First Comes Love

Evidence? Tess wondered. What evidence? Just what was everyone saying about her behind her back?

“I’ve had the flu, Will,” she insisted. “That’s all there is to it.”

Will inhaled a deep breath and released it slowly, but he still didn’t look convinced of her…nonmaternity. What he did look, she thought, was, well…really, really yummy.

“You’ve had the flu,” he echoed dubiously.

She nodded.

He hesitated a telling moment before pointing out, “You’ve never been sick a day in your life. You’ll forgive me if I—along with everyone else in Marigold—have a little trouble believing that you suddenly contracted the flu. Especially since it isn’t even the time of year for it. Nobody else in town has the flu, Tess. Just you. Kinda suspicious, I say.”

“Then it was something I ate,” she insisted. She told herself she didn’t have to defend herself—to Will or anyone else. Despite that, she felt obligated to do so just the same.

“Tess, you have the stomach of an ox,” he pointed out.

And, oh, wasn’t that just the thing a woman wanted to hear from the man for whom she’d been carrying a torch for more than a dozen years. “An ox,” she echoed flatly.

He had the decency to look apologetic, even if he didn’t apologize per se. “You know what I meant. You’re a woman who can eat jalapen˜os straight from the jar without batting an eye. Though I wouldn’t recommend it now. Not in your condi—”

“Oh, Will,” she moaned. “Not you, too. Don’t tell me you believe it.”

“Well, what else am I supposed to believe?” he demanded, sounding as upset about the development as she was. “Everybody’s saying you’re pregnant. Even nuns, Tess. Who can argue with nuns?”

But all she could offer in response was another disappointed, “Oh, Will.”

He might not want to believe she was pregnant, but he did. Tess sighed fitfully and ran a restless hand through her bangs. Then, resigned to her fate, she tugged the door inward and stepped aside.

“You might as well come in,” she said. “I have a feeling it’s going to take a while to explain things to you and change your mind. Then you can report back to Finn and the boys after we’ve talked.”

Will was obviously hesitant about entering, though. Which was odd, because he’d probably been inside the Monahan house more times than he’d been in his own when he was a boy. There had been so many nights when Will and Finn had played so late, or studied so late, or talked so late, that Will just naturally spent the night. And although she would never, ever, confess such a thing to anybody, there had been nights when Tess had sneaked into the bedroom Finn shared with her second-oldest brother, Sean, just to watch Will Darrow sleep.

Now, as he cautiously crossed the threshold and entered the house, Tess couldn’t help recalling those nights, couldn’t help remembering how a younger Will had looked, sleeping shirtless and restless in a slice of silver moonlight.

He’d been slim, but solid, as a youth. As a man, he was still solid—way solid—but he had filled out, too. A lot. As he squeezed past Tess—careful not to let any part of his body come into contact with any part of hers—he towered over her by nearly a foot. He was twice as broad as she was, too, though that wasn’t really saying much. Tess had one of those fast metabolisms that left her looking far too willowy for her liking—or would have left her looking willowy, anyway, had she been taller than five foot two. As it was, to her way of thinking, she just looked scrawny.

“Abigail Torrance stopped by the garage the other night,” Will began without preamble as Tess closed the door behind him.

“Gee, what else is new?” she asked as she motioned him into the living room. She told herself she did not sound petulant as she continued, “Abigail stops by the garage just about every night. What succulent little morsel did she bring you to eat that night?” Besides Abigail Torrance, she then added uncharitably to herself.

“That’s not important,” Will said as he strode toward the sofa. “What is important is—”

He halted midstride and midsentence, his gaze fixed on the book that was lying faceup on the sofa cushion—the book titled How to Raise a Creative Child in Modern Times.

Oh, great, Tess thought. She knew exactly what he was thinking, so before he had a chance to say anything, she hastily explained, “It’s for school.”

“You’re reading how-to-raise-a-kid books for school?” he asked dubiously.

She nodded. “How-to-raise-a-kid books make great educational aides. A lot of teachers are reading that book. Teachers who aren’t pregnant,” she added pointedly.

Will clearly wasn’t swayed in his opinion. He hooked his hands on his hips— Tess tried not to drool at the way his shirt gaped open a bit over the dark hair beneath—and just got right to the matter at hand. “Talk has it that you were seen at a motel a while back with a man.”

Now this was news to Tess. And it frankly surprised her that the Marigold grapevine—enthusiastic though it might be—would perpetuate something so unfounded and malicious. Not that passing along the false notion that she was pregnant was particularly kind, but it had at least been grounded in some kind of odd reality—the impression that she had been suffering from morning sickness and had herself made a reference to her “condition.”