voice. It was working out great. She did her exercises every day, she read books on birth and baby care, she took naps and walks, she made nutritious meals, she played music to the baby, resting her hands on her belly to feel the movements change in response.
If it was too quiet and a little lonely and there wasn’t quite enough to do—even on the days when she made or took three calls to or from the office—well, that was very temporary.
And if an old wooden Victorian with a big garden and creaky floors and a wraparound porch told you more than you wanted to know about the man in the other half of the house, well that was temporary, too. Once the baby was born, she’d be far too busy to pay any attention to Andy McKinley, in the garden or anywhere else.
She wouldn’t care about his musical taste—everything from classical to country to driving rock, depending on his mood. She wouldn’t notice the lack of a female voice and female footsteps, suggesting he was currently unattached. She wouldn’t clock his hours or his clothing as he came and went—scrubs if he was headed to the hospital, neat professional attire for office-appointment hours, jeans and jackets and shorts and T-shirts for the various athletic things he apparently did in his free time.
One day, she had seen a canoe being strapped to the top of his pickup, and two men had arrived, bringing coolers, and they’d all gone off together in the pickup, wearing spray jackets and laughing a lot. She liked the way Andy laughed, and the way his arms moved when he was strapping the canoe in place.
She tried not to notice nearly this much about him, but how could she help it, when her days and her routine were so quiet? And when she was sleeping so badly, which meant that if Dr. McKinley was called out to an emergency in the early hours, she generally knew about this, too, because she heard the vehicle reversing down the drive.
Pull yourself together, Claudia. You’re a mom-to-be, not a teenager pining for a date.
If only she was sleeping better!
Only another month …
The baby was coming. It was three in the morning, the early hours of Monday, but the delivery room at Mitchum Medical Center had an energy to it that Andy knew well.
Not long now. Almost there.
“Here’s the head … take some short breaths now,” he said. The shoulder was a little stuck. He needed a gloved hand and a well-practiced technique to free it, and then out came the slippery body. “Fabulous, it’s a girl, Gina,” he told the mom. “Congratulations, both of you.” Nurse Kate passed him a couple of instruments and he cut and clamped the cord.
The dad squeezed his wife’s shoulders and buried his face in her hair. Both new parents were tearful and gushy, and there was no doubt about the health of the baby. She was crying and waving her little arms, but when they placed her on her mom’s warm tummy she nestled and snuggled and it was wonderful.
But very late at night, second night in a row. His patients always seemed to give birth in clusters.
Andy delivered the placenta, checked the baby and the birth canal, made the necessary notes, all the small medical and administrative tasks that most new parents were too absorbed in their baby to notice. The high that everyone felt after a successful birth began to ebb and he started to think about a dark, quiet room, smooth sheets, closed eyes, warm dreams …
It was almost four when he turned into his driveway, and there was a light on in Claudia’s front window. He saw a shadow moving behind the closed drapes as he came up the porch steps, and a floorboard creaked. What was she doing up this late? Was something wrong?
He was still thinking like a doctor who’d just delivered a baby. Didn’t even pause to question his action, just knocked at her door and called out, “Claudia? Everything okay in there?”
He heard footsteps and the rattle of the doorknob. A gap of light appeared, partially blocked by a very tired and grumpy figure, holding a mug of hot chocolate with her little finger bent outward. “I’m pregnant and I can’t sleep. Or breathe. What’s your problem?”
“Called out for a delivery.”
The gap opened wider. “Oh? At Mitchum Medical Center?”
“That’s where all my patients go, unless it’s something really serious.”
“That’s right, you told me that last week. I liked it when I took a tour, but haven’t made a decision yet. Was it a good team? Did everything go well?”
“Textbook-perfect. Apart from happening in the middle of the night.”
“Isn’t that when they always happen?”
“Sure feels that way.” He hid a yawn behind his closed hand.
“Come in. You look cold. I’m sorry I sounded snippy. If you have any ideas about the not-sleeping thing …”
He was in her living room before he knew it. She’d lit the fire in the brick-and-tile hearth and the warm air smelled of chocolate and a hint of woodsmoke. She was wearing a fluffy white robe and sheepskin boots. Free of makeup, her eyes had little creases at the corners from lack of sleep. Her hair sat in its usual knot, but it was lopsided and fuzzy with tangles. It looked like a robin’s nest about to fall out of the fork of a tree.
“Looks like you’re doing all the right things,” he said. “Hot drink, warm air.”
“Except I’m so hot in bed.” She said it with total innocence, still grumpily focused on her discomfort and frowning at the fire, and he was shocked at the reply his very male mind came up with—luckily not out loud.
Hot in bed? I’ll bet you are.
The grumpy expression and bird’s-nest hair were weirdly sexy, for a start, as well as those fingers curved around her mug. And what was underneath the robe?
“It’s so crazy,” she went on. “In the daytime, I can go to sleep on the couch or on top of my comforter like that.” She took a hand from the mug and snapped her fingers. “At night, when I climb between the sheets … not happening.”
“So sleep on the couch at night.”
“That’s why I lit the fire. It’s kind of soothing when it crackles. I can watch the flames till my eyes get sleepy. Right now, I think that’s an hour away. Would you like some hot chocolate?”
She sounded wistful and eager at the same time, as if she really did want the company, and he wondered why this baby didn’t have a father.
Why had there needed to be that crisp, distancing announcement, the day they first met, about sperm donation and planned pregnancy? Just how impossible was she to live with? Or just how exacting in her standards about men? Had something happened in the past to scare her off?
Or did she try too hard, like Laura?
Laura had crammed his house with heart-shaped objects and romantic sayings on fridge magnets. She’d told him, “I love you,” so many times that the words lost all meaning. She’d created elaborate “date nights” after he’d worked eighteen hours straight and then sulked when he didn’t want to take part, and generally poked and prodded at their relationship until it died like an overfed fish.
Claudia didn’t
