Chapter Two: Cleverly Disguised As A Responsible Adult

I'm sure Tri-State Steam-Kleen was actually quite fast in rearranging my furniture and putting the nice, clean area rugs back in place. Any other time I would have admired their speed record, but I knew there was a pregnancy test with my name on it in the bathroom and I was aching to take it.

Invoice signed, workers tipped and thanked (they had done a LOT of furniture moving), I dashed for the bathroom and tore off plastic wrapping like a madwoman. (Not far off.) I resisted the temptation to stand there and stare (a watched pot never boils; does a watched pregnancy test never change color?); instead I went to the computer and started making a list of all of my furniture and what I could remember from Ducky's house. As the lists grew like weeds, I realized Ducky might have a good idea—chuck it all and start over. There were actually some things neither of us had that would be nice to add; for example, I'd seen a large coffee table (plenty of room for dominoes or other games) with big, deep storage drawers—but the style didn't go with either of our collection of furniture. I started another column labeled PURCHASE?

I made my way cautiously back to the bathroom (what was I afraid of, scaring the test?) and picked up a test wand. With a lack of surprise, I took in the result and looked at the bathroom counter.

Well.

Well, well, well.

Better add crib on that PURCHASE? list.

/ / /

I washed and sealed half of the tile in the kitchen and worked in the north half doing prep work for dinner while the south half dried. I had pulled out a copy of Dianne Mott Davidson's Last Suppers the night before and was working at adapting one of the recipes for our dinner that night. Mind only half on the task at hand, I read through the recipe again, pouring myself a glass of wine without even looking. Boy, do I need a drink. I was just about to take a sip when something in my brain screamed, "STOP!" I stopped. I stared at the glass in near horror and all but threw it on the counter.

Ack!No! No drink! Pregnant! No wine! Bad, bad, bad!

Caffeine—is it good? Bad? The news seemed to change every year. I don't smoke—but I did, periodically, though not for almost a year. How long does that stay in your system? Was almost a year long enough? Oh, god, the people I walked past on the street—second-hand smoke?

Oh, come on. Get a grip. Mom was a smoker back in the 40s and 50s and 60s; nobody thought anything of a martini or two at dinner. Ray and I both turned out relatively okay.

Fetal alcohol syndrome, something in my head whispered.

"Oh, shut up," I said aloud, pouring the wine back into the bottle. I popped the tab on a can of V-8 and went back to the recipe.

So. Do I tell him before dinner and ruin his appetite… or after and make him throw up?

I sighed. I'm way too old for this…

/ / /

Chicken marinating happily in the fridge, north half of the kitchen floor now scrubbed, sealed and drying, I parked myself in Gamma's old, battered, very well-used but still incredibly sturdy rocking chair and let my mind wander as I waited for "Fox" Mulder to appear.

I stared at the accumulation of stuff around the house, mementoes from my grandparents, from my childhood, trips abroad, whatnots from conventions, fifty years' worth of… stuff. (Eighty, if you were picky; Pappi's ashtray (now the stand for a candle) was from somewhere around 1930.) Life. Stuff I'd collected throughout my life. Every so often, life had thrown me a curve ball and I had run around and whined hysterically, "This is not the life I planned!"

No, this was not the life I planned.

Fight or flight.
Survival mode.
Make it work.
When the going gets tough, the tough… go shopping?

A picture on the mantle caught my eye, Ray and me with a hundred or so unnamed hippies at Woodstock, and I thought about the accident so many years ago. Day by day. Sometimes you just do… what you gotta do.

(Do I even remember how to change a diaper?)

The clock above the computer ticked off seconds, the clicks like tiny explosions in the silence. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Tick-tock.
Preg-nant.
Tick-tock.
Preg-nant.

My hands started to shake. I felt hot. Cold. Hot. Cold. Tick-tock. Hot-cold. Tick-tock. Preg-nant. I pulled my sweater-coat from the back of the rocker and slipped it on. (It was a gift from Auntie Miriam. It's actually quite pretty, the most gorgeous shade of blue-violet with pansies embroidered all over it. It's also so large that Ducky and I can cuddle in it together and still make the buttons meet the buttonholes. Auntie Miriam is enthusiastic—just not accurate all the time.) I curled up in the chair and leaned against the spindle back.

