Chapter Four

A few months into married life, the two have already settled in nicely in their new home, also located in Pamplona. Races have come and go, gossip has escalated, and love has never been hotter and readily available. Today, they were easy and relaxed at home.

"Miguel," she called from upstairs, and he rushed to the second floor. "I thought I told you no eating in the room?"

Unfortunately for Margo, a 50" flatscreen TV had been installed with cable, and Miguel had put it to very good use, buying a Blu-Ray DVD player and movies. And this entailed eating in the room and on the bed, too.

He sighed and snatched the bag of chips from her hands. "Mine," he murmured, a little irritated.

She sighed, too, almost exasperated. "Love, come on," she said. "You know as well as I do that ants will get in there and we'll then have to call the exterminators."

"But why won't you let me eat and watch?" he asked, turning around to face her.

"You can buy yourself a new TV and put it in the living room," she suggested.

"But we already have a TV," he put in.

She folded her arms over her chest. "Well, then make a decision. Eat or watch," she said finally, and went back to fixing the master's bedroom.

After throwing out the plastic bag he moved to help her fix the messed-up room and helping her with the bed. But as they started folding the large quilt though, she dashed away to the bathroom, and he heard her retch. Worriedly he dashed inside to find her crouched over the bowl, and fought to keep his lunch down as he stood by to hold up her hair.

"I didn't account for this," she growled as more food started coming up until all that was left was bile.

"Are you sick?" he asked her as she washed her face.

"No." She spat the foam in her mouth and rinsed the brush in her hand. "I don't even feel weird, and I know when I do." She wiped her face with a towel before having him trail after her back into the room.

He was still worried about her though. He had as much right to as her own mother.

As they started settling in for the night, he found her counting from a mark in her planner, her brows knit together in deep thought.

He slid his arms around her waist before kissing her cheek lightly. "The race isn't until next week, amor," he murmured as he rested his chin on her shoulder. "Why count the days?"

She closed the book quietly, still in her thoughtful trance. "Maybe it's nothing," she murmured.

"What is?" he said, swaying them both slightly. It had been a long day, and he was so looking forward to tonight.

"Nothing," she said, turning in his arms and pressing her face to his, hands in his hair, as they twirled towards the large bed.

"Margo, what's wrong?" he asked her as they settled under the covers.

"Nothing's wrong," she reassured him, rubbing her cheek over his shirt happily, senses partially intoxicated. "I don't want you to worry any more than I have to be." She pressed her lips to the spot right over his heart lightly before gazing into his green eyes lovingly.

He just stared at her with alarm in his eyes, scrutinizing her. She was too soft for her own good, always wanting the best for him. And with a race coming up, worry should be the last thing on his mind. He sighed, smiling slightly before coming his fingers through her wet, loose hair. She returned the smile with hers before love closed over them.

The days passed. Vomiting was becoming more and more frequent in some days. Miguel insisted she go to a doctor, but she was too stubborn to follow. Other weird things were starting to happen, like her coming and going at night when all he wanted was for her to stay in his arms until the dawning light, then sleeping in the day. Sometimes she wouldn't be in the mood to have eggs for breakfast or so. But to his surprise, she had even turned her nose up at her morning serving of coffee! Things were getting serious, but she claimed she was as normal as she could be.

And then, the day of the race had arrived. He was to start in fifth position, which was more or less great. His team stood by in the pits, awaiting the go signal to be given by officials.

"Are you sure you're fine?" Miguel called through the radio.

"I'm fine, Miguel," she reassured him. "Now just go and win this for us."

Three, two, one, green, and they were off to a screeching start, leaving the grid in less than five seconds. As usual, the team were to wait for orders from Petro Cartalina, the crew chief. Margo just sat by, watching the race from there, listening to Petro call into the radio as he led Miguel through the track.

For some sort of safety precaution that she couldn't name, she had an opaque plastic bag in her pocket.

Also, as always, there would be a technical problem in the engine. Miguel makes an unplanned pit stop, and it was time for the better female to get to work.

"What's wrong?" she called as she popped the hood with gloved hands.

"Keeps stalling, as usual," he said, and she went to check the cylinders.

Someone had tinkered with the oil flow, and now the pistons won't move. Nonetheless it might have been a ruptured line, and called for a spare line.

But before she can even install the tube she grabs the plastic peeking out of her pocket and retches into it.

"No, not again," Miguel calls, and the crew rushes to the girl that has bent over the plastic, her lunch being thrown out of her system. As she straightened, someone took hold of the bag for her, and without a moment to lose she bent over the engine to finish what she had started, stomach still tight.

"Promise me you'll go to a doctor after you fix the engine," he pleaded.

She only nodded as she coughed, and shut the cover. With that he raced away.

They had finished in eighth place, and that put their team one place lower than the last, fifth place in the scoreboard. But he wasn't worried about that now; all he could think of was Margo and what was wrong with her for the past few weeks.

She had been escorted to the nearest hospital, where she was given a full medical examination. By the time he had arrived she still wasn't done yet, and Petro Cartalina was certain she had gone about an hour and a half before. Both men waited for the doctor's verdict, and heard laughs of euphoria in the room. A female doctor's head popped out, smiling.

"Oh, Señor Camino," she greeted, grinning. "Come on in; they're waiting for you."

He was bewildered by the fact that the doctor was smiling—and who were 'they'?—and followed her inside the room. He wasn't aware what this room was-it could be surgery for all he knew-and found Margo in a bed, blue blanket stretched up to her ribs. She was smiling widely, like she was when they drove fast in his Maserati GranCabrio with its top down, and laughing with her eyes closed as her head rested on the pillow. He couldn't see her pants anywhere, but her shoes were right there beside the bed.

Beside her was a monitor and several other instruments. He wondered what they were for, but didn't get to as as he went to take her hand in his tightly.

"What happened?" he asked, tone laced with alarm. "Why are you in a hospital bed? What's all this for?" He gestured to the monitors beside her.

"Should I tell him or should you?" the woman in a lab coat asked her.

"I think we should show him." She grinned. "He doesn't usually believe his ears sometimes, so it's best to make him see."

She gripped his hand slightly, and she looked to the monitor beside her. He wondered for a moment why she was ecstatic until his eyes glanced at the TV-like screen.

Lines of white and shadows of gray made a moving picture. Guide lines like you see in tables were on the left and bottom of it. Other statistical data was placed elsewhere. She was right; he wouldn't believe it if she'd just told him. She glanced at him again to find his lips parted in disbelief. He glanced down at her, and she nodded with glittering eyes.

He laughed once, which led to more as they watched the lifelike movie before their eyes, his hand tight on hers, tears of joy streaming down his cheeks.

He was going to be a father.