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      Dom stared blankly into space for a few long seconds.

      Not married.

      Single, in fact.

      A smile curved his lips. He even turned on his heel, ready to race after her and ask her out.

      He stopped before he’d taken a step.

      She was pregnant.

      Four months pregnant with another man’s child.

      Not exactly your typical dating situation.

      “Hey, Dom, those arms of yours painted on?” his uncle Vinnie called from the other end of the stall.

      Dom blinked. A queue of customers had formed in front of him, waiting to be served.

      Right. He was at work. There was stuff to do. He could think about Lucy Basso later.

      It was a great theory, but he found it impossible to stop himself from thinking about her as the morning progressed. The flash of a red coat glimpsed briefly through the crowd. The sight of a woman pushing a baby stroller. A young couple walking hand in hand, both glowing with obvious contentment over her big, swollen belly. Everything seemed to remind him of her. She’d rocketed from being a vague incentive to come home to the most important thing on his agenda in the space of a few minutes.

      Why was that? Because of the profound disappointment he’d felt when he’d thought she was married, lost to him for good?

      Man, she’s pregnant, he reminded himself for the twentieth time that day.

      But did that really matter? Really?

      THAT NIGHT, Lucy sat with her laptop at her dining table and stared at the number at the bottom of her monthly spreadsheet. It wasn’t abysmal. It was almost respectable, considering her business, Market Fresh, had been in operation just over twelve months. But would it be enough to impress the man at the bank tomorrow?

      Market Fresh had seemed like such a great idea when she came up with it two years ago. She’d been working as hostess in a busy suburban restaurant and listening to the chef’s constant complaints. He didn’t have time to get into the city markets every day to pick produce for himself, and he was perpetually disappointed in what he could source locally. Because she lived close to the city, Lucy had offered to stop by the markets on the way into work each day and fill his shopping list. The restaurant paid her for her time, and she selected the best produce at the best prices, going straight to the wholesaler rather than allowing a retailer to act as the middleman.

      The chef had been so impressed with what she’d brought back and how much money she’d saved him, he’d bragged about it to his chef friends. Before long, Lucy had two, then three, then four shopping lists to fill each day. After a while, she realized that she’d accidentally discovered a niche in the market, and Market Fresh was born.

      She did her homework for a whole year before jumping in. She took some small-business courses, and she went through the sums over and over with her sister. Finally, she leased the van and pitched herself to her former employer and his friends. After a few ups and downs, the business was now holding its own.

      Except she’d reached a difficult stage in her company’s growth. She needed more clients, but she couldn’t afford to put on an extra driver to service them until she had more money coming in. Also, she needed to up her game to ensure she retained her existing clients. The answer to all her problems was obvious but expensive: the Internet. Ever since she’d found out she was pregnant, Lucy had been exploring the idea of taking Market Fresh online. With a Web site, she could deliver a real-time list of available produce to her clients each day and receive and collate their orders automatically. She already knew from discussions she’d had with several of her key clients that they were attracted to the convenience of the idea. She was confident that new clients would be equally drawn.

      She just had to find the money to get online. Hence her appointment with the bank tomorrow.

      Lucy rubbed her belly. She hated the thought of taking on more debt. She already made lease payments on the van, and while she was keeping her head above water, it would take the loss of only a few clients or a hike in fuel costs to put her in the red again. She didn’t want to risk that, not with the baby on the way.

      But she also wanted to ensure her child’s future. Build something that would keep them both safe and warm for many years, without having to rely on the generosity of Rosie and Andrew, or handouts from her mother.

      She closed her eyes at the very thought. Since the meeting a month ago when she’d told her mother she was pregnant, she’d been on the receiving end of all the fussing a pregnant woman could endure. Home-cooked meals appeared magically in her fridge, and every time her mother visited she brought something for the baby—stacks of disposable diapers, a baby bath, receiving blankets, tiny baby clothes. The study nook where she planned to put the baby’s cradle was already jammed to overflowing with her mother’s gifts.

      It was incredibly generous, and it also took a huge burden off Lucy’s shoulders in terms of her baby budget. But every time her mother handed over an offering, Lucy remembered the nights her mother had stayed up late ironing business shirts for fifty cents apiece. And the weekends she’d spent sewing wedding and bridesmaid dresses, and confirmation dresses for the girls in the neighborhood. And all the times Lucy had watched her mother carefully count her change into the rainy-day jar. Her mother was retired now, living off a small pension and her savings, and Lucy knew that every gift to her came at her mother’s expense.

      Her mother had sacrificed so much to give her and Rosie a good home, and now she was sacrificing again to support Lucy’s unplanned pregnancy.

      Lucy shoved her chair back so sharply it screeched across the timber floor.

      She had to convince the people at the bank that she was a good risk. Somehow she had to push the business into the next phase, and she had to look after herself and her baby without leaning on her mother. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t the kind of daughter Lucy wanted to be. She remembered how proud she’d felt when she and Rosie had presented their mother with the lush, expensive Italian wool coat. Sophia’s eyes had lit up then filled with tears when she’d understood that the beautiful garment was hers, a token of her daughters’ esteem and affection.

      That was the kind of daughter Lucy wanted to be—the kind of daughter who gave instead of took, the kind of daughter who could give her mother the retirement she deserved after all her hard years of work.

      Lucy ran a hand through her hair and let her breath hiss out between her teeth, wishing she could release her tension as easily. She had her business papers in order and her best suit was hanging at the ready—even though she had to use a couple of safety pins and leave the zipper down to get the skirt on. As long as she didn’t take her jacket off, no one would ever know.

      “They’ll listen,” Lucy said out loud, trying to convince herself. “They’ll see my vision. They have to.”

      “First sign of madness, you know,” Rosie said from behind her, and Lucy started.

      “For Pete’s sake!” she said, one hand pressed to her chest. “Have you been taking lessons from Ma or something?”

      “I knocked,” Rosie said, gesturing toward the door that connected the flat to the kitchen of the main house. “You were too busy talking to yourself to hear me.”

      Lucy СКАЧАТЬ