Even when I was young and foolish, I never ran into an oh-god-I'm-late month. Considering how blissfully casual we were back then, I was either extraordinarily lucky or my former lovers had all been firing blanks. Here I was, starting my second half century on the planet, my reproductive machinery starting to slow down, Ducky and I were always careful—and now I get hit with 'surprise!'

I snorted faintly and shook my head. Thus are statistics and failure rates created.

The doorbell rang and I shuffled to the hallway and opened the front door. Lily never mention that John Mulder is a long, tall drink o' water. I had to crane my neck back to look up at him—6'6" if he's an inch. Cute as a bug. No, bugs aren't cute. Cute as a bush of little pink daisies, there you go. And his press ID was smack in front of my face, so I knew he wasn't some marauding home invasion artist. "John Mulder?"

"You must be Sandy. You look just the way Lily described you."

I flicked an eyebrow up as I waved him inside. "Do I thank her? Or punch her lights out?"

"Oh, thank her," he said quickly.

"Want something to drink?"

"Sure, thanks."

"Soda, apple juice, grape juice, V-8, wine, water—" I scrabbled through my memory; the hard stuff was all at Ducky's. "Beer—Guinness, to be exact—" His eyes lit up. "Guinness, it is."

Guinness for him, grape juice for me, sloppy plate of cheese and crackers for us both. He spread out about five dozen photographs on the coffee table. "Wow." I picked up the first picture. The place looked like a frigging mansion. Modern castle, even. Acres of land, several buildings, tennis court, croquet court, putting green—"Holy crap, how expensive is this joint?"

"If you have to ask—"

'You can't afford it."

Dining hall (looked like a swank restaurant; I wasn't far off, he said the guests get a changed-daily menu with dozens of choices), game room, library… The bedrooms were suites, with a sitting room and bedroom; some of them had kitchenettes, there was a pet wing, residents were encouraged to bring furniture from home…

"Okay, Ducky's mom is still fine at home—but if she did need to go somewhere, this place looks fantastic. Worth whatever they charge. And that's what's weird." I stopped my perusal of the pictures. "Yes, Mother doesn't have her own bank account any more. But Ducky could afford to have her stay there, I'm sure. If someone can afford to pick up the tab, why would it matter who's paying for it—unless—" Charlie's offhand theory to Evvie—that they were killing off residents for their money—flashed through my mind. "Ohmygod." I dropped the pictures and held up my hands in a "wait, wait, listen" motion. "Maybe they're having the patients put their funds in a trust that pays the facility and when they die, the trust carries over to the facility, and they're bumping people off—"

John looked bemused. "That plot went out when Ironside was still in first run. Besides—I don't think that's even legal."

"Pooh." I slumped back down and took a hit off my juice.

"Plus—nobody really sick is in that place." He shuffled through the photos and pointed to a far-off building. "Hospital the home maintains, owned by the same consortium. Anyone with heavy medical issues goes there. The hospital hasn't had deaths beyond what would be normal for a hospital catering to a geriatric population, the residence hasn't had many at all because, as I said, anyone with health issues gets transferred, and all of the autopsies—" He broke off as I cocked my head at him. "Well… yeah… Just because it's an old plot doesn't mean I didn't think of it, too. But—no. The deaths are perfectly normal, low in number. Nobody bumping off the old folks for their money, no angel of death picking them off in their sleep. It's just a nice, pricey retirement-slash-nursing home."

I growled under my breath. Something funky just had to be going on there.

"That's the director. He's general director for the whole setup, but this is their primary facility, so his office is there. Martin Romero."

Mid-40s. Clothes a little too sharp, a little too expensive. Smile a little too practiced.

"Made me think of Harvey Bains."

My head jerked up and I burst out laughing. "You—you don't mean Waiting For God Harvey Bains?" He nodded and grinned. "I love that show! I want to be Diana Trent when I get old." (Some people would say I already am Diana Trent, age notwithstanding.)

"Well, he's a little smoother than Harvey Bains—but just as smarmy, in my opinion. I left with a bad taste in my mouth."

"Does he have a 'wet flannel' dogsbody Jane, too?"

"Not quite that bad—but, yes, there was a rather meek little thing that followed him around when we were outside. Prettier than Jane. And he certainly spoke to her better. Of course, since he introduced her as his wife, it would be a good thing. Shelly Romero—there, that's her."

