The Husband Project. Leigh Michaels
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bodysurf across Lake Michigan on a stormy day.”
“And if I explain?”
“Depends on the explanation. To be perfectly honest, I’d still put the odds at about seven to three against, but I’m willing to listen.” He folded his arms across his chest and settled his hip against the terrace rail as if he was prepared to stay there all day.
Alison drew a long breath, hesitated, wet her lips. It shouldn’t be so difficult to say the words, she told herself. Her reasons made perfect sense; any intelligent person could surely understand why she’d come to this conclusion. But her tongue felt numb and three times its normal size.
Partly, she realized, her paralysis was because of the way he was studying her. The last time he’d looked her over, in the emergency room, he’d been watching for symptoms. Now he wasn’t—unless of course he suspected she was a mental case—and though his gaze was no more personal, it was an entirely different kind of survey.
And she was entirely different, too. She wasn’t twisted with pain, flat on her back, her hair mussed and sweaty and her face stark white. She wondered what he thought of the difference.
He shifted slightly against the wrought iron. “If you’re going to tell me that there isn’t even one man in your life, forget it. I don’t buy it.” Another man might have give the line a suggestive twist, or turned it into a compliment. Logan made it sound like the stock report.
Annoyed, Alison said, “Of course there are men in my life. In fact, that’s part of the problem—there are too many men.”
His eyebrows soared. “Oh, this ought to be good,” he muttered. “No, let me guess. They’d all be hurt if you chose one of the others, so to keep things in balance you’re looking for an anonymous donor. Of course, this makes perfect sense.”
Alison glared at him. “I have an incredible number of male friends,” she began. “The key word being friends. I’d like them all to still be friends when this is over. If I had even a short-term affair with one of them, the whole situation would change.”
“Well, now that you mention it—”
“Once there’s a more intimate relationship, it’s impossible to return to real, ordinary friendship.”
“And there’s not a single one of your friends you’d sacrifice for the cause?” Logan murmured.
“There’s also the problem that whichever man I chose would know he was the father of my child, and that could create all sorts of difficulties.”
Logan snapped his fingers. “I have it. If you expand this short-term affair to include all of them, everybody would still be on equal terms with you, and none of them would know who—”
Alison raised her voice. “This is hardly the sort of professional discussion I was looking for, Dr. Kavanaugh.”
“Not even you would know. It’s the perfect—” Logan broke off. “Of course, I suppose they could all line up for DNA tests... Sorry. You’re right, of course. I’ll try to stay focused. Do go on.”
“The father of a child has certain rights.”
“To say nothing of responsibilities,” Logan murmured.
“That doesn’t concern me. Financially, I can support a child easily. I could even take a baby to work with me. And I have no doubt that I’ll be a good parent.”
“Singular. Have you considered that maybe the kid would like to have a father, too?”
“Wouldn’t they all? The fact is, some kids are better off with only one parent. In a good many cases it isn’t having a single parent that’s the problem, it’s being torn apart by the conflict between mother and father.”
Logan didn’t seem to disagree; at least, he stayed silent.
“And I’d be better at the job than most. If you’re worried about who will teach my little boy to pitch a baseball—I will. And I can do anything else that comes along, too.”
He began to applaud. “Brava, brava!”
“I just want a child,” Alison said mulishly. “I don’t want to give some man the right to interfere in my life—and my child’s—for the next eighteen years. I don’t want to mess around with every-other-weekend visitations and arguments about when the kid needs a haircut. Is that so unreasonable?”
“Obviously you’re going to tell me why it isn’t.” he murmured.
“I’d gladly agree never to ask for financial support in return for a promise not to seek parental rights.”
“Now you’re talking. I suspect a lot of men would think that kind of a deal was pretty inviting—they could have all the fun and none of the responsibility.”
“But that’s just it. I know my promise is good, but how could I know he meant what he said? And even if he felt that way now, how could I be certain it would continue?”
“Make him sign something,” Logan suggested.
“Do you honestly think that would do any good? If he came back in a year or two or five and wanted to mess up my child, what’s going to stop him from suing me? All you have to do is read the front pages to know it’s a lot harder for the courts to terminate a father’s rights than it used to be. Even adoption isn’t always final these days.”
“Alison, this is a charming argument, but—”
She raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me, but I haven’t suggested you use my first name. Or do your patients call you Logan?”
“Quite a number of them do. In any -case, it’s a moot point, since you’re not my patient and you’re not going to be.”
Disappointment trickled through her. “You won’t help me?”
“Even after hearing all your so-called reasons, I still don’t see why you need medical intervention to carry out the most natural process on the face of the globe. Besides, I’ve decided just now that as a patient you’re more than I want to handle. I’ll give you my card, and you can talk to my nurse for the names of some other doctors who might be more inclined to cooperate.”
He moved away from the terrace rail, reached for his wallet, and extracted a business card. But he-didn’t hand it to her; to Alison’s utter astonishment he picked up her hand and raised it to his lips. “I must thank you, however, for taking me into your confidence. It’s been—”
If he said entertaining, Alison thought, she’d kick him in the kneecap.
“Truly memorable,” Logan murmured. He put the business card in her palm, folded her fingers, over it, smiled down at her, and was gone.
The walk from her row house to work had taken longer than she’d expected, so Alison was later than usual when she climbed the front steps of the brownstone which housed the offices of Tryad Public Relations. And though she wouldn’t have admitted it even under torture, she was far shakier than she’d expected to be. It was taking longer to snap back after her surgery than she’d thought it would.
From the porch next door, the twin to Tryad’s, Alison heard a soft scuttling sound as Mrs. Holcomb retreated into her house. Though Tryad’s offices had been next door, sharing a common wall, for three years now, Mrs. Holcomb still obviously considered Alison a stranger. And though the woman was no longer the textbook example of a recluse—in fact, she’d loosened up quite remarkably since the days when no one ever saw her outside at all—she still scampered for cover if surprised. But at least she’d speak to Kit and Susannah from time to time.
The idea that the old lady might actually be a bit afraid of her piqued Alison. “I’m just as nice as Kitty and Sue,” she muttered. “You’d think she’d give me a chance, at least.” She smiled at her own self-pity—why should she expect Mrs. Holcomb to be the one