The Italian Groom

Meg dragged the brush through her hair until her scalp tingled and her arm grew weary, refusing to stop until her anger subsided.

Thank goodness she’d never loved him. For a short time, she’d imagined she did. He’d looked so much like Niccolo, his Greek mother giving him the same hard features and dark coloring, but he lacked Nic’s strength of character, not to mention Nic’s morals.

Nic would never sleep around. Nic would take responsibility for his child.

Meg stilled, the brush hovering in midair. She had to stop doing that. Had to stop comparing every man to Nic. It wasn’t fair to other men, and goodness, it wasn’t fair to her. She’d never meet the right man if she continued to hold Niccolo up as some standard for manhood.

A knock sounded on her bedroom door.

Meg set the brush down and opened the door. Francesca stood in the doorway, hands on hips. “I saw your light still on. I thought you might not be well. How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.”

“You left the party early.”

“Niccolo didn’t mind.”

Five minutes later, just as Meg prepared to slip into bed, there came another knock on her door. She opened the door a second time.

Niccolo stood in the doorway balancing a cup and saucer and a small plate of cookies.

Meg didn’t think she had the energy to smile, but her lips twitched anyway. “Housekeeping?”

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m very funny. You just have a terrible sense of humor.”

His lovely mouth grimaced. “This was not my idea.”

“Obviously. You know I hate warm milk.”

“The point is, I will not be making a habit of bringing you bedtime snacks.”

She didn’t know why, but his gruffness compelled her to tease him. “Are you sure this wasn’t your idea? You know I’m a sucker for cookies.”

“They’re biscuits.”

“Cookies, biscuits, same thing.”

“They’re not at all the same.”

“Like comparing apples and oranges.”

“No, not like apples and oranges. Like a Merlot and a Cabernet.”

“Of course. Wine. That’s all you ever think about.”

Niccolo’s expression darkened. She’d succeeded in aggravating him. “Do you like quarreling with me?”

Meg smiled impudently. “Yes.”

He muttered beneath his breath in Italian. “You test my patience.”

“Then don’t let me keep you.”

“You’re not keeping me. I’m choosing to stand here.”

“That’s right, you always have to win. Even if it’s just a war of words.”

“And you have to argue. You’re still such a child.”

Meg’s stomach began to cramp. Perhaps it wasn’t the Brie that had made her sick. It was Nic. “Like I said, don’t let me keep you.” With that she slammed the door shut, ignoring the surprised expression on Niccolo’s face.

Meg twitched in her seat, trying to keep still. She’d never been bored by a discussion on perennials in her life, but at the moment, she thought she’d scream if deadheading was mentioned again.

She closed her eyes, pressed her knuckles against her brow and forced herself to draw a deep breath and slowly exhale. One yarrow, two yarrow, three yarrow…counting yellow yarrow the way one would count sheep.

Some of the tension left her shoulders. Meg drew another deep breath and opened her eyes. She’d woken up feeling blue, and the blue mood quickly turned to irritation. All morning her nerves had been on edge, and Mr. Hunt’s rather long-winded discourse on deadheading had just about driven her mad.

What she needed was action.

She had a hundred and one things to decide, plans to make, and this discussion on gardening chores was getting her nowhere.

What she needed was a new apartment.

She’d been living in a quaint one-bedroom flat across from Central Park for years. The apartment had a squeaky hardwood floor, antiquated plumbing and a charming little terrace with a breathtaking city view. But the apartment barely accommodated her bed and sitting room furniture, much less a crib and changing table.

Yes, she needed a bigger apartment.

She also needed a crib. A car seat. High chair. A layette, not to mention diapers, ointment, powders and so forth.

Babies certainly required a lot of gear.

No wonder her old college friends had complained about babies being expensive. Meg would need a small fortune to outfit the baby’s room, much less pay for child care while she met with clients.

She couldn’t blame anyone but herself. She’d slept with Mark knowing the risks. He’d used a condom, but things did happen and, well, things had happened.

A nerve pulsed at Meg’s temple and she pressed two fingers against the spot, trying hard to stay calm, to sit still.

The truth was, becoming a single mother terrified her.

It was such a huge responsibility, such a crucial role, she couldn’t help being afraid. Meg had made her share of mistakes and she knew she’d make them as a mother. Her baby deserved the very best, but what if Meg wasn’t good enough? Strong enough? Loving enough? What if she said the wrong thing, forgot the right prayer? What if…

“Margaret?” Mrs. Hunt leaned forward to clasp Meg’s hand. “Margaret, dear, are you all right? You’re looking quite pale.”

She was fine. She was just a little nervous. But that was only to be expected. Even for a modern woman, having a baby was quite a big deal.

Niccolo glanced at his watch. The winery co-op council meeting should have wrapped up just after lunch. Instead it threatened to last well into mid afternoon. He shot a quick glance at his watch. He had another hour before he’d have to excuse himself.