Even before I saw her, even before he pointed—I knew. I just knew. "That's Neoma Keithley. She called herself Neoma Keithley, anyway." I sighed. I folded an arm under my bust, propped my elbow on my hand and used the other hand to support my head. "Dammit… something has to be going on there. Why would she use someone else's name to get a gig as a nurse-companion? Why would she quit so suddenly? Why was she trying to get Mother to go to this joint—and then break off—also so suddenly?" I waved my hand dramatically. "Something stinks. And, dammit, I want to know what's going on. No, they're not beating grandpa every day, but something shady is going on, I just know it. Not everyone has someone as buttinsky as me or a son like Ducky—they may not be hurting these people physically—" I looked at the pictures of downright happy people. "But I just know they're hurting them somehow."

"Well, it all looks peachy when you walk through." He snapped his fingers. "Hey. How about we get someone in as a spy? Talk to residents on the Q-T? Maybe Mrs. Mallard?"

"In her more cognizant moments—maybe. But she probably wouldn't remember why she's there or what she's supposed to remember. Or she'd say the wrong thing to the wrong person. Plus, if she ran into Shelly—"

"Oh, yeah, I forgot about that. Hey, what about this Suzy Lily told me about—?"

"Suzy Bailey. She's Mother's, uh, sitter. Suzy would be great—but there's the chance that Shelly might have seen her at the agency—"

"Mmmh," he agreed. "Your mother?" he suggested halfheartedly.

"Well, she's the right age, 78, even though she looks a lot younger." My mother is only fourteen years older than my fiancé. Oy. "But 'Talmadge' isn't exactly 'Smith'—Shelly might link the name… How about your mother?"

He blushed faintly. "Um… my mother is about your age…"

Ow. "My grandparents are all gone… Too bad my crazy Auntie Miriam lives in New York. She'd be great."

John laughed. "For that matter, my grandmother would be perfect. She's a widow, rich as French pastry, just what they're looking for—my grandfather was one of the inventors of that white stuff you use to fix typing mistakes—"

I gave him a skeptical look. "Liquid Paper was invented by the mother of one of The Monkees. She whipped it up in her kitchen."

"No, no, before that—the little pieces of paper with white powder on them? It was called Ko-rec-tor, funny to have a product for correcting typos and your company name looks like it was spelled by the town illiterate. Whatever—Grandmother inherited a freaking fortune when he died. She's sharp as cheddar, brass balls that clang—" (I snorted.) "—would love to play Woodward to our Bernstein—"

"Great, let's—"

"But—"

Crap. There's gotta be a 'but' in there. "'But' what?"

"She's pretty much homebound. She mostly gets around in one of those whizzy chairs around the house. But if she goes out, she gets tired quickly. She'd make it fifteen minutes, thirty, max. She'd be great to do internet research if we need any done," he offered hopefully.

I sighed. "My collection of little old ladies—or little old men—is pretty slim." Well, there was Mr. Eller across the street from Ducky's… but Mother had him pretty spooked. Maybe Abby could talk one of the sisters into helping us? No; as I recall, nuns are pretty much anti-lying—even if the fibs are for a good cause. Abby. Hmm. "Y'know… little old ladies look a lot alike…"

"Yeah," he agreed cautiously.

"Does your grandmother have a license? Would she let you borrow it?"

"Not a license. She's got a state ID card and, yeah, she'd probably let me borrow it." The 'why?' was unspoken, but it was there.

"How soon could you get it?"

He smiled slowly. "She lives in Woodside. Wanna go meet her?"

"You bet." I grinned in response and leaped to my feet and threw my sweater on the rocker.

"You going to tell me what you have planned?" he teased.

"Once I have all my, uh, ducks in a row. Not before then." Let's see, which Nancy Drew was it where she broke into the old folks home…?

/ / /

Dinner had about fifteen minutes to go when I heard the front door open. I stared at my reflection in the back glass of my window box herb garden; the wavering rainbow version of myself looked scared to death. Pretty close to the truth.

"I'm home!"

"Kitchen!"

Tell him now? During dinner? After?

"Hullo, darling… mmh, something smells wonderful… as I didn't know the menu, I took a chance—" He held up a bottle of a Riesling we both particularly like.

"Oh, that would be—" You can't have any! "—perfect," I finished weakly.

/ / /

By the end of dinner, Ducky was absolutely baffled. I had declined the wine, one he knew was one of my favorites, picked at the chicken in portobello mushroom caps and played with the fettucini more than I ate it. (He, on the other hand, raved over the food, went back for seconds on a number of things and was delighted to find that dessert was the infamous chocolate cake from the diner down the street.)

