Not Quite Married. Christine Rimmer
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eye. “And the supposed ex-wife? Maybe not so ‘ex’...”
Rory gasped. “You’re kidding. He lied? He had a wife the whole time?”
“No. They had been divorced. But there were recent pictures of the ‘ex’ on his arm at some big charity event. She’s gorgeous, by the way. Beauty-queen gorgeous. Blond. Willowy. Perfect. In the pictures she was smiling at him in this teasing, intimate way. The gossipy article that went with the pictures hinted that maybe a remarriage was in the offing.”
Rory stroked her hair some more. “So that’s why you put off contacting him?”
“Yeah. I kind of lost heart, you know? I didn’t want to mess up his reunion with his ex—really, I didn’t want to deal with him at all by then.”
“Completely, one hundred percent understandable.”
“I decided there was no real rush to tell him about the baby. At that time, I wasn’t due for months and months.”
“I get that.”
“But then those months went by. I continued to put it off, kept avoiding the moment of truth when I would have to face him. And in the middle of that, there was all that frantic planning for the wedding to Ryan that ended up not happening. And, well, now it’s April and my due date is six weeks away. I couldn’t put it off anymore.”
“So you’ve done it. You’ve told him.”
“Yep.”
“And...what next?”
“What do you mean, what next?” Clara stiffened. “I’ve told him, that’s it.”
“But what does he plan to do now?”
“How would I know what he plans?” Clara pulled sharply away.
Rory took the hint and stepped back. Gently, she suggested, “Well, I was thinking he might want to—”
“I said I don’t know.” Clara got up, grabbed their empty bowls and carried them to the sink. “We didn’t get into any of that,” she added without turning.
Rory, still standing by the table, asked, “So you have no clue whether or not he wants to be involved with the baby?”
Clara put the bowls in the sink and flipped on the water. “It’s not like we had a real conversation. I told him that I was pregnant and that I didn’t expect anything from him. I gave him a card with my numbers on it, so he can contact me if he wants to. That was it.”
“But—”
“Look.” Clara left the water running and whirled on Rory. “How would I know what he’ll do next? Probably try to figure out a way to tell his wife that some woman he boinked last summer on Anguilla is having his baby.”
Rory marched over and flipped the water off. “Sweetheart.” She pulled Clara close. “It’s all right. You’ve done what you had to do and you were brave to do it. I’m not getting on you.”
Clara stiffened—and then let her defensiveness go and wrapped her arms good and tight around her cousin. “God. I hate this.”
“I know.” Rory gave her another good squeeze, then took her hand and led her past the breakfast nook to the sofa in the great room. They sat down together. Rory asked, “So he is remarried, then?”
“How would I know?”
“Well, you just mentioned him telling his wife about the baby.”
“I don’t know, all right? I’m just assuming he married her again, from what I read in that article.”
“Today, when you told him about the baby, did he say anything about a wife?”
“No.”
Rory offered gingerly, “So, then, maybe you’re jumping to conclusions a little, don’t you think?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters.”
“Not to me.” She wrapped her arms around her belly and her precious unborn child. “I don’t care what he does. He’s nothing to me.”
“Clara—”
“No. No, don’t do that, Rory. Don’t look at me like that, all tender and patient and sorry for me. I don’t need anyone feeling sorry for me. I’m fine.”
“I know you are. Darling, I love you and I can see how hard this has been—how hard this is for you, that’s all.”
Clara let out a moan. “Oh, Rory...”
“Come here. Come on.”
So Clara sagged against her cousin again. And Rory held her close and stroked her hair and whispered that it was going to be all right. Clara cried a little. And Rory dried her tears.
And Clara said, “I’ll probably never see the guy again, you know? And that’s okay. I can live with that. I don’t like it. It’s a long way from my fantasy of how things would go. It’s just...what it is. I’m having my baby and we’re going to be a family, the two of us. I have a whole lot to be thankful for in this life, people I can count on, people who have my back, a successful business and a beautiful home. I may not have a man to stand beside me. But I have everything else, and that’s plenty for me. I’ve done what I needed to do, told Dalton Ames about the baby. And now I’m going to buck the hell up and get on with my life.”
Rory left an hour later.
Clara went to bed and slept the whole night without waking up once. She felt...better. Calmer. More able to cope. She’d done what she needed to do; then she’d shared the whole long, sad story with someone she trusted, and she’d had a good cry over it.
Now, at last, she could move on.
Two days later, Dalton Ames knocked on her door.
It was a busy day at the café, with every table taken and customers lined up to get a seat.
The lunch rush went on and on. They turned the place over four times before things started easing off. Between eleven and three, Clara never sat down once. It was exhausting, especially in her pregnant state. Also, fabulous. More proof that the Library Café was a bona fide success.
After the rush, she had meetings with salespeople, scheduling and ordering to deal with, followed by a trip to the bank. It was almost six when she finally walked in her front door.
She headed straight for the shower, shedding clothes as she went. Twenty minutes later, barefoot in her softest, roomiest lounge pants and a giant pink shirt with Mama Needs Ice Cream printed across the front, she had a light dinner. Then she stretched out on the sofa to veg out with a little mindless television.
Her head had just hit the sofa pillow and she was pointing the remote at the flat-screen over the fireplace when the doorbell rang.
What now? She wasn’t expecting anyone, and her tired, pregnant body had zero desire to get up from the comfy sofa and walk all the way to front of the house.
However, she just happened to be one of those people who answered phones and doorbells automatically. It could be something important and you might as well deal with it now as later. So she put down the remote, dragged herself to her feet again, shuffled to the front door and pulled it wide.
And there he was. Dalton. As tall, dark and wonderful to look at as ever. In a suit even more beautiful and pricey-looking than the one he’d been wearing two days before.
Her hopeless heart gave a leap of ridiculous, giddy joy just at the sight of him. The rotten SOB.
He said, “Hello, Clara.” And those eyes, which were a deep crystal blue surely not found