Baby, Baby. Roz Fox Denny
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It was time for the DNA test results that would finally answer the crucial question: Who was the father?
The silence in the room was taut with suspense as Judge Brown slid a letter opener under the envelope flap. Her agonizingly slow rip of the paper had the same effect on the room’s occupants as running a fingernail down a blackboard.
All drew in deep breaths when the judge extracted two sheets of paper. “For the benefit of the record,” the judge stated, “let it show that I’ve removed individual reports on blood drawn on September fourth by a hematologist at Good Shepherd Hospital laboratory. One report is for Kipp J. Fielding III, the other for Michael L. Cameron, M.D.”
Faith had her fingers crossed that Michael’s name would be inside that envelope—that DNA testing would prove Michael was the babies’ father.
Judge Brown perused first one sheet, then the other. “My stars!” she burst out. Both papers slipped from her fingers and fluttered to the floor. The judge’s eyes, indeed her whole face, reflected her shock. Composing herself with an effort, she bent and retrieved the pages.
“In my twenty years of serving in various capacities with Family Court,” she said, “I’ve never run across anything like this….”
Dear Reader,
Two separate and quite diverse incidents served as catalysts for this story. First, my daughter had twins, the only multiple birth in our family, as far as we know. Helping out after the birth of the babies, I found that twins are far more than twice the work of having a single child. Two babies had four adults working twenty-four hours a day…to the point of being comedic. Or it would have seemed funny had we not been so blasted tired. Several years ago I’d written a story that included twins (Trouble at Lone Spur), but I knew I wanted to do another one. Infants this time. A story dedicated to all the hardworking parents of multiples.
Sometime after I’d returned home, and recovered from the hectic pace of my visit, the second kernel for this story germinated. I read a two-inch article in a local newspaper about a precedent-setting custody case involving twins. Voilà! A storyteller’s delight—a twisted plot device if I ever saw one. My story has virtually nothing in common with the actual case. That’s the real fun of writing. The story becomes uniquely a writer’s own. I hope you enjoy learning how twins Nicholas and Abigail end up with the loving parents they deserve.
Roz Denny Fox
P.S. I love hearing from my readers. Write me at P.O. Box 17480-101 Tucson, Arizona 85731.
Baby, Baby
Roz Denny Fox
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
January 4
MICHAEL CAMERON TURNED UP his coat collar before he stepped out of the cab. He took care to shield his medical bag from the cold, relentless rain blowing into New York City. “Keep the change,” he told the cabby, thrusting a folded bill through a slit in the window. Hunched into his topcoat, Michael stared up at the window of his luxury midtown Manhattan penthouse. Now he wished he hadn’t asked his secretary to phone Lacy and forewarn her of his arrival. She would be furious at his leaving her in the lurch again. “As if I have a choice,” he muttered, taking the front steps two at a time.
Bettis, the attendant on duty, opened the building’s main door. He extended Michael a large umbrella. “Nasty weather, eh, Doc?”
“Thanks.” Michael shook wet hair out of his eyes as he ducked under the canvas. “Nasty all right, but at least it hasn’t turned to sleet.” He lingered, making small talk. The longer he avoided the scene that surely awaited him upstairs, the better.
“Home early today, huh?” Bettis closed the umbrella and reached around Michael to press the button summoning the private elevator. “Big evening, I guess.” The older man winked. “Saks delivered Mrs. Cameron’s new dress. Oops. Don’t tell her I spilled the beans. I think she planned to surprise you.”
Michael frowned as he entered the elevator. “Lacy bought a new dress for tonight? Damn,” he muttered. Keeping the door ajar with his bag, he pushed back one cuff to check a flat gold watch. “I need a cab out front by two, Bettis. I’m scheduled on a five-twenty international flight. In this weather, traffic to JFK will be hell.”
The doorman nodded briskly, but his eyes were sympathetic as Michael let the door close. Michael hoped he hadn’t revealed his own unsettled feelings. It galled him to think the staff had probably discussed his rocky marriage—although it shouldn’t surprise him that Bettis was aware of his and Lacy’s problems. After all, the doorman occasionally dated the Camerons’ housekeeper.
Michael dug for his door key as the elevator glided to a stop outside his apartment. Could he really blame staff for talking when the situation between him and Lacy had gone from bad to worse over the past ten months? That was why he’d arranged a night out, hoping to mend their latest rift. An unexpected trip was the last thing he needed. But there was no other option. Throwing back his shoulders, Michael braced for battle as he moved to insert his key in the lock.
Surprisingly, the door swung inward. Caught off balance, Michael pitched forward, hands flailing, as Lacy flung herself at his chest. The key flew in one direction and his bag in the other, and Michael’s arms circled his wife’s too thin frame. His shocked sputter ended with a mouthful of Lacy’s fine blond hair. She paid no attention to his incoherent gurgle, only fused her mouth with his as she stripped him of his coat, jacket and tie.
“Mmm, Michael,” she whispered seductively. “When Maxine phoned to say you were leaving the clinic early, I sent Mrs. Parker to a movie.” Lacy’s momentum propelled Michael into the bedroom where they both toppled onto a king-size bed.
“Lacy, what the…?” He’d barely lifted himself onto his elbows when she unfastened