The Christmas Wedding Quilt. Sarah Mayberry
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of the publishers for whom she did freelance cookbook indexing, a periodical about cats and a letter from the baby clinic.
She’d called the clinic last week to sign up for the birthing class she’d canceled three months before when her friend Helen, who’d agreed to go with her, had been transferred to Boston. Megan still needed to find a new partner. Since she worked at home and had no family in the area, her options were limited.
In the envelope was a flyer about the class and a letter. As Megan read it, the blood slowly drained from her head, leaving her dizzy.
She’d planned on raising her child alone. Except for the biological father’s medical history and a brief physical description, she knew nothing about him. Didn’t want to know. Deliberately she had picked a donor who wished to remain anonymous, and she’d been assured by the clinic that neither of their identities would ever be revealed to the other.
In the past she had tried to do it the traditional way—meet a man, fall in love, get married and have a family. If Mr. Right was out there, Megan hadn’t been able to find him despite several disappointing attempts. The Buttonwood Baby Clinic had offered her an alternative and she’d moved here to take it.
Now she felt betrayed. According to this letter the donor, MacGregor Duncan, was going to be her partner at the new childbirth class.
No, no, no! This was terrible. He never should have been given her name. The people at the clinic were crazy if they thought she’d go along with this arrangement.
Heart racing, Megan grabbed the phone. Not only had she no intention of learning about breathing, contractions and delivery with a perfect stranger, she didn’t want some man interfering in her life and the raising of her child. Her child. Not his. Not theirs. No shared custody. No meddling. That wasn’t the deal.
A few frustrating moments later, Megan replaced the receiver and pressed the heels of her hands to her head. She was too late. Mr. Duncan’s notice had been mailed the same day as hers. By now he knew her identity, too. The woman Megan had talked to had been no help at all and Megan had been too upset to insist on speaking with someone else.
She thought about calling them back. Instead she got up and circled the table, one hand braced on her back. What a mess!
What was she going to do now?
Probably the most sensible plan of action would be to contact the donor herself, but something inside her hated to cross that line. Since she’d become pregnant, she had managed to forget that anyone else had been involved in the process. Now that she knew the donor’s name it was more difficult to ignore his existence. Once she spoke to him, heard his voice, it might become downright impossible.
She popped a peanut butter M&M from a bowl on the counter into her mouth. She could just skip the class. No, it was much too late to reschedule. Although she’d spent a considerable part of her childhood taking care of various younger cousins, they hadn’t actually been babies. Besides, she knew next to nothing about giving birth.
Perhaps the donor was as surprised by the notice as she was. He must realize that being assigned as her birthing-class partner was an unfortunate clerical error, to quote the girl at the clinic. Unless he assumed it was all Megan’s idea. Oh, dear. She had to set him straight and to explain that she wanted nothing to do with him. There was no reason for them to ever meet.
Surely he’d be relieved to know he was off the hook. A man who donated sperm wasn’t looking for parental responsibility, child support, weekend visits, diapers, bottles, or anything else that went along with having a baby together—was he?
She had to know his intentions. There was a chance she would need to consult an attorney and find out her rights.
Since when had maternity gotten so complicated?
Before Megan could reach for another M&M, the baby gave her a hard kick. Despite her refusal to be told its gender, she had always thought of it as a boy.
“Hey, champ, how are you doing?” she cooed, rubbing the spot he’d poked. Already she loved this little being, this tiny, precious part of herself. Since she had first decided to become a single parent and raise a child alone, she hadn’t had one moment of regret or doubt. Together the two of them would become the family Megan had always longed for.
She picked up the letter again and read the donor’s name aloud. “MacGregor Duncan.” No question of his ancestry. She didn’t care about that—there were probably a few drops of Scottish blood in her own mixed lineage.
The man was a stranger and yet, despite her attempt to ignore his contribution, a part of him was growing inside her. She had been told that he was intelligent, healthy, had medium-brown hair and dark eyes. Before she had known his name, she hadn’t given him another thought, but now her curiosity was piqued.
Biting her lip, she shook her head and crumpled up the letter. There were reasons she’d chosen to have this child alone. Best she not forget them.
In the silence of her town home, the sudden shrill ring of the phone startled both her and Cassius, who raised his head and gave her an accusing glance. Usually Megan let the machine take her calls during her working hours, but this time she picked up the receiver without thinking and said hello.
“Is this Megan Malone?”
At the sound of the deep male voice, a shiver of response slid down her spine. Dratted hormones. “Yes, this is she,” she answered warily. Sometimes even telemarketers had attractive voices.
There was another pause, but she could hear breathing. She was about to hang up when a strong suspicion leaped at her. “Mr. Duncan?” she blurted.
“Yes, but how did you know?” He sounded surprised.
“I just read my mail,” she said dryly. “When I called the clinic, they told me you’d been sent the same letter I got. I assume you’re as stunned as I am by this bizarre turn of events.”
“Stunned doesn’t begin to describe my reaction,” he replied with a thread of humor in his voice that warmed her, despite her wariness. At least the situation hadn’t been all his idea.
Megan frowned. She must remember she really knew nothing about what kind of man he was—except, of course, that he had an adequate sperm count. Nor did she want to know. Instantly her defenses went back up.
“It’s the letter I’m calling about,” he said. “This is awkward, but did you request me as a partner in your childbirth class?”
It was the last thing Megan had expected him to ask. “No,” she replied forcefully. “Why would I do that?”
There was a pause. “Could we get together somewhere and talk?” he asked. “It’s hard to discuss this kind of thing over the phone.”
Panic welled in Megan. Everything was happening too fast. “Getting together isn’t a good idea. It’s obvious the clinic made some kind of mistake, but we can still pretend we don’t know each other’s identity. I don’t want anything from you, Mr. Duncan, and I don’t want to meet you.” Her voice was rising, so she took a deep breath. “This was all supposed to be confidential. From here on out, let’s keep it that way.”
Before he could reply, Megan hung up the receiver. She was shaking all over. This kind of stress couldn’t be good for her baby. It sure as heck wasn’t good for her. She ran a soothing hand over her stomach and murmured softly.
Before she could completely calm down, the phone rang again. Taking deep, slow breaths, she let the machine take it. Someone at the clinic had a lot of explaining to do! As soon as she heard Duncan’s voice, she pressed her hands to her ears and left the room. Moving as quickly as she could, she went back upstairs, humming loudly to block him out.
The phone rang twice more that afternoon while she tried to work. She thought about calling the clinic again, but she finally decided to wait until she’d had a chance to think the situation through. When she finally went back downstairs and saw the insistent flashing light on her answering machine, she deleted both