Becca's Baby

“I gave my workshop, discovered there wasn’t anything else worth my while and took the train home.”

“Brad was there,” Christine guessed, playing with a lock of her long dark hair. After three years, Phyllis was still in love with the man who’d married her and then discovered that he didn’t want to be married to a woman who was arguably smarter than he was.

“Yeah.”

“You wanna come over?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll put the wine in to chill.”

“Teriyaki rice bowls sound okay?”

They sounded great. Sandpaper sounded great if it meant Christine didn?

?t have to spend another Saturday night home alone—worrying. Remembering.

OTHER THAN SARI and Will’s sister, Randi, Becca told no one about her pregnancy. She demanded a promise from Will that he do the same. At least until she was through her first trimester. Until they heard an actual heartbeat. Until she was a little more certain she’d carry the fetus to term.

And so, for the next two weeks she spent most of her time either immersed in committee work or with Randi or Sari. Her friends, her mother, nagged at her about how busy she was. Her younger sister and sister-in-law tended to her as if she was a helpless rag doll. And Will…

Just thinking about her husband hidden in his study—again—as she sat alone in the family room she used to love made Becca feel sick. And she’d thought, when they’d made it through the evening dishes without incident, that she was finally going to have a night free from the nausea that had been plaguing her for weeks.

She’d been wrong.

She made it to the bathroom, barely, and Will was there before her, the toilet seat up, holding a clean washcloth, running it under the tap.

She retched until her ribs hurt, and when it appeared she was finished, Will reached over to flush the toilet with one hand, rubbing her neck with the other.

Then he grabbed the cool wet cloth, passing it gently across her face.

“I hate it that you’re suffering,” he said almost to himself.

Not trusting herself to speak, Becca kept her head lowered, her neck exposed to his tender and soothing administrations.

“Hopefully we’re nearing the end,” he continued.

“The sickness usually only lasts for the first trimester.”

They’d been trading baby books. When he’d read his, he’d leave it on her nightstand. She’d leave hers on his.

Other than the dishes and the nausea, it was about all they shared.

“WHAT’S UP WITH YOU and Will?” Randi asked one Friday night almost two weeks after their visit to the doctor.

Becca pretended to be busy with the address list Randi was helping her prepare for a mass mailing seeking sponsors for the Save the Youth program. She’d had a couple of bites, but final confirmations took time, and she wasn’t leaving anything to chance.

“Nothing’s up,” she said, studiously copying an address from the book of funding possibilities Will had brought her from Montford’s library.

“I’ve been here three nights in the past two weeks,” Randi said briskly, writing away. “He’s come home, had dinner, said almost nothing and retreated to his study, from which he doesn’t emerge until sometime after I’m gone. If at all.”

“He emerges.” He was still sleeping with her. But that was all he was doing. Sleeping. And after their celebration dinner, she’d been so hopeful…

“He’s not upset about the baby, is he? I thought he’d be ecstatic.”

So had Becca. Will had been one of the major reasons she’d worked up the courage to cancel her appointment in Tucson.

“He is thrilled. He’s always wanted children.”