We sat curled up on the couch as we went through the lists I'd made, tossing comments back and forth. "No, no, I'm looking forward to the chance to get rid of that loveseat."

"Are you sure?"

"I saw an advertisement for a lovely sectional—"

"Okay, okay, sectionals, I like—you get options—"

"I know the table you're talking about, very attractive, very functional, would go nicely with this sectional couch I mentioned."

"The bookcases here, back to back, it gives the illusion of another room—"

"—break through the wall, make a master suite—"

"—my washer and dryer are only a couple of years old—"

"—replace those stairs—"

"—sewing room—"

"—can't stand—"

"—blue—"

"—chintz, ugh—"

"—damned chandaliers—"

Sudden silence, and Ducky was staring at me, amused. "What did you just say?"

Oh, god—what did I just say?" I tried to play back the last minutes in my head. "I don't know?" I confessed. (I was pretty sure I hadn't said, 'Honey, I'm pregnant'—he was far too calm.)

"I wasn't sure what you meant," he teased me. "That's why I asked. I mean no insult, dearest—but you're a little… scattered..."

I laughed weakly.

"I can't put my finger on it. But there's something—different—about you tonight."

If he says I'm 'glowing,' I'm going to end up on the news tonight, 'local woman goes bananas, runs through town in hysterics, film at eleven.' "I heard from Fran," I blurted out.

He looked startled at the change of topic. "So did I. She's actually enjoying her trip."

"Mm-hmm. She says she feels like she's in a Hitchcock movie, keeps waiting for Jimmy Stewart to burst through the door." I was starting to have trouble breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Calm down. "Ducky?" My voice was a squeak.

"Yes?" His voice, on the other hand, was very cautious. Use care in approaching crazy people…

Come on, two words. You can do it. "I love you." Not a squeak, but very plaintive.

He smiled. "And I love you," he said reassuringly. He leaned over and kissed me.

"I'm pregnant." I said it before he could pull back, when he was close enough that almost all I could see were his eyes.

He stared at me for a long moment. "You're… pregnant?"

I managed a nod. Oh, god, oh, god, please don't be mad.

"I admit, your list of symptoms… so… Evelyn convinced you?"

"No… I convinced me."

"We've been very careful about protection," he said cautiously.

"Mile High Club?" I reminded him.

He smiled. And blushed. "Ah. Yes. Ahem. Well… before you jump to a conclusion, perhaps we should buy a test—"

I jumped up, ran to the bathroom, and was back in record time. Fingers cold and shaking, I handed him the first test.

He held it very gently, a funny look in his eyes. His smile was a little nervous. "This… is… a rather difinitive blue. It would appear conclusive. But—just to be sure—perhaps we should get another—"

I dropped the other test wands in his lap. All twelve of them.

He laughed. (I'm sure he couldn't help it.) "You certainly are thorough, my dear!"

"Blue plus. Three pink bars. Blue stripe." I laughed weakly. "The word 'yes.' Did you know that you can get pregnancy tests in multi-packs at Costco? Three different brands, they don't stock the really expensive one—" I waved the two with the solid blue stripe on them. I was babbling.

"There's something vaguely unsettling about that notion."

"Yeah, I know. The clerk gave me a really weird look—"

He looked from the tests in his lap to me and barked a short laugh. "I can well imagine."

"I told him it was a science fair project, he just said 'oh'—" I broke off. "Ducky?" I whispered.

He reached over and took one of my icy hands in both of his warm ones. "How are you feeling?" His voice was even gentler than his hands.

"Well—this explains why I'm crying like Niagra Falls, why I'm sick as a dog every other day…" I pointedly ignored the transient pain in my gut. La-la-la-la-I can't hear you-la-la-la-la.

"Yes… but, actually… I meant—how do you feel?"

I took a steadying breath. "Scared." My voice was shaking. (So much for steadying breath.)

"I can understand. Do you—" He hesitated for a split second. "—want to have a child?"

It was one thing to whisper the question in your mind. It's another thing to hear it asked out loud.

Child.

Pregnancy, childbirth, baby, child.

Feeding, diapers, screaming, pediatricians, panic, worry, worry, worry. (Two neices, two nephews, I know the drill.) Toddler, terrible twos, preschool, grade school, high school, HORMONES! 'Is this your grandmother?' 'No, doofus, my mom.' College. (Holy crap, how expensive will college be in twenty years?)

