Becca's Baby

BECCA WAS QUIET as they left the doctor’s office. Not at all the happy woman she should rightfully have been. With a pang of guilt, Will realized he had to take some blame for that.

“How about going out to dinner to celebrate before we drive home?” he asked, putting the past couple of weeks behind them, at least for now. This was a time in their lives they’d always remember. One for which they’d been waiting so many years. The moment deserved more than either of them was giving it.

Their future child deserved more.

“You’re sure you want to?” Becca asked, her eyes vulnerable.

“Positive.” Will opened the car door for her.

“Don’t you think the imminent arrival of little Kristen or Dennis warrants a party?”

She studied his expression for a moment longer—and then smiled. And in that smile he saw a trace of the woman he’d fallen in love with so long ago. The woman he’d married and lived with for more than half his life.

“Okay, Dad,” she said, turning to slide into the car. “Let’s go party.”

THEY ATE. They drank—nonalcoholic daiquiris—and they talked. About the doctor’s visit. Her warnings. About the things they’d missed in each other’s lives during the previous two weeks. Will told her about Todd, his very real fear that he was having an affair with one of his students. And felt the burden lighten somewhat when Becca shared his shock and horror over their longtime friend’s probable infidelity.

“Does Martha know?” she asked over the apple cobbler à la mode they’d been splitting for dessert.

Will shook his head.

“Have you seen her?”

He shook his head again.

“Should we call her?”

He met her eyes. “What do you think?”

“If it was my husband, I’d want to know.”

“But wouldn’t you rather hear something like that from me?”

She took a long time answering, her empty spoon poised in midair. “I’m not sure it would make much difference,” she said, frowning. “The news would be so devastating in itself that how I received it would be secondary.”

Reading the insecurity in her eyes, he wanted to take her hands, connect physically to the woman he’d become so distant from. He held his spoon, instead.

“You know you have nothing to worry about on that score, don’t you?”

Becca, searching his eyes, smiled slowly and nodded. “Thank you.”

Will was glad he could still make her smile.

CHRISTINE EVANS pored over available positions she’d collected that week from the Internet-academic-job-placement services she’d signed up with. Nervous excitement churned in her stomach, and with fingers that weren’t quite steady, she weeded out all but the most hopeful possibilities. She was close to finding Tory. The detective hadn’t been any more optimistic that Saturday afternoon than he’d been any other time in the three months Christine had been searching for her younger sister, but Christine knew they were close. She could feel Tory needing her.

And she had to have a new job in place, somewhere far away, when she found Tory. She couldn’t risk Bruce finding Tory again, as he always did, beating her into submission so she wouldn’t leave him, forcing Tory to run again. Someday he was going to hurt her so badly she couldn’t run. And then, Christine knew, he’d kill her. Somehow she had to keep her twenty-six-year-old sister safe from the maniac she’d married—and divorced.

Somehow she had to break the chain of abuse that had bound both of them their entire lives. And hope to God that Tory’s scars weren’t as irreparably deep as her own.

Her best option was Montford University—a position teaching several undergraduate American literature classes. She already had an interview set up with them. Montford was looking for an English professor. The requirements were a little beneath her; the pay not as good as she was currently collecting, but that was indicative of the fact that this was an entry-level position; it had nothing to do with the school. Montford was a private college with impressive credentials. She’d be honored to be named on their faculty roster. And eventually she’d see her salary climb beyond anything she could make at Boston College.

What made Montford so perfect was its location. Shelter Valley, Arizona, was about as far from Boston as she could get.

She’d learned, however, never to count on anything. She had to have other interviews set up, just in case.

Christine jumped when the telephone rang, checked the caller ID, then picked up the phone.

“Phyllis! I thought you were gone until tomorrow night!” She greeted the woman who was the closest thing to a real friend Christine had ever allowed herself. Like Christine, Phyllis Langford was a professor at nearby Boston College. Her friend taught upper-level psychology classes and had left the previous afternoon for a seminar in Washington, D.C.