The Christmas Wedding Quilt. Sarah Mayberry

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СКАЧАТЬ column. There was only one M. Malone. She must be single. He reached for the phone and then he hesitated. What was he going to say? Are you having my baby?

      Megan Malone hit the Save button on her computer and leaned back in her chair. She’d been working all morning on a vegetarian cookbook and her back was beginning to ache. Megan knew from experience that it was time for a break.

      With a self-deprecating grin at her own awkwardness, she heaved herself out of her chair and waddled down the stairs of her townhouse with one hand on the banister and the other cradling her bulging stomach. True to form, her baby had stopped kicking the moment Megan got up.

      When she reached the bottom of the staircase, she called to the heap of gray fur dozing in the sun shining through the patio door. The rebirth that spring always brought made it her favorite season.

      “Time to get the mail, Cassius.”

      The cat, a big gray Persian with gold eyes, didn’t even stir. The only indication that he was alive at all was the gentle rise and fall of his stomach.

      With a shrug, Megan went outside, breathing in the fresh, sweet air. Sometimes Cassius liked to accompany her, but only if it was his idea. He preferred acting the aristocrat he resembled rather than the bedraggled stray she’d adopted a year ago.

      Megan walked out to the cluster of mailboxes in front of her building and retrieved her mail. Turning, she stopped to admire the vivid hues surrounding her—the periwinkle-blue of the sky, the rich green of the velvety lawn, the buttery-yellow daffodils, the waxy white hyacinths and fringe of royal purple crocus that lined the sidewalks.

      The complex where she lived was a small one, two units to a building, all painted cream and trimmed with navy-blue. Megan knew several of her neighbors well enough to exchange a few words, especially since she had started to show. They asked how she felt and when she was due, but so far, at least, no one had mentioned the missing father.

      Humming to herself, Megan took her mail inside and sat down at the dining room table to go through it. There was a phone bill, a gourmet cooking magazine, a pre-approved credit card application, a bulky package from one of the publishers for whom she did freelance cookbook indexing, a periodical about cats and a letter from the baby clinic.

      She’d called the clinic last week to sign up for the birthing class she’d canceled three months before when her friend Helen, who’d agreed to go with her, had been transferred to Boston. Megan still needed to find a new partner. Since she worked at home and had no family in the area, her options were limited.

      In the envelope was a flyer about the class and a letter. As Megan read it, the blood slowly drained from her head, leaving her dizzy.

      She’d planned on raising her child alone. Except for the biological father’s medical history and a brief physical description, she knew nothing about him. Didn’t want to know. Deliberately she had picked a donor who wished to remain anonymous, and she’d been assured by the clinic that neither of their identities would ever be revealed to the other.

      In the past she had tried to do it the traditional way—meet a man, fall in love, get married and have a family. If Mr. Right was out there, Megan hadn’t been able to find him despite several disappointing attempts. The Buttonwood Baby Clinic had offered her an alternative and she’d moved here to take it.

      Now she felt betrayed. According to this letter the donor, MacGregor Duncan, was going to be her partner at the new childbirth class.

      No, no, no! This was terrible. He never should have been given her name. The people at the clinic were crazy if they thought she’d go along with this arrangement.

      Heart racing, Megan grabbed the phone. Not only had she no intention of learning about breathing, contractions and delivery with a perfect stranger, she didn’t want some man interfering in her life and the raising of her child. Her child. Not his. Not theirs. No shared custody. No meddling. That wasn’t the deal.

      A few frustrating moments later, Megan replaced the receiver and pressed the heels of her hands to her head. She was too late. Mr. Duncan’s notice had been mailed the same day as hers. By now he knew her identity, too. The woman Megan had talked to had been no help at all and Megan had been too upset to insist on speaking with someone else.

      She thought about calling them back. Instead she got up and circled the table, one hand braced on her back. What a mess!

      What was she going to do now?

      Probably the most sensible plan of action would be to contact the donor herself, but something inside her hated to cross that line. Since she’d become pregnant, she had managed to forget that anyone else had been involved in the process. Now that she knew the donor’s name it was more difficult to ignore his existence. Once she spoke to him, heard his voice, it might become downright impossible.

      She popped a peanut butter M&M from a bowl on the counter into her mouth. She could just skip the class. No, it was much too late to reschedule. Although she’d spent a considerable part of her childhood taking care of various younger cousins, they hadn’t actually been babies. Besides, she knew next to nothing about giving birth.

      Perhaps the donor was as surprised by the notice as she was. He must realize that being assigned as her birthing-class partner was an unfortunate clerical error, to quote the girl at the clinic. Unless he assumed it was all Megan’s idea. Oh, dear. She had to set him straight and to explain that she wanted nothing to do with him. There was no reason for them to ever meet.

      Surely he’d be relieved to know he was off the hook. A man who donated sperm wasn’t looking for parental responsibility, child support, weekend visits, diapers, bottles, or anything else that went along with having a baby together—was he?

      She had to know his intentions. There was a chance she would need to consult an attorney and find out her rights.

      Since when had maternity gotten so complicated?

      Before Megan could reach for another M&M, the baby gave her a hard kick. Despite her refusal to be told its gender, she had always thought of it as a boy.

      “Hey, champ, how are you doing?” she cooed, rubbing the spot he’d poked. Already she loved this little being, this tiny, precious part of herself. Since she had first decided to become a single parent and raise a child alone, she hadn’t had one moment of regret or doubt. Together the two of them would become the family Megan had always longed for.

      She picked up the letter again and read the donor’s name aloud. “MacGregor Duncan.” No question of his ancestry. She didn’t care about that—there were probably a few drops of Scottish blood in her own mixed lineage.

      The man was a stranger and yet, despite her attempt to ignore his contribution, a part of him was growing inside her. She had been told that he was intelligent, healthy, had medium-brown hair and dark eyes. Before she had known his name, she hadn’t given him another thought, but now her curiosity was piqued.

      Biting her lip, she shook her head and crumpled up the letter. There were reasons she’d chosen to have this child alone. Best she not forget them.

      In the silence of her town home, the sudden shrill ring of the phone startled both her and Cassius, who raised his head and gave her an accusing glance. Usually Megan let the machine take her calls during her working hours, but this time she picked up the receiver without thinking and said hello.

      “Is this Megan Malone?”

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