It isn't so much do I want to have a child—but will I be a halfway decent mother? I had never doggedly wanted a child, figuring Ray and Barb had taken care of our family line quite nicely. But even though I hadn't pursued it gung ho, here the opportunity was presenting itself.

Yes?

Or no?

I stared into Ducky's beautiful, beautiful eyes, tonight a dark blue like the ocean after a summer storm, wise and loving. I might not be a great mother (it's one thing to babysit and hand 'em back; it's another to have them 24/7) but I was sure Ducky would be a great father.

But was this fair? To him? I'd be 70 when this kid graduated high school. Ducky would be 83. I tease him that he looks (and definitely acts—well, in some ways) younger—but at his age, most guys are looking at their retirement plan, not paternity leave.

And even though he had proposed weeks ago and we weren't hormonal teens looking at a shotgun-bearing parent and saying, 'oh, shit' over those damning sticks… I couldn't help the niggling fear that somewhere, deep down, he would feel forced, that at some point he'd feel trapped.

"Do you?" I finally managed.

He was silent for a long… long… time. "I… don't want you to feel pressured. In any way, any direction."

"Whatever we do, it will affect us both."

"Yes…" He stroked my hand, not quite as icy as it had been. "But you, more than I. By far."

51 and pregnant. A sentence I never thought I'd hear (not applied to me, anyway). And while the news regularly pops forth about Ms. So-and-So who had a kid at 51 or 58 or 75 or whatever, it was frequently—usually—with great medical intervention. This was Mother Nature having a big ol' belly laugh at us. (Urk. Bad choice of words.) Let's be honest—eggs do have a shelf life; the chance that I might sport a genetic 'oops' was a definite consideration. Plus there was that gut-wrenching gut wrench every so often—la-la-la-la-I can't HEAR you-la-la-la-la!

Of course, we could end up with a kid like Charlie. Or Ellie. (Or Abby, LOL.) I stared into the eyes of my best friend, my confidant, my soulmate, my fiancé, my beloved Ducky. Hell… we could end up with a kid like him.

Ducky.

His eyes. My hair.

A baby with Ducky.

His gorgeous, patrician nose. My long, graceful (not to boast, but it's true) fingers.

Rearing a child with Ducky.

A mixed-up soup pot of our graces and talents, quirks and oddments (Ray's height would be nice, it was so unfair that my parents used up the whole allotment on one kid), creating a whole new, unique person.

Oh, Lordy. His floppy hair, my pug nose, his big hands, Ray's clown shoe feet—oh, you poor kid!

"Yes," I finally said.

He took both of my hands in his, kissed them and held them to his chest. "Then we should get you to a doctor, post-haste." His smile was warm, but I'd seen a flash of worry in his eyes and knew he was thinking—LA-LA-LA-LA-I CAN'T HEAR YOU-LA-LA-LA-LA!

"I have an appointment. Next week. I cancelled my GP appointment for this week and went straight for my OB/GYN." I don't know if there was a part of me that had already said yes—or there was a part that was thinking no. Either way, Dr. Lester's office opened at nine a.m. and I had been on the phone at nine-oh-one.

"Next week?" He looked extremely unhappy. "That's—"

"That's the earliest they could shoehorn me in. I could tell the receptionist was going ah-ah-ah—!" I goggled my eyes and made a 'freak out' face. "—when she saw my birth date and heard 'first pregnancy,' but I talked to Dr. Lester and she didn't freak out. The pain seems to be subsiding, so she thinks it probably is just a pulled muscle—if it weren't, she would have jammed me in at two a.m. if necessary."

"Yes, but—it's one thing to be academic and look at things neutrally, but, dammit, this is you and our child and I can't be academic and neutral!" His fretful brow cleared and he gave me an enthusiastic, gosh-kids-let's-put-on-a-show!-hot-damn look. "I have a friend—"

"No."

"Georgetown, head of the obstetrics—"

"No."

"Darling, he's the top of—"

"No." I turned my hands around so that I was grasping his. "No. No. No. Sorry—but, no. No offense, honey, but… no. No colleague. No friend. No chum, no association buddy, no—no. If this were a cardiac problem or orthopedic or—or neurosurgery, fine. But it's hard enough to establish a relationship with your GYN, women like to go to the doctor they know and trust. Now, if she were to say, 'This is beyond my scope of training, I'm referring you to Dr. Whozits'—fine. But I want to start with the doctor I know. I promise—if she gives me so much as a furrowed brow, I'll do what's necessary, no quibbling."

