Author: Robyn Carr

“How about sparkling cider?” Cameron asked, glancing down at her feet. Her slacks rose up just enough for him to see her ankles.

“That would be great, thanks. And water?”

He got both for her and then sat in the chair beside hers. “Just a little heartburn?”

“Oh, you know…”

“Backache, edema, heartburn… What else?”

She took a sip of her cider. “Something they call ligament pains that feel remarkably like a wide-awake cesarean section.”

He winced.

“I pee on the half hour.”

He laughed.

“You think it’s funny? A few more years, when your prostate is a bit larger, you won’t think it’s all that funny.”

“I hope it’s more than just a few more years, Ab,” he said. But he smiled. He touched her hand, gave it a little squeeze. Then he stood and went to the stove. He gave the pasta a swirl, the sauce a stir, then grabbed a leafy salad from the refrigerator and put it on the table along with a small bowl of dressing. “How’d you like to toss that for me?”

“Sure,” she said, digging a pair of large spoons into the salad. “So. What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Well, for starters, how about names? For the kids?”

“You want to be involved in names?” she asked, surprised.

“Sure. If I were having the babies, wouldn’t you want input in that? Or—if I were having them, would you drop out of sight? Pretend you didn’t know?”

Shock settled over her features. Jesus, did that ever cut deep. Would she? Would she shake it off, run for her life, refuse to be involved, just let him deal with it? Oh God, of course not! She swallowed. But isn’t that just what she’d hoped he would do? Go away and leave her alone. “Um, have you thought of any?”

“My grandmothers are Alice and Eleanor. They’re awesome and those are cool names….”

“Alice and Eleanor?” she said, making a face.

“Ally and Elly, that’s what they go by. Wait till you meet them—you’ll love them.”

“But we don’t know if we’re getting a girl! We only know about—” She stopped talking.

He glanced at her over his shoulder as he lifted the steaming pot off the stove and tossed the cooked pasta into the colander in the sink. He glanced over his shoulder again and grinned at her. She realized what she’d done—she’d coupled them in parenthood.

“I hope we get a boy and a girl, but I’m good with two boys. I love all those little-guy things—T-ball, soccer, catching bugs.”

“I played T-ball,” she said softly. “And soccer. And I used to go to the lake with my family and catch a jarful of fireflies to put on the nightstand for when I went to bed.” She swallowed. “If I’d known I was killing them, I would never have done it.”

“See, you’ll be good with either boys or girls. We’re all set—but they don’t have names.” He picked up her plate and put some pasta and sauce on it for her. He included a couple of meatballs and a sausage and put it in front of her. “Don’t eat anything you think will give you heartburn.” Then he served himself and sat down with her. “Try it, Ab. See how I cook. It’s an old family recipe.”

She took a tentative taste, rolled the food around in her mouth and tilted her head with lifted eyebrows. “Mmm.”

“I wasn’t smart enough to leave out the sausage—but I didn’t make it as garlicky and spicy as usual. I toned it down for you.”

“Normally I like spicy. But it’s out to get me lately. So,” she said, lifting some salad into his bowl, then hers. “What else is on your mind?”

He chuckled. “In a hurry to get this over with?”

“No,” she said, surprised and maybe a little embarrassed. “I’m just— I mean, we talk all the time and this sounded kind of serious.”

He stabbed some lettuce and brought it to his mouth, chewed, swallowed. “We have a few minutes on the phone, see each other at Jack’s for a couple of minutes here and there, and there’s no yelling or shooting—which is a big improvement—but we don’t get down to business. Abby, we’re having two babies in a couple of months, three months at the outside. Nah,” he said, shaking his head. “We’ll never make it three months. Do you have any of the details worked out?”

“Well,” she said. “Sure. Some.”

He leaned toward her and smiled pleasantly. “Care to share?”

“What would you like to know?”

“Well, there’s nothing to suggest we have a high-risk pregnancy, but it’s pretty common for the mothers of twins to go on bed rest for a while to delay labor while they grow and get stronger. And when babies come, it’s often early and fast. And taking care of them as newborns is pretty demanding. Also, you have a financial situation that’s giving you some stress. And—”

“Okay, okay,” she said. “Sheesh. I’m not too worried about bed rest, I’m in good health and I have Vanni and Mel. John Stone is watching real close for early and fast. My mom will come as soon as they arrive and—”

“So will mine,” he said, and she actually grabbed her belly.

“What?”

“Oh yeah. We can hold her off for a week, maybe, but these are her grandchildren and she’s never missed a grandchild’s debut.”

“Have you told her?” she asked, aghast.

“Not yet,” he said, twirling a little spaghetti around his fork. “But I have to do that. It’s going to be hard enough to explain not telling her sooner and making sure she had a chance to meet you. They’re not just our children, Ab. They have grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins…et cetera…on my side of this family as well as yours.”

