Anne Haven - Her Baby's Father

“Thank you.”

“Do you live here alone?”

“Yes.” Did she care? Did he want her to care?

Ross glanced at her profile and felt the same pull of attraction he had as a college kid. This was the woman who, as a teenager, had felt sympathy for a rain-drenched flower seller. Who’d read Arthur Koestler and Noam Chomsky and had intelligent things to say about them. Who’d been willing to help out his aunt Lenora, a total stranger, when she’d broken her ankle.

And the last time he’d seen Jennifer they’d kissed. Kissed each other while she was still dating his brother.

He tried to push away the thought and the accompanying twinge of conscience. Drew didn’t deserve his loyalty anymore—not after what had happened with Lucy and not if he’d slept with Jennifer during the past year. But the guilt still lingered.

“No family of your own?” she asked.

“No family of my own.” He’d tried that route and it hadn’t worked out.

“Drew said you’re an E.R. doctor. Northwest?” The hospital.

He nodded.

Another moment passed. She stared out the window again, as if absorbed by the view of the city, then said, “I need to get in touch with him.”

Ross thought that sounded like a singularly bad idea. “Does he know about the baby?”

“If he knew, I wouldn’t be having so much trouble reaching him.”

An opinion Ross didn’t share. “He never told me he’d seen you again. I guess he didn’t give you his phone number.” When the two of you got together. When you conceived this child.

Her eyelashes flickered. “He gave me a phone number. It just wasn’t his.”

Nice. In that case he should have had the guts to give no phone number at all. But not Drew. He wanted to look good even when he was being a jerk.

Ross considered her belly, judging her to be about six months along. He remembered a business trip Drew had taken to San Francisco last December. The timing worked. And the timing made Drew’s actions unconscionable.

Ross felt a strong desire to strangle his brother.

“I couldn’t find him in the phone book,” she said. “But he does live in Portland…?”

“More or less.” Drew lived across the Columbia River in Vancouver, Washington. Which amounted to the same thing if you were driving all the way here from San Francisco. But even if she’d thought to check for Drew there, she wouldn’t have found a number. His brother preferred not to be listed, claiming he didn’t want his law clients calling him at home in hysterics.

To come all the way here without confirmation Drew lived in the area, Ross thought, had been a gamble. But maybe Jennifer was more desperate than she wanted to admit.

He observed her car more closely. Flakes of rust had gathered around the wheel wells. The rear door on the passenger side had a dent in it. Under its heavy load the car sagged onto its aging shocks. A car that belonged to someone who couldn’t afford much maintenance, it fit with the bleach-stained shirt and the cheap shoes.

The accumulating evidence of her financial difficulties surprised him, though. When he’d known her, Jennifer had been bright and motivated. He’d expected her to do better. Much better.

“You drove here from California?”

She nodded.

“And you plan to stay for a while.”

“Yes.”

“Your mother—where is she?” Surely her mother would be able to help her at a time like this.

“She died last November.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” He’d met the woman once, briefly, on the street outside his parents’ house when she’d come by to pick Jennifer up. She’d seemed nice, if a bit tired. He remembered she’d worn a hairnet and some kind of uniform.

“Breast cancer,” Jennifer volunteered.

“How long was she sick?”

“Seven years, on and off.”

He knew what this meant. Knew the financial, physical and emotional toll an extended illness took, though he only witnessed the crisis points in the E.R. Jennifer’s circumstances made more sense now.

“That must have been rough,” he said.

She shrugged, and despite her attempt at nonchalance he saw that it had been excruciating.

“And now this.” Her pregnancy. Her child by a man who would never acknowledge his paternity.

“Now this,” she echoed.

He watched her. “When’s the baby due?”

“September fourteenth.”

She had less than three months to go. Not an easy time to travel. Not an easy time to pack your life into your run-down station wagon and move to a different state.

“Why now?” he asked. Why hadn’t she contacted him sooner—as soon as she’d realized she was pregnant and couldn’t reach Drew?

She understood his meaning. “I had my reasons,” she said. “I needed time. I needed to come to terms with my situation.”

Ross didn’t press for a detailed explanation since she obviously didn’t care to share more. Perhaps she’d considered an abortion but hadn’t been able to go through with it. Perhaps she’d known about Lucy, though he wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t. Perhaps she’d wanted to raise the child on her own, without Drew’s involvement, and had finally had to accept that she couldn’t swing it financially.

And she clearly couldn’t. She clearly needed assistance.

Understandable. He knew how hard it was to be a single mother with no child support, especially if you already had to deal with the expenses associated with a long-term illness. At the free clinic where he volunteered each week he saw plenty of mothers who were forced to live on the edge of poverty—and not because they were stupid or lazy, but because keeping a single-parent household going was damn hard if you hadn’t started out wealthy and weren’t among the top twenty percent of income earners.

Ross didn’t want to think about Jennifer living below the poverty level, especially with a new baby. And he could prevent it from happening. He could also prevent anyone else from getting hurt by this.

Not that he was concerned about Drew. Had Drew been the only one affected, Ross might have just jotted down his brother’s information and sent her on her way. But that wasn’t the case.

Ross walked closer to the window. Studied the front yard. The leaves of the climbing rose were getting specks on them, he saw, and made a mental note to bring it to his gardener’s attention.

He crossed his arms, unable to make himself turn around and look her in the eyes. “How much do you need?”

“Excuse me?”

He knew the question was an ugly one, but he asked it again. “How much do you need, Jennifer? To raise your baby. And to do it somewhere far away from here.”

JENNIFER STARED at Ross’s broad, intimidating back. He’d told her where she stood—firmly outside the circle of people for whom he cared, people he considered his own. Just as her father had when she was thirteen. Now, as then, she was nothing more than a problem—a problem to be solved by throwing money at it.

Jennifer raised her glass to her lips and felt herself shaking. She finished the water, then walked out of the room with all the composure she could muster, which wasn’t much. She couldn’t be around him, couldn’t handle it, despite the weeks she’d had to prepare herself.

Stumbling blindly down the hallway, knowing it was rude, she tried to numb herself from caring. From feeling anything.

At the far end of the hall she pushed through a half-open door into an airy kitchen overlooking the backyard. The counters were indigo tile, the sink white porcelain below a six-paned window. A work island took up the center of the kitchen and a separate breakfast bar divided the cooking area from the dining room.

She focused on her hands as she rinsed her glass and put it in the dishwasher. Pretending she was calm. Under control, the way she’d wanted to be. But her eyes stung with tears and her throat felt tight.