You're My Baby. Laura Abbot

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      “How about the house tour? We’ll have to figure out where to put your stuff and where you’ll…sleep.” Leading the way toward the house, he cursed under his breath. The word “sleep” echoed and reechoed with each step he took. And the visuals were equally disturbing.

      Pam stopped at the kitchen stoop. “That’s a problem, isn’t it?” She furrowed her brow. “Unless you plan to tell Andy about our little charade.”

      He groaned. “No, that can’t happen. Everybody, and I mean everybody, has to believe we’re for real, especially for you and the baby.”

      “Then we’ll simply have to work something out.”

      He held open the back door and she stepped into the small kitchen and stood, speechless, studying the aqua sink and countertop, the cocoa-brown appliances, the wallpaper sporting aqua and brown steaming coffee cups on a yellow background. With a sinking feeling, he saw it from her fresh viewpoint. “Uh, I haven’t gotten around to doing much with the kitchen.”

      She tried a smile. “Vintage 70s decor. All we need is the Brady Bunch.”

      “Maybe, um, we could redecorate.”

      “Don’t be silly, it’s only for a year.”

      “Oh, yeah.” Why hadn’t he realized how dated and ugly his kitchen was? He hastened to put distance between him and the Martha Stewart disaster. “Down this hallway on the left is the dining and living room combination.” He stopped and made a vague gesture. “The master bedroom, bath and den are on the right. What first?”

      “And up there?” She gestured at the staircase.

      “Two bedrooms and a bath.”

      “Where does Andy sleep?”

      “Upstairs.”

      “I guess, then, you’d better show me the master bedroom.”

      He stood aside and let her precede him. The plaid bedspread was drawn barracks-tight over the king-size mattress. His dresser top was bare except for a pewter dish for pocket change, a small portable television set and a basketball trophy. The bedside table sported a lamp, an alarm clock and the biography he was reading. The bare wood floor suddenly looked utilitarian. When, after a few moments, she hadn’t said anything, he couldn’t stand it. “Well?”

      She screwed up her face as if searching for the word. “Spartan. Masculine.”

      “Is that bad?”

      She shrugged, then smiled. “C’mon, you’ve seen my place. The kindest thing that can be said of my taste is organized chaos.”

      “But you can bring your things.” He looked around helplessly. “Do whatever you like.”

      “Plants?”

      He nodded.

      “Wall hangings?”

      “Sure.”

      “A big, old braided rug?”

      “Why not?”

      “A nest for Viola and Sebastian in the corner?”

      “In here?”

      “My kitties always sleep with me.”

      That stopped him. The darned felines were going to be better off than he was. “Uh, where did you have in mind for us to sleep?”

      “Show me the den.”

      He led her through the bathroom to the small room crowded by his desk, bookcase and a beat-up daybed. He noticed her studying the bed. “I suppose I could sleep in here,” she said, eyeing the sagging mattress dubiously.

      “I thought I would.”

      “Grant, look at it. You’re a foot taller than that thing is long. If anyone’s going to sleep in here, it’ll be me.”

      “Okay, we’ll try it that way, but I don’t want you and Barney to be uncomfortable.”

      “Barney?”

      He reddened. “You know. The baby.”

      She shook her head, seemingly bemused. “Or Barnette, don’t forget.” She started back through the bathroom, then stopped. “Are you sure you’re ready to share a bathroom with a woman again?”

      He had a sudden disturbing image of wet hosiery, like slimy tentacles, draped all over the towel rack and shower curtain rod. He gulped. “I’m sure.”

      By the time they reached the living room, which she proclaimed “austere,” he was worn-out.

      “I don’t want to intrude into your lifestyle, but—”

      “Nonsense,” he said. “This will be your home, too. I want you to be comfortable.”

      She sank down into the brown tweed sofa he’d bought at a going-out-of-business sale. It had been cheap and matched his cushy, man-size rust recliner.

      She eyed the mantel. “Do you think we could get a shelf for those?” Move his team pictures and state championship trophies? He enjoyed looking at them while he watched TV. “Sure, if that’s what you’d like.”

      Her eyes, like some malevolent detecting device, raked the room. “And maybe we could move your chair and turn the sofa this other way, so my chair would fit.”

      “I guess.” What was it with women? Did they come wired with the rearranging-furniture gene? Just as he acknowledged his irritation, she relaxed against the sofa, spreading her arms in a gesture of contentment. “It’s going to be fine, Grant, really fine.”

      He sought the comfort of his recliner before answering. “I hope so. But it may require more patience than we imagined.”

      She eyed him thoughtfully. “Having second thoughts? It’s not too late.”

      Second thoughts? Not about her. She looked just right sitting in his living room, even if she was discussing upsetting his ordered existence. “No. I want to marry you, Pam.” Then, grinning, he added, “And that’s my final answer.”

      She pulled her knees up to her chest and propped her chin on them, a peaceful expression on her face. “Good,” she said softly.

      They sat in silence for several minutes, and he thought how pleasant it was to have this kind of quiet companionship. Finally she spoke up. “If we’re going to hit the county clerk’s office before our eleven-o’clock upper-school meeting, I think you’d better take me home soon.”

      “I will, but first…” Curiosity had been eating at him for several days, waiting to be satisfied. “Could you tell me about the man? The father?” Needing to risk the rest, he blurted out the difficult question, “Do you love him?”

      CHAPTER FOUR

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