The Christmas Wedding Quilt. Sarah Mayberry
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you the least bit curious about me?”
“The clinic gave me all the information I needed when I picked you from the donor list,” she said stubbornly, but he thought there was the tiniest hesitation in her voice.
“What did they tell you?” he asked, praying it wasn’t much. Even if she wasn’t admitting it, she was bound to wonder.
“The description I read said that you’re intelligent and attractive.” Had her voice warmed a little more?
“Sounds accurate so far,” he said lightly. “Did you see a photo?” He knew the answer. The clinic didn’t have his picture.
“No, but I have a general description. Your looks weren’t my first priority, Mr. Duncan.”
“Call me Mac,” he suggested. When she didn’t reply, he forged on. “What are you going to tell our child about me? No kid wants its father to be a test tube.”
“I haven’t worked that all out yet,” she said defensively. “I still have some time.”
“But how will you answer the questions when they come?” Mac demanded. “The clinic can’t have told you whether I played baseball or if I like vegetables, or even what kind of person I am. If you don’t have the answers, our child will eventually be forced to go looking for them somewhere else. You’ll lose any control over what he or she finds out. Is that what you want?”
“I hadn’t thought about it,” she admitted. “Maybe you could write a letter, one I could give him when he’s old enough to understand the situation.”
“Him?” Mac asked with a tremor in his voice he couldn’t hide. Did she know the baby’s sex already? Good God, was he going to have a son?
“I’m just guessing,” she admitted. “They offered to tell me, but I don’t want to know.” For a moment there was silence on the line. “I think of him as a boy,” she added softly. “It’s probably silly.”
The tenderness in her voice was nearly Mac’s undoing. Hearing it was both reassuring and heart wrenching. At least she cared for the baby, but what was Mac supposed to do with his feelings? Forget them?
“So you know a little bit about me already, but I don’t know anything about you except that you’re pregnant with my baby,” he said, gripping the receiver tighter. “Dammit, that’s not good enough. I have rights, too.”
As soon as the harsh words had left his mouth, he realized he’d made a big mistake. He was met with a wall of silence. “Can’t you put yourself in my place?” he pleaded, the effort to lower his voice nearly closing off his throat. “If our roles were reversed, wouldn’t you want to know something about the person who was going to be raising your firstborn? Wouldn’t you?”
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” she cried. “I don’t know why you donated sperm and I don’t care, but if you don’t stop harassing me, I’ll report you. I’ll get an attorney if I have to. Leave me alone!”
Before Mac could say anything more, she crashed the receiver down in his ear.
Hell, he’d really blown it with his Me, Tarzan, you, Jane routine.
Before he could think what to do next, the door to his office flew open and one of his men poked his head through the doorway. “Boss, the windows for the Merritt project just came in and we have a little problem,” Archer said, tugging on the bill of his Broncos cap. “Can you take a look?”
Just what he needed—something else to deal with.
“Can’t you handle it?” he demanded.
Archer’s eyes widened. “I don’t think so, but I guess I can try.”
Instantly ashamed of his outburst, Mac muttered an apology. “Show me the problem.” Putting aside his frustration, he followed the younger man out to the large shop where most of the work was done on the custom playhouses they manufactured. This project was a rush job, a birthday surprise for the daughter of a computer guru out on the coast. Like nearly everything Mac’s company created, the playhouse was a miniature reproduction of the family home, right down to the front porch columns and the dormer windows. It was being designed and built in sections here in Buttonwood, using blueprints of the bigger house as well as photos and videotapes. Once the playhouse was finished, it would be shipped and assembled on location.
The windows were one of the few parts that weren’t custom-made at Mac’s plant. Instead they were manufactured by an outfit in Denver.
As soon as he saw them, he recognized the problem. The French doors for the back of the playhouse were supposed to be framed in oak, exactly like those in the main house. Instead they’d been stained a dark walnut color.
“I’ll call Mountain View,” he told Archer. “There’s still time for them to redo the order and express it before our deadline.”
Archer looked relieved as he maneuvered the toothpick in his mouth from one side to the other. Like the other employees, he had worked with Mac for nearly ten years, since Mac had taken Small World from a hobby to a full-time business and moved it to Buttonwood. Before that, Archer had been a house framer with a local construction company.
Mac could still remember with painful clarity his parents’ reaction when he’d announced that he was quitting his job as an architect with a major Denver firm to build playhouses. To say they had disapproved would be a serious understatement. They were sure he’d lost his mind.
It hadn’t been the first time they were disappointed in their only offspring. Given his track record as a dutiful son, neither would it be the last.
“I’ll let you deal with Charlie,” Archer said. “I’ve got a balcony railing to put together.” His tool belt jingled as he walked away.
Mac returned to his office and looked up Charlie’s number at Mountain View. As Mac had known he would, the window manufacturer promised to make up the correct doors and send them right away. Another crisis averted. If only all of Mac’s problems were this easy to solve.
Megan pushed the cart through the produce section of the local grocery store, glancing at her short list of items before she stopped to pick out a plump, radiant tomato. Since her pregnancy, she’d been making a concerted effort to eat healthy. She walked every day, avoided caffeine and took her prenatal vitamins.
The third bedroom of her town home had already been turned into a nursery, its walls painted a cheerful yellow. In her mind she could picture the wallpaper border that matched the curtains she’d sewn herself. A new crib sat next to a matching dresser filled with baby clothes and supplies. In the closet was a safety-approved baby seat for the car. The only thing Megan hadn’t planned on providing for her child was a daddy.
Blindly, she steered her cart toward the seafood counter, replaying her conversation with Mac Duncan in her head as she dodged a little girl pushing a miniature stroller.
If our roles were reversed, he’d said, wouldn’t you want to know something about the person who was going to raise your firstborn?
Was Megan being unreasonable in refusing to let him into her life? She hadn’t thought so when she put down the phone, but now she couldn’t help but wonder. How would she feel if the shoe was on the other foot?
To have a child out there somewhere, not knowing how it was treated, what it was being taught or even whether it was loved would be the worst pain she could imagine. Countless women who’d given up their babies for one reason or another had to live with that uncertainty. Did Megan have the right to make this man endure that same torture?
Her hand drifted to her abdomen. Whatever Mr. Duncan’s reason for donating sperm, he had in essence given her this child. Did that grant her the right to keep it from him or was she just being selfish?
Megan’s breath caught as an idea took root.
Perhaps all he really wanted was reassurance. Once he was convinced that she was