By the time Claire walked out of the small room, her petite frame had regained some semblance of normalcy. Tony stood silently, as Claire walked more steadily to the sink, rinsed her mouth, and then turned toward him and proclaimed, “Tony, I’m not sick.”
He gently reached for her shoulders. “What do you mean? You’re obviously ill. I’ll call Brent. They’ll understand.”
“No, I want to go. I’ll be better soon. It usually doesn’t hit this hard in the afternoon. I think I’m just stressed.”
“What doesn’t hit…?” He studied Claire’s green eyes. Along with her strength, color now returned to her once pale cheeks. The information was processing at record speed: her aversion to bacon at the restaurant, her ravenous hunger this afternoon, her frequent naps. Tony’s tone unconsciously morphed from a concerned companion to a CEO in need of answers. “What doesn’t hit?”
“The nausea.”
Each word came slower and deeper than the last. “Brought. On. By. What?”
Tears cascaded down her cheeks as she replied, “I’m seven weeks pregnant, almost eight.”
Pregnant? She was pregnant? Seven weeks? When was he in Palo Alto? How long ago was that afternoon in her condominium?
Before he could process, Claire went on, “Yes, Tony, we are going to have a baby.”
Words weren’t forming, only her words bounced through his brain. We—a baby—mother—father. This wasn’t supposed to happen. She had that damn insert. Of course, that was years ago. He tried unsuccessfully to process. Finally, he asked, “How did this happen?”
The look she gave him momentarily stilled any further questions. “That’s a great question, since I have no recollection of letting you back into my condominium, but nonetheless, the timing works perfectly.”
He stared dumbfounded as he tried to make sense out of this new paradigm. “What are we going to do about…” he motioned toward her midsection, “…this?”
“I don’t know what we are going to do. I’m going to have a baby, with or without you.”
“But you’re twenty-nine years old; I’m forty-eight!”
“Yes, and when we married, our age difference was the same.”
“We never discussed children.”
“It’s a little late for discussion.” The fire in her eyes was back and blazing bright. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be downstairs in ten minutes for dinner, and we can continue your charade.”
Tony shook his head. Shit! From the look on Claire’s face, he’d totally screwed this up. Well, he had—literally and figuratively. Tony moved toward her and fought to sound understanding. “I’m sorry. You surprised me. Let me think about this for a while.”
“Fine, Tony, you think all you want. Your thoughts and decisions don’t matter. I’m having this baby.”
“Of course you are. I never suggested otherwise.” As the walls of the bathroom began to close in, he kissed her cheek, and explained, “I’ll be downstairs on the patio,” and backed away.
Once in the hallway, Tony stopped and inhaled the air-conditioned air. It took a minute or two, but slowly his lungs began to re-inflate. The walk from her suite to the patio was a blur. The next thing Tony knew, he was sitting on the patio, sipping iced water, and contemplating bourbon. Actually, he had some nice cognac in his office.
As the dust from Claire’s bombshell began to settle, Tony searched the debris. A baby. Him a father. Claire a mother. He didn’t have a clue how to be a father. Did she know how to be a mother? How do you learn that? Experience? Books? The Internet? Could he do it? What about his age? Shit—the kid would be eighteen and he’d be sixty-six!
Each thought and question came with the memory of Claire’s expression as she shared their secret: the tears rolling down her cheeks, the need in her emerald eyes. Her expression wasn’t exactly as he’d remembered it from years ago when she so desperately sought his approval. The look, moments ago, asked for something much simpler: it requested understanding, and in typical Anthony Rawlings fashion, he’d been an ass. Then again, she could’ve found a better way to tell him than making him believe that she was dying of some unknown disease.
Tony had forgotten how worried he was about her only minutes ago. At that time, he was ready to fly her to the edges of the earth if that was where she’d find the best medical care, and now, now he knew that she wasn’t dying. No, she’s having a baby. That was better—right?
When Claire stepped onto the patio, Tony attentively stood and pulled out her chair. She radiated beauty. Outwardly, it appeared as though their little conversation upstairs had never occurred. He assessed her complexion as he sat and thought how their day at the shore had done her skin tone some good: her cheeks had a nice rosy glow. Still scanning, the neckline of her dress and her blossoming cleavage distracted his thoughts. Without a doubt, her breasts appeared larger. Did pregnancy do that? Hell, he needed to do research. Tony hated not having answers.
With all sincerity, he asked, “How are you feeling?”
Genteel and reticent, she responded, “I’m feeling better. Thank you for asking.”
After Cindy brought them their meals, Tony asked, “Have you had many bouts like what just happened?”
Her emerald eyes peered at him from beneath thick lashes. “I do like this dress. It’s one from the closet. Thank you for having it purchased.”