Still, they did all help out with waitressing in a pinch.
Starr bustled to the window and closed the blinds. She left a few inches free at the bottom for the wind to slant through since the AC barely worked. “Ashley will be here in a few minutes. She and I can pull the rest together before tonight, and still watch over the restaurant.”
“But you don’t know what I’ve—”
“Good Lord, girl.” Starr swished to the door and flicked on the ceiling fan. “You’ve been making detailed lists for as long as I can remember. I’m sure you’ve got one around here somewhere. Just give it to me and I’ll take things from there.”
Claire patted her right apron pocket. Empty. But she always kept it there. Of course, she’d been distracted lately. She fished inside her left. Empty as well. Oh yeah, it had fallen out. “I know the last-minute list is here some—”
Vic slid the pad off her bedside table. “Is this it?”
He paused mid-reach, frowning. His eyes locked on the top sheet of paper. Claire followed his gaze…right…down…to his lunch selection bordered with baby bottles. Then he looked up. At her.
At her stomach.
His rugged face blanched as white as her bleached lace curtains gusting in the window. He knew. She didn’t even have to wonder. Her throat closed.
His paleness quickly shifted to something darker. Thank heavens her sister stood behind him. Anger stamped itself across his normally easygoing face and in his beautiful eyes. Who knew blue could turn to black?
She understood he had every right to be angry with her for not telling him sooner, but that didn’t stop the swell of disappointment. Silently, Vic dropped the pad on the bed and scratched a hand along his chest, right over his heart.
Claire yanked the little notebook up and ripped the top page off before passing the rest to Starr. “Here, this has a list of the last-minute errands.”
At least Starr seemed oblivious as she babbled nonstop. “Where did you put the guest list? I’ve already made the centerpieces and party favors. Does Ashley have the games, or did she already drop them off?”
Claire answered automatically, unable to drag her eyes from Vic’s face as it blanked of all expression. “On the computer. In the Shower section, folder marked Rena Price. And yes, Ashley has the games.”
Starr flipped through the notes. “What about the menu listed on your notepad? Where do I find everything?”
The notepaper crumpled in her fist. “Check the freezer, second from the top shelf, for the things I baked ahead and froze. The rest is in the pantry.”
“Labeled, I assume.”
“Of course.” Claire forced herself to swallow past the wad of regret in her throat. “I’m sorry,” she said, more to Vic than her sister.
Starr tossed a lightweight quilt over Claire’s legs. “Don’t apologize, hon. You pull more than your share living here while I hide out in the carriage house. I’ll be back in a second with a sandwich.”
Her foster sister stepped away to hook arms with Vic and began inching him out of her room with a knowing look that didn’t bode well for secrecy. “Thanks again for the muscle help.”
“Anytime.” Vic nodded. “Good-bye, Claire.”
His mouth might have said good-bye, but his determined eyes said clearly they’d be talking soon.
She hadn’t seen the last of him, Vic vowed.
Frustration fueled his feet as he charged down the front steps of the restaurant, across her yard toward the marina. He strode past the Beachcombers’ white wooden sign, seashells piled around the base in place of landscaping rocks. His gaze locked on home, his Catalina sailboat. His head still buzzed with numbing realization like the bees zipping through the blooming azalea bushes.
Claire was pregnant.
Vic slapped a mosquito snacking on his neck, the sting nowhere near as sharp as the one inside him. She’d lied. Lied in that message, and again every day after with her continued silence.
He’d been an idiot, especially today, in missing the signs. He’d attributed the fainting spell to exhaustion. When her face flooded with that telling shade of green, a flipping bullhorn had sounded in his head. But he’d ignored it even though he’d seen that nauseated hue on Sonya’s face a time or two—or five.
Then he’d seen the baby bottle border on Claire’s pad, followed by her guilty blush, and he couldn’t ignore the obvious any longer.
She was pregnant. He was going to be a father again, and the kid was his. He’d watched Claire’s house from the deck of his boat often enough to know she wasn’t dating anyone else.
Still, she’d known about the pregnancy for months and hadn’t said a word to him.
Vic thudded down the dock, water below him slapping the posts and the hulls of everything from ski boats to yachts. He closed in on his forty-two-footer, the Dakota-Rat. He’d wanted to name her Emma, but that seemed morbid at a time he’d vowed to get his act together.
Or so he’d thought.
He leaped from the dock to the bow. He should head inside and…what?
His feet stalled. Maybe he deserved her silence after the pathetic assurance he’d scrounged up during their broken-condom incident. Of course none of that mattered now if there was a child to consider.
A child.
Vic stopped by the wheel and grabbed the rail for support. His hand slid up to scratch his chest over his thudding pulse. He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep himself from loving this kid. But man, he was scared. Flat-out terrified of placing his heart in chubby little hands again.
Apparently, the choice had been taken away from him.
Resting his elbows on the warm metal railing, he gazed across the water at Claire’s white clapboard house. The wraparound porch with hanging ferns swaying in the wind offered a welcoming vision he knew wasn’t meant for him.
He would leave her alone for her much-needed nap and the shower party thing. But before morning, he and Claire would have one very straightforward discussion. He’d had enough of Claire shuffling him aside.
Even though the thought of marriage knocked his sea legs out from under him, no way would he walk away from his child.
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