He sighed deeply and managed a smile. "All right." He looked hesitant. "Would you prefer privacy, see her—ah—on your own, first—"

"Would you like to come with me?" I tried for a balance between earnest and—well, earnest and something. I didn't want him to feel browbeaten into going, but I did want him there.

"Of course." He didn't even hesitate.

"Good. Wednesday. Two o'clock."

"Two o'clock."

"Honey…?" He looked at me, ha, expectantly. "Could we keep this… private… for a while? I'm sure everything will be fine, I just remember one customer, she told everyone on the planet right at the beginning and…" My voice trailed off.

"She… lost the pregnancy," he said gently.

I nodded. "For months she ran into people at the store, at the market, they didn't mean to hurt her—" My eyes grew damp at the memory.

"I can imagine what happened." Ducky is one of the most empathetic people I know. His eyes looked anguished over someone he has never even met. He leaned closer and gave me a little kiss. "For now—it's our secret."

I smiled. "Our secret."

His eyes grew wide. "Oh. Cassandra. I've been so remiss."

I looked at him, puzzled. "How so?"

He smiled, a small, sweet smile that grew to fill the room. "Congratulations. To us both!"

/ / /

"Oh, let me get that!" Ducky took the baking dish from my hands.

"I've got it—"

"No, no, you sit back, take it easy—"

I laughed, bemused. "Ducky, I'm pregnant, not crippled! Not quite even two months—I'm really going to need help when I look like I'm carrying a beach ball under my t-shirt." Twins. Oh, god, I never even thought of twins! I wonder if they run in his family…

"Well, it's my job to pamper and spoil you. No—my privilege and pleasure and joy." He reached up and put the dish on the shelf and turned back to me. He cupped my cheeks in his hands and kissed me lightly. "No more reaching, bending, stretching—"

"You know, nowadays they encourage pregnant women to exercise. They even have special classes for them."

He sighed, considering it. "Well… if your doctor agrees… But, until then—" He shooed me toward the living room. "Let me finish KP and I'll be right back."

"You know," I called out as he headed back, "if you keep acting like this at your house, everyone will jump on it. Even Mother will probably figure it out!"

"Well, then, we shall bandage your arm. Or let it be known that your pulled abdominal muscle hasn't healed and needs rest. But you, my dear, are going to take it easy—" He had the rest of the dishes put away as he spoke and came back to stand by the couch. "—whether you like it or not." He ignored my rolling eyes. "Speaking of which—lie down." Puzzled, I did so. Now what? "No, no—other way." Facing north, not south? I gave him another look of confusion. "You're as stiff as a board. Been under stress much lately?" he half-teased half-diagnosed. "I was going to rub your shoulders, give you a nice massage…"

That sounded awfully good. I did a neat flip over, grabbing a C neck pillow as I turned.

"Shirt?" he prompted,

"What? I didn't get into the full service line?"

"When you put it that way…" He slowly slipped my t-shirt up, stroking my back as he went.

Hidden by the curve of the pillow, I licked my lips and swallowed hard. "Keep that up," I managed, "and I'll be tense in a whole different way."

With my cooperation, he maneuvered the shirt up and off. "Now, now," he teased, his voice a soft purr. "We can't have that…" Deft fingers unhooked my bra and removed it as well—then, to my slight surprise, he actually started massaging my back. I had kind of thought he was veering toward playful seduction but, no, he really meant it. And, oh, damn, did it feel good.

"Good heavens… I've walked on cement with more give," he murmured, thumbs digging in. I was willing to agree; it hurt, but it also felt great as the muscles started to unknot. After quite some time of silence, broken only by noises of contentment from me and tiny noises of effort from him, he said, "So… how long have you known?"

I was half-asleep from the great job he was doing on my back. "For sure… this morning. For sort of sure… yesterday morning."

"I'm surprised you didn't wait until you saw the doctor to tell me."

That kind of hurt. "Why would I wait?" I managed to keep the 'ouch' out of my voice.

He laughed. "I don't know… maybe afraid the surprise would cause a heart attack and it would be nice to have a second doctor on hand?"

That made me laugh. "Mother will dance a damn jig on the roof when we tell her."

