Margot Early - Talking About My Baby

Cold, he zipped his parka higher. As the rocks clinked beneath his feet, the first snowflake wet his cheek. Then another.

He was thinking of her body. She was leggy and narrow-hipped, with pretty breasts—A burn on her breast? He shut his eyes, wondering.

She’d offered to marry him, offered to keep house, offered him money! How much money did she think he was worth, seeing that she was willing to buy a spouse?

Undoubtedly, she’d give her body, too, in order to adopt that child. But he wanted her to want him—more than desire. Much more.

He reached the peak, and a dusting of snow covered the top. Isaac tried to see the distant mountaintops and couldn’t. He waited in the wind.

He’d hurt her tonight.

And she’d hurt him.

But it was less painful than hurting his own flesh and blood.

“HOW DID ISAAC like the pumpkin bread?”

Tara knew her mother didn’t mean to be cruel, but she was fragile right now, still feeling the sting of rejection. “Fine. I’ve got to nurse Laura. Excuse me.”

Francesca trailed after her to the kitchen. “You know, he might think you’re throwing yourself at him, Tara.”

Great. Tara didn’t answer. Wordlessly, keeping her thoughts focused elsewhere—away from Isaac and her recent humiliation—Tara began the process of making fenugreek tea, getting ready to nurse. Turning suddenly, she held one hand at knee level and snapped, “You make me feel about this high, Mom.”

Francesca winced. It was the last thing she’d meant to do. “Tara, I didn’t mean to imply that you were throwing yourself at him. I’m just saying that Dr. McCrea is a little standoffish. Not everyone likes to be hugged.”

“I didn’t hug him.”

Laura began to cry. “It’s all right, sweetie,” Tara murmured. “Oh, I love you.”

Regarding the two of them, Francesca frowned. Had Isaac discouraged her? Was there nothing to worry about from him? “Have you looked up any of your old friends in Precipice? Tim?” Tim with his waistlength blond dreadlocks? “Scooter?” Who was thirty-two and still rode a skateboard. “Jack?” Whose claim to fame was having made the “Bartenders of Precipice” calendar.

“No, haven’t had time, Mother.”

But time for two rounds of baking for Isaac McCrea. Well, he was several grades above Danny Graine as husband material, several grades above anyone Tara had set her sights on before—at least, from what Francesca knew about him, which was scant. Unfortunately, Francesca couldn’t see the reserved Dr. McCrea appreciating her lively, sensual daughter.

I’m imagining all this. He’s not Tara’s type.

The way to a man’s heart?

Francesca went to the stove and hugged Tara and kissed both her and the sweet new baby. “I wasn’t putting you down, Tara.”

“Not intentionally, I’m sure.”

What had she said? Francesca reviewed her words and saw what she’d implied, that Tara chased men.

“I just want to keep you from being hurt.”

Tara cast her a sharp look. “Why don’t you start by not hurting me yourself?”

WITH LAURA AGAINST her shoulder, Tara crept out of the house just after six the next morning. It was snowing, and she hurried to the Safari station wagon and prayed it would start.

It took five tries and assorted prayers.

Now, to stay on the road.

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