My Babies and Me. Tara Quinn Taylor
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possibly be true to themselves, to their own needs and desires, and to each other, as well. There wasn’t room in either of their lives for anyone else’s expectations.
But that was before he’d known she wanted to have a baby.
“You want us to get married again,” he summed up.
She didn’t say anything right away. “Nothing’s changed for us, has it Michael?” she finally asked, frowning.
“How do you mean?”
“Our reason for divorcing. Your career needing you one place, mine needing me another.”
So, she wasn’t planning to move to Chicago? “Not for me, it hasn’t.”
“Then why would we get married again?”
“So you can have your baby.”
“This is almost the new millennium, Michael.” Her voice was a little arrogant as she settled back against him. Hard. “You don’t have to be married to have a baby.”
He was apparently too damn tired to think straight. “Do you mind telling me then, what exactly you do want from me?”
“Your sperm.” Susan grinned up at him. And he saw in her eyes, in the cocky tilt to her mouth, the woman he’d fallen in love with so many years before. The one who always made everything sound so easy.
ALMOST FOUR DAYS LATER, Susan couldn’t believe how relieved she was to have asked the question. She knew there was a good chance Michael was going to say no. But she couldn’t ignore the fact that he hadn’t already done so. And couldn’t help but hope that he wouldn’t.
She’d spent the rest of the weekend in Chicago, and it had been just like old times. He’d taken both days off in deference to her birthday and they’d played to their hearts’ content. In bed and out of it
They’d done the city, gone to the zoo, walked along the skydeck of the Sears Tower, taken a walking tour through downtown Chicago to view the skyscrapers. They’d been sidetracked before they’d actually seen many skyscrapers, however. The cold and their hunger had driven them inside. After an hour and a half spent stuffing themselves at Michael’s favorite restaurant down by the lake, Michael had driven her through the Lake Shore Drive Apartments—glass houses he called them—and out to the Widow Clarke House, the oldest surviving building in Chicago.
And not once, throughout the entire weekend, did they mention Susan’s baby—or anything else remotely serious.
But she knew Michael. He was thinking about the baby. And he’d let her know when he’d made a decision. She just hoped it was sometime before her fortieth birthday.
In any case, she was feeling better Monday morning than she had in a long while. She’d asked him. She could afford to wait. At least for a week or two.
In the meantime, she had another little problem to attend to. A problem named Tricia Halliday. Tricia’s office—it was still hard for Susan to think of it that way—occupied the whole floor above Susan’s. Formerly belonging to Tricia’s husband, Ed, the room was a sportsman’s dream. It had a half basketball court at one end, basketball being Ed’s favorite sport, a putting green running along one wall, and a ceramic tile floor underneath the furniture to accommodate Ed’s best friend, Annie. And it was all wrong for Ed’s widow, Tricia.
Susan had gone to work for Ed right out of college. Having grown up with five brothers, she fit right in with the sports talk, understood the needs of athletes. She could even hold her own on the basketball court if she had to. And she’d adored Ed. She’d been devastated when he’d died of a heart attack last year, playing tennis at his club one Sunday afternoon.
He’d reminded her of her dad with his patience, his ability to see what was done well rather than focusing on what hadn’t been done, his insistence on looking at the bright side, the right side. The major difference between the two men, as evidenced by Susan’s position in the company, was Ed’s lack of chauvinism. He hadn’t thought, as Susan’s father did, that men and women had to be pigeonholed into particular roles.
Unfortunately, Ed’s character hadn’t rubbed off on his widow. Tricia was honest and hardworking, but her only interest was in the bottom line. Her pocketbook. And as Halliday Headgear was a privately held company, there wasn’t a lot anybody could do once the CEO made up her mind about something. Except live with it. Or quit.
Dressed in her red power suit, Susan faced Tricia across Ed’s desk, determined not to leave without some sort of compromise in the McArthur case.
“Are you telling me you can’t win this suit?” the older woman asked, her brows almost touching with the force of her frown.
“No. I’m not telling you that.”
“It was my understanding that my ten-year-old nephew could win this one for us.”
“Probably.”
“So why are we wasting my valuable time, and yours, discussing it?”
“Because the McArthur boy didn’t do anything wrong, Tricia. True, he was playing soccer instead of softball, but the mask would have broken, probably with more serious repercussions, if he’d been hit with a softball rather than a soccer ball.”
“He wasn’t.”
“No, he wasn’t.” Susan paused, eyed her boss, and started again. “But that boy is still paralyzed because of the malfunction of our equipment.”
“What do you want from me, Susan?”
Susan stood, leaned over the front of Tricia’s imposing desk. “I want us to settle out of court, to fund the boy’s operation—and his physical therapy afterward.”
Tricia stood up, too. “That’s got to be thousands of dollars.”
“The lawsuit could cost you a lot more than that.”
“But we’re not going to lose the suit.”
“I had Jill spend a day with Grady Moses down in production.” Looking around at the motivational posters on the walls, the peaks being scaled by climbers, the shots being made, the rides and runs and jumps, Susan took heart from Ed’s memory. “She found out that there was a malfunction several months ago on one of the machines. Six cases of masks were damaged before the error was noticed. Their hinges didn’t have double sealings.”
“I’m aware of the problem.” Tricia nodded. “The machine was fixed, the cases were pulled.”
“Five of the six cases were pulled,” Susan corrected. “While Grady was at lunch someone used the sixth case to fill an order. The masks had been on back order for weeks and someone in shipping was a little too eager.”
Carefully, slowly, Tricia sat back down. Her eyes never left Susan’s face. “You’re telling me we’re going to have more lawsuits, and somewhere along the way, one of them’s going to be the result of a softball injury.”
And the McArthur incident would come to light giving Halliday Headgear some very bad press.
“No.” Susan almost wished she didn’t have to be honest. “Grady was able to track down the orders and make exchanges.”
Relief softening her face, Tricia spread her arms wide. “Then we don’t have a problem.”
“The men’s club in Valdez had ordered five of the recalled masks. They sent back four damaged ones, but the fifth one they returned was a first-quality mask. By mistake, they kept the fifth damaged one for the boys at their church to use.”
“I see.” Tricia folded her hands on top of the desk.
Breathing her first easy breath, Susan hoped Tricia finally did see, and waited patiently for instructions to prepare the out-of-court settlement.
“We’re certain this is the only mask that escaped notice?”
“Positive.”