a change of subject. “Tell me about your parents,” she suggested. “Are you a native?” She would have liked to ask how much interference she could expect from his side of the family. On second thought, it might be nice for her baby to have grandparents.
“I grew up in Denver,” he replied. “My parents still live there. How about you? Born and raised in Buttonwood?”
Megan remembered all the places she’d lived as a child, staying with a relative until she became an inconvenience and was shuffled to another like an unwanted package. A shiver of reaction went through her.
“I moved around a lot,” she admitted reluctantly, “but I’ve lived here for three years. I like the small-town atmosphere.”
She didn’t add that one of the things that had drawn her to Buttonwood was the fertility clinic. After several relationships that went nowhere, she’d finally figured out if she wanted to have a family, it was up to her to do something about it. She had gotten tired of waiting for the right man to come along and get her with child.
The Buttonwood Baby Clinic had seemed perfect for her needs, but she’d thought long and hard about taking such a momentous step, even after she had settled here. The way the clinic had botched the confidentiality issue had shaken her faith in that institution, but she was trying to keep an open mind until she got an explanation. If she ever did.
“You haven’t really answered my other question,” he reminded her. “Why do this now, while you’re on your own?”
His meaning was clear. “Lots of single women have children,” she said defensively.
His gaze remained steady. “And I respect them for it, but they don’t all go to the lengths you did to become pregnant.”
Her chin lifted. “It was my choice to make and I’m happy with it.”
He must have realized he wasn’t gaining any points by quizzing her, because he pressed his lips into a firm line as if he were holding back more questions.
From a nearby booth came a burst of masculine laughter. Two young couples were crowded into it, talking loudly. For a moment Megan envied them, and then she remembered her own adolescence. She’d never been like that—carefree, confident, bold enough to want attention.
Mac, too, glanced at the teens. “Do you work here in town?” Megan asked after he turned back around. When he’d pulled up beside her at the Dairy Freeze earlier, she had noticed some lettering on the door of his truck, but she hadn’t read it. He was tanned, even this early in the year, as though he spent a lot of time outdoors. Maybe he was a skier. Megan had tackled the bunny slopes on a few occasions, but she was far from competent. Or perhaps he worked construction. Considering the width of his shoulders and chest, he looked strong enough for physical labor.
“I own a local company called Small World,” he said. “We build playhouses.”
“Children’s playhouses?” she blurted.
His grin was resigned, as if he’d been asked the same question before. “Yeah, that’s right. Each one is custom designed, usually to duplicate the family home—on a much smaller scale, of course. I’ll have to show you some pictures of what we’ve done.”
Megan mulled that over. When she’d stayed with her aunt, there had been a dirty, abandoned chicken coop next door. Megan had pretended it was a playhouse until the neighbor caught her and complained.
“That sounds like a pretty cool job,” she told Mac, “but you must travel a lot.” How much demand would there be for custom playhouses in a town the size of Buttonwood, population 75,000?
“Some,” he admitted. “We have customers all over the country, and I cover a few exhibitions, but we do the actual planning and construction of each playhouse right here in town.” He poked at his melting ice cream with his spoon. “I’ll give you a tour.”
It was a throwaway line, like “let’s do lunch.”
“Sure,” she said, hardly able to resist scraping the leftover fudge sauce from the sides of her sundae dish bowl. What was it about chocolate? At home she’d stashed bowls of candy in strategic places. “It sounds like a fun job,” she conceded.
“It has its moments. How about you?” he asked. “Do you work?”
Did he think she was independently wealthy, having a child to relieve her boredom? “I index cookbooks.” Few people had any idea what that meant. From Mac’s puzzled expression, he was in the majority. “I edit the text and set up the index for the back of the book, so people can locate all the recipes for salmon or squash,” she explained.
His frown cleared. “Yeah, I know what you mean. I guess I figured whoever wrote the book did the index, too.”
“That’s what most people think, but it’s a separate skill.”
“Do you work for a local company?” he asked, managing to look interested.
“No, I freelance for several publishers on a regular basis. It’s all done by mail. I have a computer in my home office and I set my own hours.” That was the part most people envied, never realizing the discipline it took to stay on schedule or how many distractions there were working at home.
“You must be a very organized person.” His astuteness surprised her.
“I haven’t always been,” she confessed. “But with a baby coming, I’m getting better. I figured I’d have to.”
Abruptly Mac leaned forward. “I’ve thought about our baby a lot since I got that letter. I’m not sure just how we’ll work it out yet, but I want to play a real part in my child’s life.”
For a moment, his smile distracted her, and then the meaning behind his words sank in. “What exactly are you telling me?” she asked, warning flags popping up like spring bulbs.
“You don’t have to raise this baby alone.” He looked pleased with his announcement.
Megan didn’t share his satisfaction. She gripped the edge of the table as a chill slid down her spine. He was still a stranger. “I have every intention of doing just that,” she pointed out.
Her declaration bunched his dark brows into a frown. “What are you afraid of? We both want what’s best for our child.”
Our child! “I’m not afraid of anything,” she retorted. Honesty compelled her to add, “The idea of meeting you is still a new one for me. If it wasn’t for that letter, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”
Mac looked thoughtful. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. I’ve been talking to the chief of staff at the clinic, Dennis Reid, but he hasn’t found anything out yet. Apparently the director had emergency surgery. Add some glitch with the computer system and everything’s been a mess ever since.”
“They should have some kind of backup plan,” she said, annoyed. “Think of the records that could be jeopardized.”
“No kidding.” His tone was dry.
“Why did you contact the chief of staff?” she asked. “Do you know him?” She’d never met the man, but she’d probably seen the name on some clinic directory.
