburg Address than Matt had been able to condense into a near novella of explanations, excuses, sorry reasons and apologies—none of which Jessica would probably give him time to recite, anyway.

And, with all he had to say, all he had to atone for, be forgiven for, he could not say the one thing that would get Jessica’s full attention.

He had left Ryan’s office the previous afternoon and made a beeline straight for the Chandler mansion, dedicating himself to hunting down Almira Chandler and convincing her that telling him everything she knew would be a good thing; that telling it all to him, without prompting, would be an even better thing.

He’d found her on the tennis court, returning serves from an automatic-serving machine being manned by none other than the perpetually black-clad Mrs. Ballantine, the Chandler housekeeper.

Or, as Maddy had more than once referred to the two women: the Good Witch and Morticia, both with Pinocchio noses—noses that were forever poking into everyone else’s business.

The two women, Matt knew, made a big to-do over goodnaturedly detesting each other, but he also knew that the pair thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company. Even if their friendship was pretty much based on a mutual desire to rule the world—or at least as much of it as they could reach.

That was why he had come, after Ryan had let slip that Almira had told him to tell Matt where Jessica had gone off to a week ago. That one statement had been enough to warn Matt that there was more to Jessica’s disappearance than a desire to get away by herself for a while.

When Matt combined that one statement with the knowledge that Jessica was about as conscientious as a person could get, and would never stay hidden at home for weeks on end, or go on vacation while the end of the fiscal year passed over Chandler Enterprises—well, it didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out that something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

Not that he didn’t already know most of it, considering he had caused it in the first place.

Falling in love with a woman who, like his own sister, had already married herself to her career, when he wanted nothing more than a wife and family, had been his first mistake.

Becoming engaged to Maddy because they seemed to have shared goals, similar desires for what they wanted out of life had been the second mistake, thinking that being a part of the warm, welcoming, loving Chandler family might be enough.

But not telling Jessica that he had felt relieved rather than crushed when Maddy had broken their engagement…allowing Jessica to comfort him…taking that comforting to a much higher level…well, that mistake could probably win him second prize in the Screwup of the Year awards.

Apologizing the next morning for having made love to her—that had to have netted him first prize, with oak-leaf cluster.

The funny thing was—that was funny strange, not funny ha-ha, he reminded himself, was that the moment Almira had seen him coming she’d motioned for Mrs. Ballantine to shut off the serving machine and headed straight for him, looking more than eager to talk.

“Darling Matt, it’s been too long,” she’d said, allowing him to kiss her cheek. The woman was a marvel. Seventy if she was a day, and looking fifty. Acting thirty. Being the best grandmother any three kids could have hoped for: hip, a real friend, and yet still very definitely the person in charge, the person who taught them both love and respect. And not looking at all ridiculous while doing any of it.

“I’m sorry I haven’t visited sooner, Allie,” he’d answered, offering her his arm as they walked back to the house. “It was probably that No Trespassing sign Jessica put up on the front lawn that kept me away.”

“And you should be ashamed of yourself for listening to her,” Almira countered, giving his forearm a squeeze as she leaned against him. “But, obedient as you are, you have your limits. That’s nice to know, not that I didn’t know all along. I have great faith in you, Matt. So, did Ryan tell you where she is? And then let slip that I told him to tell you?”

Matt smiled, shook his head. “I’ll assume those were rhetorical questions. I am here, Allie, aren’t I?”

“It was that obvious?” Almira frowned, carefully, so that she didn’t crease her smooth forehead. “I must be slipping. Either that, or Ryan considers himself to be one step ahead of me. I’ll have to teach him differently. But we’ll leave that for another time. For now, I’m supposing you want to know what I know.”