Baby on Board. Lisa Ruff

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СКАЧАТЬ from the worktable. The loose mandrels clanked together as she gathered them up and put them in a cabinet drawer beneath the board. Carefully, she poured the two dishes of glass frit back into their jars and put them in a rack at the end of the table. She picked up the paintbrush she had dropped earlier and put it in a jar of cleaning fluid. With a rag, she wiped the smear of paint off the table. Patrick watched her closely, but she refused to meet his gaze.

      “So you’re meeting one of my replacements.”

      Kate spun to look at him, wide-eyed. “Who told—” She stopped abruptly when she saw his face. He had been guessing, but her reaction had confirmed it.

      “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Damn it, Kate. I can’t believe this.”

      Keeping her flushed face averted, she put away the glass rod he had fidgeted with and screwed the lid on the jar of paint. She swished the brush in the cleaner and dried it with a rag.

      “Don’t believe it, then, but there’s nothing else to say. I’ve made my decision.”

      “This is crazy.” He stalked to the door and wrenched it open. “This is not over. Not by a long shot.” He strode out of the workshop, slamming the door behind him.

      Kate jumped at the sound, then plunked herself down on the stool with a sigh. The baby moved restlessly inside her. Soothingly, she stroked the small bulge.

      “It’s okay, sweetheart. Mama did the right thing.” Kate let out a hiccupping sigh as tears ran down her cheeks. “It’s over now. It’s all over now.”

      Chapter Two

      Patrick skidded his truck into a parking space at the marina, jammed it into neutral and turned off the engine. The gravel lot was nearly empty. Most of the vehicles belonged to marina employees. Their cars were easily distinguished from the boat owners’ by age, abuse and layers of dirt. Like Patrick’s Dodge: once white, it was now a dull, mottled tan and sported a V-shaped dent in the roof where a mast had accidentally landed on it.

      He sat in the pickup, staring out the windshield, hands braced on the steering wheel for a long, silent minute. Then, in a burst of movement, he shouldered his door open, got out and slammed it closed as hard as he could. The truck rocked on its suspension from the force of his fury. Out of the air-conditioned cab, the hot July breeze from the Chesapeake Bay wrapped around him like a wet towel. At the back of the truck, Patrick reached over the tailgate and grabbed his bag of sailing gear.

      She can’t deny me my own child!

      The thought had him dropping the bag and curling his fingers over the warm metal tailgate. She has no right. But what could he do about it? With a growl of pure rage, Patrick balled his hand into a fist and slammed it into the tailgate. The blow dented the panel just above the O and shot searing pain from his knuckles up his arm.

      “Damn her to hell!”

      He spun away from the truck, tucking his hand into his armpit. The action did nothing to soothe the agony. He sat down heavily on the back bumper, still cradling his battered appendage. “Damn her,” he repeated softly.

      The pain overwhelmed his fury. Slowly, anger was replaced by an ache in his heart that seemed to complement the throbbing in his fingers. That ache was a surprise, a hurt for something he hadn’t even known he cared about. He ran his uninjured hand through his hair and lowered his head, hunching his shoulders. His mind reeled and lurched but came up with no direction. Studying the swirling patterns of gravel beneath his feet did nothing to help untangle his thoughts.

      “Hey, what’s up?” a deep voice asked.

      Patrick looked up to see his brother, Ian, standing over him. One black eyebrow was raised in question over his dark brown eyes.

      “You don’t want to know,” Patrick said.

      “The reason you just punched your truck?” Ian grinned. He held a canvas tool bag in one hand, a coping saw sticking out one end. The other hand balanced a long oak plank over his shoulder. “Yeah, I want to know.” Deftly, he swung the board down and leaned it against the tailgate. He dropped the tool bag in the bed of the truck and took a seat next to Patrick on the bumper. His long legs matched Patrick’s as they stretched out from the truck. “Spill it.”

      Patrick sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. He could think of no way to dress up the truth and make it sound better, so he just blurted it out. “Kate’s pregnant.”

      Ian shook his head and laughed outright. “Well, I suppose it was bound to happen. The Berzanis are a fertile bunch.” When Patrick glared at him, Ian shrugged. “So, this is a bad thing?”

      “No, it’s not a bad thing.” Patrick ground the words out from between clenched teeth.

      “So why attack your truck?”

      “Kate doesn’t want me involved.”

      “That’s a bad thing.” Ian was silent for a moment. “How’d you screw this one up?”

      “I didn’t screw up!” Patrick rose to his feet to pace. All the anger he had felt came rushing back, pushing aside the hurt. “She thinks I can’t be a good father if I’m at sea all the time.”

      Ian looked at Patrick, his eyes dark and thoughtful. “I see her point. Tough to be good at something if you’re not there to do it.”

      “I could be a good father whether I race or not.”

      “What, you’re going to get the kid a berth in the Trans-Oceana race? Show him the ropes before he can crawl?”

      “Of course not.”

      “Then how are you going be around to do the fathering?”

      “Who said I wouldn’t be around?”

      Ian looked at his hands. “You just did.”

      Patrick gritted his teeth in frustration. “I wouldn’t race all the time. I could cut back some.”

      “Sounds reasonable. Did you tell her that?”

      “She wouldn’t let me. She just kept saying she didn’t want me involved.” His jaw tightened. “She’s got a list.”

      “A list?”

      “A list of potential fathers. She doesn’t want me, so she’s, she’s…interviewing other candidates, I guess.”

      “Really?” Ian was silent again. “What are you going to do about it?”

      “Stop her. What else?”

      “All right, then.” Ian stood and turned to grab his tool bag out of the truck. Before he picked up the board again, he ran a hand across the dents in the tailgate. “That’s number three. How long have you had this rig? Two years? When are you going to stop punching it?”

      “Better my truck than your ugly face.” With his good hand, Patrick grabbed his own bag.

      “As if you’d even have a chance,” Ian scoffed, but he smiled at Patrick.

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