SH Medical 07 - The Detective's Accidental Baby (5 page)

Chapter Five

Erica hummed as she reheated their dinners in the microwave. Her body seemed to murmur along with the melody, which she recognized as one of Dr. T’s favorites—“Oh, What a Beautiful Morning” from the musical
Oklahoma!

How saccharine could she get? Still, she felt an unaccustomed lilt to her movements as she set the warm plates on the table.

Her earlier shakiness was long gone. While she had no illusions about recovering from Jordan’s death on the basis of one conversation or one episode of transcendent sex, for now the pain had receded. It had been replaced by something new, something too sensitive and fresh to analyze.

Let matters unfold at their own pace. She just hoped Lock wasn’t the love-’em-and-leave-’em type, but if he was, she could handle that.

Despite her attempt at detachment, Erica’s spirits lifted when he sauntered into view, shirt rumpled in defiance of his attempt to tuck it into his pants, and corded forearms visible below rolled-up sleeves.

“Dinner’s ready,” she said cheerfully. “Again.”

“Thanks for heating it up.” He held her chair for her. “Although I doubt the pasta will be quite as tasty.”

“Parmesan hides a multitude of sins.” She’d cleaned up the mess she’d made and poured fresh glasses of wine. Lucky that she preferred white, since red would have left a stain on the rug.

They ate in what seemed to her a comfortable silence. Absorbed in her food, Erica didn’t register the tension in Lock until his stiff fingers knocked over the saltshaker.

She reached to right it. When their hands brushed, he jerked away.

Disappointment dimmed her mood. Ignoring the salt, she regarded him steadily. “If you’re concerned that I’m the clingy type, don’t be.”

“What?” He rotated his empty wineglass absently.

“If you break that, you pay for it.” She hoped the joke would lighten the mood, but he merely set the glass down. “If you’re going to bolt for the door, don’t forget your shoes and jacket. I’d hate to have to send them by way of Patty.”

Was that guilt in his expression? Erica couldn’t figure out this guy. For heaven’s sake, she’d practically given him permission to dump her. What could be bothering him?

He patted his mouth with his napkin and took a deep breath. “The condom broke.”

“What?”

Lock didn’t repeat the statement. Obviously, she’d heard it. She was just having trouble grasping the implications.

“Exactly how long had that thing been in your wallet?” Erica asked. “Don’t tell me you bought it out of a vending machine at a rest stop.”

“I don’t remember, and no,” he answered in a level tone. “Let’s move past affixing blame, okay?”

She hadn’t meant to do that. “Sorry.”

“The odds are fairly low that you’ll…you know.”

“I’m a nurse in a fertility program. You can say the word
pregnant
around me.” Hearing her sarcastic tone, Erica waved a hand apologetically. “Sorry again. My responses tend to be defensive.”

“I understand.”

The condom broke.
She wished he could take back those words. Oh, for pity’s sake, that wasn’t the issue. Why had she been such an idiot? Why had she imagined that a few minutes of lust were worth the risk?

“You’re right,” she said into the silence. “The odds are low. I work with women who try for years to get pregnant. Even under normal circumstances, it takes a few months.”

“Nature has a quirky sense of humor.” Lock stacked her empty plate atop his. “Whatever happens, you can count on me. We’ll get through this together.”

Why was he acting as if they were a couple? “I barely know you.” Erica ignored the little voice reminding her that she should have thought of that sooner.

“It looks like we’re going to know each other a lot better,” he said.

Suddenly she longed to be alone. Solitude meant being free of other people’s emotions, alone to be churlish and angry without having to act polite.

“I’m a big girl. I can take the consequences of my actions.” Getting to her feet, Erica grabbed the plates and silverware and made her getaway to the kitchen. “If you don’t mind, I’m tired and I have to be up early tomorrow.”

“You work on Saturdays?” Lock asked.

“I put in an extra half day if Dr. Tartikoff schedules surgery. And he usually does.” At the sink, she set the plates to soak.

“Erica, are you kicking me out?”

“Not exactly.”

“But if I stick around for dessert, you might throw it at my head?” Lock said.

She turned to face him. “Okay, yes. You should leave.”

“Why?” he asked. “We’re equally involved in this situation.”

How typical of a guy to think that way. “I’m the one who’ll swell up like a balloon and go through nine months of discomfort and hours of agony if I’m pregnant.” She didn’t mean to rail at him, but being put in this situation infuriated her. “Lock, I appreciate that you mean well, but this is my problem.
If
there’s a problem.”

“I want to help.”

“I don’t need help.” Why hadn’t he been more careful about the condom? It was too late for him to change anything now. “This is probably all unnecessary. So don’t worry about it.”

His jaw worked. At last he gave a reluctant nod. “Promise to call me when you know what’s what.” He handed her a business card bearing his name and phone number under the logo of Fact Hunter Investigations.

“All right.” She put the card in a drawer under the counter, between a deck of playing cards and a tray of pens and pencils.

They regarded each other across the counter. To Erica, it felt like the Great Wall of China. “Want a ride to your car now?” he asked. “Or I could stop by in the morning.”

She’d forgotten about that. “I’ll get up early and walk.”

“That’s a long way.”

“It’s only a mile and a half.”

His shrug conceded defeat. “You have my number. And, Erica?”

She watched warily as he put on his jacket and shoes. “Yes?”

“Happy birthday.” With a rueful smile, out he went.

Erica flipped the bolt behind him. What was that old saying about closing the barn door after the horse had escaped?
Or, rather, after you let him inside in the first place.

