to a place where her own life didn’t make sense. So she’d made an excuse. He’d looked at her for a grave moment with eyes that saw more than she wanted them to and he hadn’t asked again.
Laurel lived in a neighborhood off Lake City Way in north Seattle that had been built in the thirties and forties. The houses were modest but charming, wood-framed, owned mainly by young families. Hers was the anomaly, a homely 1950s addition with a flat roof, a one-car garage made of cinder blocks and a chain-link fence. She’d been lucky to be able to afford it with her father’s help. So far, her budget hadn’t allowed anything that could be called remodeling, but the chain-link fence was disappearing beneath the honeysuckle and climbing roses and clematis she’d planted along it, and she’d painted the formerly street-sign-yellow garage a more unobtrusive coffee-brown. Trellises and more climbers were masking its ugly facade.
Inside, she’d torn up the shag carpets to expose oak floors that needed refinishing but were still beautiful; however, she was living with 1950s-era plywood and veneer kitchen and bathroom cabinets, aluminum-frame windows that dripped and a shower so tiny and dark it gave her claustrophobia.
Caleb parked on the street and commented on the shoots coming up in her garden.
“I planted a bunch of bulbs last fall. Mostly hyacinths and daffodils.”
“Did I tell you that you inspired me?” he said, as she unlocked the door. “I planted a couple hundred tulips in October. With my luck, the moles have eaten them, but I tried.”
She laughed, not showing her astonishment at his choice of words. She had inspired him?
Comfortable in her house, he found the corkscrew in a drawer and opened a bottle of wine while she changed into jeans, a sweater and slip-on shoes, then put on water to boil for noodles.
“So,” Caleb said, “enough about me. Tell me about your life.”
He always put it that way, as if she had a life.
Today, Laurel thought with a tinge of defiance, she’d prove that she did.
“I’ve decided to have a baby.”
He swore, and she saw that he’d poured wine on the counter. He grabbed the sponge, mopped up, then handed her a glass.
“You didn’t just tell me you’re pregnant.”
“No, I told you I’m going to get pregnant.”
His eyes narrowed. “Just like that.”
“It happens really quickly,” she assured him.
“And usually requires a woman and a man.”
“You know I can’t… I don’t want…”
What she could have sworn was anger faded from his face. “I know. So you’re—what?—planning to find a donor?”
“I already have.” She busied herself dumping noodles into the now-boiling water. “You know Matt Baker? My friend from legal aid?”
Caleb’s tone was careful, controlled. “Isn’t he married?”
“Yes, that’s the beauty of it. I already spend a lot of time at their house. They have great kids. I’m Madison’s godmother. So it’ll give my child a sort of extended family.” Beginning to cut up broccoli, she hurried on. “I thought of going the anonymous-donor route, but that made me nervous. It’s like, every guy who donates is a future Nobel Prize winner. Brilliant, of course, handsome, athletic, a Ph.D. candidate in something or other. I mean, what are the odds? Some of them have to be ordinary. Or worse than ordinary. Schmucks. I wanted my baby’s father to be somebody…” Somebody, in another life, I might have loved.
Standing there in the kitchen, the knife poised above a clump of broccoli, she thought, But Matt isn’t.
Well, she did love him, of course. But not…not that way. He wasn’t anybody who ever would have attracted her, not even before. Was that the problem?
Caleb muttered a word she couldn’t quite catch. “I didn’t know you were thinking about anything like this.”
“It’s been just the past few months.”
“Why Matt?”
It was the last thing she’d expected him to ask.
“Well,” she faltered, “he’s a friend. And smart. He’s nice. Healthy. His grandmother lived into her nineties.”
“What does Sheila feel about this, Laurel?”
“She agreed…”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Her breath caught; she had to face him. His eyes were steady. A couple of creases between his brows had deepened.
“I don’t really know,” she admitted. “She seemed okay…” She couldn’t finish the lie. Sheila had agreed, but she hadn’t seemed comfortable with the idea. She’d said yes with reluctance, Laurel guessed, perhaps in part out of pity.
Laurel hated knowing that.
Her cheeks heated and she looked away from Caleb, not wanting to see pity in his eyes, too.
There was a long silence. Neither of them moved. The water boiled beside her, and she stood there with the knife in her hand.
“Did you consider asking other friends?” Caleb’s voice was deep, quiet.
“I had a list…”
“Was I on it?”
The air had been sucked from the room. She couldn’t answer.
“Did you consider asking me, Laurel?” he persisted.
From somewhere, she found the courage to whisper, “What would you have said if I had asked?”
“I would have said yes.” He paused. “I’d like to have a baby with you, Laurel.”
CHAPTER TWO
“DO YOU MEAN THAT?” Laurel’s question came out, a mere thread of sound.
“I mean it.” He nodded at the glass. “Have a drink of wine.”
She gulped, grateful for the warmth that flowed to her stomach. Her emotions were in such turmoil she had no idea how she felt about his offer.
Caleb wasn’t on her list. The only guy she’d put on it who wasn’t married was George, who was gay and therefore safe.
Caleb wasn’t safe. She knew that much, from the panic and exhilaration and excitement ricocheting through her.
“Hey,” he said, voice gentle. “We’d better finish dinner.”
“Dinner?” She turned her head and stared blankly at the water boiling over on the stove and sizzling on the burner. “Oh. Yeah.” But she didn’t move.
