I’ve already researched nanny agencies and I’m on the books of the best one in the city,” she said, then added so that he wasn’t left in any doubt, “I’m going to be a single parent. I’ll just say it up front. This was a planned pregnancy, using a sperm-donor father, at a highly reputable Manhattan clinic.”
“Got you.”
“It’s good to get these things out in the open, I think, rather than have you wondering, and making things embarrassing for both of us.” She smiled, again making it brief and cool to give him his cue.
“Right,” he said, nodding and smiling back. Again it was a little crooked, she noticed. As if his view of the world was a complicated thing. As if he stood back from life, faintly amused by the whole messy business. “Thanks for filling me in.”
“Well, it doesn’t make sense not to.”
“Six weeks before, six weeks after. I guess that about takes care of your three-month lease.” He sounded cheerful about it, but maybe she was a little defensive after her mother’s often-repeated refrain of, You’re crazy. She thought she detected some hidden … what? … Criticism? Skepticism? Amusement?
All three.
Why did people have so much trouble believing that a pregnant woman could be organized? That a single-by-choice mother could make good decisions? That even being a single-by-choice mother was a good decision? That proper planning and budgeting did actually lead to a more successful outcome, and babies on a solid routine were more content? It was basic common sense!
And why did people think it was any of their business, even if they did happen to be doctors who knew about babies?
“There’s no need to show me around,” she told him, cool about it once again. “I’ve seen your photo tour on the internet and I’m confident there’s everything I’ll need. As long as the furnace is hot and the refrigerator is cold?”
“Checked them both this morning.”
“Great. Thanks.”
“I’ll bring your boxes in.”
She would have argued, but her back told her not to, so she simply thanked him again, gritted her teeth and waited until he’d shunted the remaining two boxes inside.
“Want me to take those suitcases up?”
“Thanks, no, I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then. I’m right next door, if there’s anything you need.”
“The nearest store?”
“Straight on down the street, make a left at the end, then a right on Route 11, and you’ll hit a shopping plaza on your left in about half a mile.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He gave a casual click of his tongue in farewell and sloped off along the porch to his own front door. Was he whistling?
He didn’t seem like any doctor she’d met before. Nothing like the rather stuffy, fifty-something, highly recommended and very expensive ob-gyn she’d been seeing in Manhattan. More like a rancher with that pickup he’d climbed out of.
If you went by the whistle, he was Tom Sawyer, all grown up. If you went by the crooked nose, someone who’d had a minor accident while skiing or climbing, or even a punch-up outside a bar. Or maybe a construction-crew boss. Someone who knew what he was doing, but was laid-back about it. Someone good with his hands and with tools.
This place, for example. Had he remodeled it himself?
It was beautiful. The internet tour hadn’t given a misleading impression. Late afternoon spring sunshine poured through the kitchen window on the first floor and her bedroom window above. The wide bay window at the side of the house would glow when the morning sun hit those leaded sections of stained glass.
Beyond the borders of a Persian rug, the hardwood floors shone a dark syrup color, and the two couches looked soft and inviting with their stylized floral fabric. There were prints on the walls, wrought-iron fire tongs on a stand beside the grate, a good-quality coffee table and end tables made of solid wood, thick cream drapes at the windows for privacy, carved newel posts and rails on the stairs.
For the moment, however, with the baby kicking and rolling in a very uncomfortable way, the most urgent piece of exploration she needed was to check out the state of the bathroom.
Of course, Andy ran into her at the supermarket on the outskirts of town less than forty-five minutes later.
She was efficient, he’d give her that. She’d asked for directions to the store, and in the time he’d taken to unwind in a lazy, casual way from a day of seeing patients with conditions ranging from ingrown toenails to advanced pregnancy to serious heart disease, she’d—he could hear her faintly through the walls—toured both levels of the half a Victorian house that were now temporarily hers, tested the bathroom facilities, unpacked at least one of the suitcases and taken a long and no doubt critical look from the back porch at a garden he hadn’t touched since last summer.
Now she was shopping, arriving at the spacious, brightly lit supermarket just off County Route 5 only a few minutes after he’d gotten here himself.
He had steak, potatoes, orange juice and bananas in his basket.
She was filling a whole cart, stocking up big-time.
Buying diapers already?
He had to smile. Of course she was buying diapers!
He’d pegged her to a T, in the space of just a few minutes of conversation. He’d met her kind before. A highly intelligent and competent city professional, who would sincerely believe that efficiently stocking up six weeks in advance on non-perishable baby supplies would give her a significant head start in acquiring that all-important “routine” that would miraculously turn the years-long demands of parenthood, whether solo or shared, into a walk in the park.
Boy, was she in for a shock.
It was funny …
And not.
He didn’t know what to feel, actually.
Impressed? It was brave, no doubt about that. Angry? He was so busy with this mix of wry amusement, anger and … something else that he couldn’t quite work out … that he forgot to keep track of her movements through the store and found her coming down the dairy aisle toward him, pausing to reach for yogurt and cheese on the way.
“Oh. Hi,” she said.
And caught him looking at the stack of diapers.
He hadn’t meant to, but they were hard to miss—five big, block-shaped, plastic-covered, newborn-size sixty-packs piled one on top of the other.
Ten diapers a day for a month. Seven a day for six weeks. Take your pick. She’d probably already worked out a theoretical schedule for how often the baby would need changing.
She flushed. “It’s not like they’ll spoil. This way, I get to carry them into the house while I’m not too big and not too