Turning, she pressed her back to the door and sought comfort in the familiarity of the room. There was the couch she’d lovingly recovered and refinished after she found it, frayed and scuffed, at an end-of-the-college-year sale in Cambridge. A couple of stained-glass lamps from a pawn shop, the round table from an estate sale in Brookline, the antique frame for which she’d had a mirror cut to size. This was her home, sheltering and filled with the personal power she’d sworn never to yield to anyone.

A sense of calm settled over Erica. As she’d told Lock, she could deal just fine with whatever developed.

T
HWACK
!
T
HE
WHITE
BALL
shot across the pool table and sent colored balls skimming over the green felt. As Lock moved into position for his next shot, he tried in vain to tune out Mike’s voice, talking on the phone in the depths of their rented house.

“Thanks, Mom,” his brother was saying. “Okay, now tell me about Grandma’s diabetes. Was that type 1 or type 2?”

Why on earth did the guy care? Lock wondered grumpily, and took an angle shot. Two balls kissed, knocking one a few inches out of the way and pocketing the other. He made his way around the table, gauging his best bet for scoring.

He wasn’t sure why it seemed so important to tune up his game. Sure, he and his brother had a friendly rivalry with some of Mike’s old police buddies, who occasionally dropped by to enjoy the pool table that had come with the rest of the furnishings. Mostly, though, Lock needed to blow off energy, and on a rainy March evening, after a long day at work, he didn’t feel like going for a run.

These past five weeks, he’d done plenty of jogging, everywhere but City Hall Park. Giving Erica her space seemed the honorable thing to do. Finally, he’d left a message on her cell phone, figuring she ought to know by now whether she was pregnant. She hadn’t responded to that message or a second one, either.

Erica’s silence didn’t keep her out of his thoughts. Their time together had replayed through his mind countless times. Finally Lock had figured out why gazing into her eyes gave him the sense of staring into his own soul.

The two of them were emotional twins. Both had been emotionally abandoned—in his case literally, by his birth mother and his adoptive parents; in her case by parents who’d turned a cold shoulder when she’d needed them most and later by her creep of a husband. Now he and Erica had the same instinct for pulling away from relationships, the same prickly insistence on independence and the same fierce resistance against being caged.

Except this time, he didn’t feel like ducking out. Not yet, anyway.

“Was Grandma’s heart attack related to the diabetes?” Mike’s voice echoed down the hallway. Hadn’t he ever heard of closing the door? “No, Mom, I’m not having problems. Like I told you, I have to fill out a medical history.”

Was this a new insurance requirement? Lock had been astonished at the mountains of paperwork required to operate a business in California.

If he had to fill out a family medical history, he’d be done in a minute. What little he knew came from the papers that had followed him from the adoption agency through several foster homes. Mother’s age at birth: seventeen. Her marital status: single. Her health: good. Her occupation: student. Nothing about his father. No idea if his parents or grandparents had suffered from diabetes, heart disease, leprosy or beriberi.

“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way. I’ll never find out, so you won’t, either.” Mike’s conversation with his mother appeared to have moved to a new topic. “What’s the big deal? Marianne’s only thirty. I’m sure she’ll get married and have kids one of these days. And how about Lourdes? She’s got two and Denzel has one that we know of. Also, aren’t Fatima and her husband expecting?”

Lock set down his pool cue. He couldn’t concentrate while his brain was puzzling over this one-sided conversation. Marianne was Mike’s biological sister. Lourdes and Denzel had been among the foster kids who came and went during Lock’s time with the Aarons, while Fatima had joined the flock later. Although many had lost touch over the years, those three, along with their various spouses and kids, and Lock joined the dinner table at Thanksgiving and Christmas.

If he understood correctly, Mike was reassuring his mother about grandchildren. But what did this have to do with his medical history or that odd statement: “I’ll never find out”?

After racking the balls, Lock went into the kitchen, his shoes scuffing the worn linoleum. They were out of tortilla chips, he discovered. No cookies, either. Mike had taken the last turn at shopping, and all he’d bought for snacking appeared to be fruit.

Lock was finishing a banana when his brother showed up, sandy hair tousled as if he’d been running his fingers through it. Conversations with Nina Aaron tended to do that to her son.

As for Lock, he enjoyed her probing into the details of his personal life, because it showed that she cared. Recently, though, he’d steered their discussions onto safer topics, such as how well he’d done on the two-hour private-investigators exam. That had been an ordeal, covering laws and regulations and civil and criminal liability, as well as evidence handling, undercover investigations and surveillance. He’d passed with flying colors and earned his license.

From a bowl on the counter, Mike snatched an apple and bit into it. “What was all that about?” Lock asked him.

“What was all what?” he responded through a full mouth. “Did you wash these?”

“You bought ’em,” Lock said. “Besides, washing fruit is for sissies.”

Mike pretended to lob the apple at him, then took another bite.

“Next time, get chips,” Lock said.

“Next time’s on you. You can buy whatever you want. Just get healthy stuff for me.” A few more bites, and the apple core made a clean arc into the wastebasket. His brother opened the fridge and stared at the shelves. Beer versus juice. Tough choice. His hand moved back and forth several times before alighting on the juice.

“You must have had your physical,” Lock surmised. “High blood sugar?”

“No.” Mike collected a tumbler from the top shelf in the cabinet. Easy reach for him.

“Why the health kick? And why all the questions about your grandmother?”

“Quit being so nosy.”

“You hired me to be nosy. So speak.” When Lock had first arrived at the Aarons’ home, he’d been a scared twelve-year-old who hid his feelings behind a defensive wall of anger. Gradually, guided by his new family’s combination of strictness and love, he’d begun to trust them enough to open up. Now, Lock couldn’t imagine
not
prying into his brother’s business.

Mike leaned his tall frame against the counter. “I’ve applied to become a sperm donor.”

Lock blurted the first thing that came to mind. “Money isn’t
that
tight.”