"No…" He patted my back to let me know he was through and leaned close. "She was always fonder of swing dancing than jigs."

/ / /

Is he really okay with this? It's not like we planned on having kids, not like we were trying… what happens a year from now, two years from now, five years from now…? Will he regret this decision, will he resent being forced into fatherhood at this time in his life? And even if he does, this is Ducky—he'd keep quiet and stand by to the bitter end, but have his growing anger inside—

Quarter past eleven. House quiet, except for—if you strain your ears—the tick of the clock in the living room. Perfect time for staying wide awake with a galloping case of the what if's.

Even if he's okay with this, there's going to be this nagging thought in the back of his head—'if we didn't have Peanut we could do this, go there…' (I found an internet site that showed gestational pictures, 7-8 weeks is about the size of a peanut, so I started thinking of it as Peanut; or I could be trendy and call it Edamame...) He'd never say it, never hurt me that way—but he still might feel it…

I lay on my side, staring into the darkness. Despite Ducky's ready acceptance, his smiles and hugs and kisses, I still couldn't believe he was really on board with this sudden change. It was so abrupt, such a total one-eighty from what had been our plans and existence only a day or two ago. I was rattled to my core, I was unsettled, I was confused—

—I was scared.

I had spent the better part of fifty years saying, no, I don't want kids. Responses ranged from, 'I don't blame you' (friends who were having One Of Those Days with their own kids, where they would gladly sell the whole tribe for the scrap metal value of the mineral deposits in their bodies) to, 'Oh, you'll change your mind some day!' (same friends, the day the kids banded together to make their parents breakfast in bed—and it wasn't even Mothers' or Fathers' Day). I went through adamant statements, bad jokes, polite shrugs—and never, at any time, was I putting up a brave front. Poor Cassandra, alone in the world, no husband, no kids. (No worries, no ties…)

Now, here I was, saying, 'Yes, I'll be your wife' to the most wonderful man I could have never even imagined knowing. Saying, 'Um… yes?' to a much unplanned but maybe… sort of… starting to be welcome… very late in life baby.

I sighed quietly. This was not the life I'd planned—but maybe we'd lump along well enough. I could hope, anyway.

There was a soft gurgle-glurp as Ducky turned over on the waterbed. Instead of going back to sleep, he spooned up against my back, dropping a kiss on my shoulder. I sighed again, a little more contentedly. He slipped an arm about me, hand resting on my stomach. "Can't sleep?" he murmured.

"Just letting my mind wander…"

"Mmmh…" We lay there for a bit, silent. Finally there was a soft, rueful chuckle against my back.

"What's so funny?"

"Oh… not funny… I was feeling a bit guilty."

That was a new one. "Guilty?"

"Oh… I was just thinking of the coming months—I know well enough the changes, the demands pregnancy will put on your body—I do remember those classes and clinic duty, even though it's been a few years—but I couldn't help thinking…" His hand lightly stroked my stomach. "How wonderful it will be, watching you grow and change… feeling the baby move and kick… I can look at a textbook and break it down to elementary biology, but then I think of you… and I… of our child… I can't help but be awed… and guilty."

"Guilty?" I tried not to laugh. I didn't want to ruin the sweet, sentimental glow that he'd created.

"Maybe selfish is the word. I can't wait for these months to pass, I'm going to absolutely revel in them—but I'm not going to be the one—" The hand on my stomach gestured feebly.

"You're not going to be the one with stretch marks and swollen ankles and a sore back—" I filled in. Even if I hadn't read through much of What to Expect I remembered Barbara's pregnancies. All four of them. (I got her a t-shirt reading After the fifth month, tie-on shoes cease to be amusing. Her response was, "You ain't just whistlin' Dixie.")

"Yes." He snuggled closer, and I could feel his smile against my shoulder. "And I shall be at the ready, with vitamin E cream to rub into your skin, Epsom salts to soak your feet and a long, relaxing foot massage, back rubs to relieve the strain…"

"I remember Barb complaining about not being able to sleep face down."

"We'll work on the back rubs. It will take a bit of creativity."

I wriggled on the bed and turned around in his arms. The 'are you really okay with this?' died on my lips. I've seen Ducky happy—many, many times—before. I've seen him delighted, pleased, thrilled… but never with the sparkle in his eye that I saw. (Hell, he was the one glowing.) He was okay.

We'd be okay.

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