“Oh God,” she said, dropping her fork. “I don’t feel so good.”

He just laughed lightly. “Relax. Nothing to worry about. They’re fantastic people and you’ll be real happy to have them in your life, I guarantee it.”

“But won’t they think… I mean, we’re not married and—”

He shrugged, got up and fetched himself a beer from the old refrigerator, using the underside of his heavy class ring to pop the top. “I’m sure they’ve heard of things like this before. A man and woman, not married, having children. But telling my family is just one item on this list. Abby, the list is long. We have so many things to work through before you go into labor. And not all that much time to do it.”

She rested her forehead in her hand, her elbow on the table. “Hit me with another one. What else do we have to work out?”

“Do you have cribs? Clothes? Gear—car seats, diaper bags, et cetera?”

“I should make a run to the mall,” she said absently. “You’re right. I have to get moving on this. But, I talked to my mom about all this stuff and we decided, since I didn’t want anyone to know I’m pregnant, we’re not saying anything to friends and family. Then when they come, after they’ve gotten a couple of months old, we’ll send announcements. I’m even thinking of fudging the birthday. I hate to do that, but… So, no showers or early gifts or any of that. I’ll take care of the newborn items. It’s the only way—”

“Where are you on that debt from your ex you’re working through?”

“Close,” she said, sitting straighter and smiling, very proud of herself. “Very close. I’ve put almost all the money he sent me toward the credit-card bills, just using a tiny smidgen of that money for incidentals. I have just six thousand left to pay.” She beamed. She tasted a little more spaghetti, a little more salad. “I wouldn’t have used any of his money, or any of the money my folks insisted on sending, but I’m tapped out and had to. I had to have maternity clothes—Lord, did I need maternity clothes! Do you see this? I’m growing out of Vanni’s largest hand-me-downs!”

Cameron’s expression darkened. He shook his head, took a swig of his beer and muttered, “He has millions! What a nasty thing to do to an innocent woman! I hope that son of a bitch burns in hell.”

“Cameron! What a thing to say!” Then she smiled. “And I couldn’t have said it better.”

“Okay, let’s start with that, then we’ll get to our mothers. I’d like you to stop endorsing his checks and I’ll clear that debt. Then—”

She was shaking her head. “No, I’ve got it all worked out. It won’t be much longer—just another month or two and then—”

“Abby, I talked to Brie Valenzuela. She said to tell you to drop in and see her anytime. I’d be happy to go with you. Here’s the way she sees it. He probably just stuck you with those bills on his lawyer’s advice. In any case, the debt was a part of the dissolution of the marriage, which means it’s court-ordered and you’re stuck with it. But if he wants to chase down that prenup and try to prove you had sex with someone before the divorce was final, he’ll have to take you to a civil court to sue you. It’s not a felony, it couldn’t make criminal court—no one would prosecute you for it. It would cost him more to sue you than he’d get if he won. And if he does take you back to court, he’s going to look like the devil himself—he walks out on you after six weeks of marriage, never pays a penny of support for nine months of separation while he openly lives with another woman, and he wants over forty thousand dollars in credit-card debt on cards you never had and never used? When he’s a millionaire? Never going to happen. He could make his situation worse.”

“That’s not what my lawyer said,” she inserted.

“Which is why I talked to another one. Brie’s a very experienced former state prosecutor and has been through a divorce of her own.”

Abby groaned. “And so there’s another person in town who knows.”

“Take it easy. It’s all lawyer-client privilege. Confidential. While she didn’t deal with divorce in her practice, she knows everyone in the state and made some phone calls. As long as you clear the debt and don’t take his money like some gold digger, that’s going to be the end of it. You’ll walk away from it. Unless he hates you for some purely personal…”

His voice trailed off at the unexpected sound of her laughter. “Personal hatred? I don’t think he remembers my name. Cameron, he’s on woman number ninety-two at least. He’s been married three times and he’s probably not smart enough to stop. Plus, I’m relatively sure he’s using drugs, drinking himself stupid…” She wound some spaghetti around her fork and put it in her mouth. “This is very good,” she said. “Does Brie really think if I obey my court instructions, I could get beyond this?”

“She does. And she’s willing to help if there’s a problem. Remember, he’s a rock star on tour. How much energy do you think he has?”

“What about his lawyers?”

“Well, that’s an issue. They could recommend more motions—if they want to make more money for themselves. Brie recommended a polite, legal letter bringing this whole business to a close. Let him get screwed by his lawyers and not by you.”

“Hmm. That actually sounds very sensible. What else is on your mind?”

“Then,” he said, leaning back a little, “after the debt is gone and you’re finished with that business, or so we hope, I’ll support you.”

“Oh no, I don’t want that….”

“Okay, I’ll carry the babies and you support me,” he suggested, winding his own spaghetti around his fork and grinning.