Whose Baby?

Through her exhaustion and dread, Lynn said, “I want this never to have happened.”

His eyes narrowed a flicker.

Lynn had completely forgotten they weren’t alone in the room until one of the lawyers cleared his throat. “Ms. Chanak, let me introduce Adam Landry. Mr. Landry, Lynn Chanak.”

His mouth thinned, but he gave a brief, reluctant nod in acknowledgment of the formal introduction.

She swallowed. “Mr. Landry.”

He looked past her. “I’d prefer to talk to Ms. Chanak alone. If—” the coldly commanding gaze touched her “—she doesn’t mind.”

In the flurry of objection, she caught only one phrase, which annoyed her unreasonably.

“The hospital’s interest is in seeing us come up with an amicable future plan.” She’d memorized that phrase: amicable future plan. Was there such a thing? “Only we can decide on the future of our daughters. We need to get to know each other. Please.”

She had hoped, heaven help her, for approval. He only waited.

The lawyers offered their intervention if it was needed. Adam Landry said nothing. Lynn stared at her hands. After a moment, the two men backed out, shutting the door behind them. The silence in their wake was as absolute as any she’d ever heard. The courage that had gotten her this far deserted her. She couldn’t look up.

Her nerves had reached the screaming point when Adam Landry said at last, “Perhaps I phrased my question incorrectly. Why did you start this? Did you suspect your daughter…” he stumbled, “Shelly, wasn’t yours?”

“No.” At last she lifted her head, letting him see her tumult. “No. Never. It was my ex-husband. He…he didn’t want to pay the child support anymore. He claimed I must have had an affair. That she wasn’t his child. But it wasn’t true! I never…” She bit her lip and said more quietly, “I wouldn’t do something like that. So I took Shelly to have a blood test to prove to Brian that she was his. Only…”

“She wasn’t.”

“No. Which meant—” she took a deep breath “—that she wasn’t mine, either. Unless you believe…”

“In immaculate conception?” His voice was dry.

“Yes. And…and I don’t.” She tried for a smile and failed. “I wasn’t going to tell anybody. Only, then I started worrying about the other little girl. The one who was really my daughter.”

The dreams wouldn’t impress him, not this man. He reminded her too much of the lawyers. His gray suit cost more than she spent on food and mortgage in a month or more. His dark hair was clipped short, but by a stylist, not a barber. She could easily picture his big, capable hands gripping the leather-covered wheel of an expensive sedan, or resting on the keyboard of a laptop computer. Not changing diapers, or sifting through the sand for a seashell, or brushing away tears.

Who was raising Jenny Rose Landry? A grandmother? A nanny? Anxiety crimped her chest.

Softly she finished, “I wanted to be sure she was all right. Loved.”

“And that’s it. That’s all you want.” His tone said he didn’t believe her for a second.

Lynn didn’t blame him for his skepticism. Already, if she was being honest, she’d have to admit that she wouldn’t be satisfied with that modest goal.

“I don’t know.” She held his gaze, although she quaked inside. “I’m not sure anymore. I suppose I’d like to meet her. And…perhaps get acquainted. Now that I know she doesn’t have a mother.”

“What makes you so sure she needs one?” Landry stood abruptly and shoved his chair back. Looming over her, hands planted on the table, he said tautly, “Is it so impossible to believe I’m an adequate parent?”

Her breath caught. She’d obviously struck a raw nerve. “No. Of course not. I’m a single parent myself, and I think I’m doing a fine job.” Naturally she would say that; did she really expect him to believe her? More uncertainly, she continued, “It’s just that…” For all her rehearsing, she didn’t know how to express these inchoate emotions, these wants, these needs, these fears. “She’s my daughter,” Lynn finished simply.

A muscle jerked in his cheek. “You suddenly want to be a mother to my daughter.”

“Aren’t you curious, too?” How timid she sounded! No, perhaps hopeful was the word. Could it be that he didn’t want Shelly, wouldn’t try to reclaim his birth daughter? That she’d never had to worry at all?

He swung away in a jerky motion and took two steps to the window. Gazing out at—what? the parking lot?—he killed her hopes in a flat, unrevealing voice. “Yes. I’m curious. Why do you think I’m here?”

Lynn whispered, “Is that all? You’re just…curious?”

He faced her, anger blazing in his eyes. “My wife died and never held her baby. Now I find out that neither have I. Does ‘curious’ cover my reaction? Probably not. But we have to start somewhere.”

He sounded reasonable and yet scared her to death. She’d hoped for a completely different kind of man. Perhaps a car mechanic, struggling to make ends meet, grease under his fingernails and kindness in his eyes. Or a small-business owner. Someone like her. Ordinary. Not a formidable, wealthy man used to having his way and able to pay to get it. Someone she could never beat, if it came to a fight.

Make sure it doesn’t, she told herself, trying to quiet the renewed panic. You can work something out. Go slowly. He may not be that interested in parenting even one girl, much less two.

“I brought pictures,” she said tentatively. “Of Shelly.”

He closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed the back of his neck. Lynn could tell he was trying, too, when he said gruffly, “I brought some of Rose, too.”

They stared at each other, neither moving. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours, she thought, semihysterically. How absurd. Make the first move.

Lynn bent down and took the envelope from her purse, which sat on the floor by her feet. Slowly she opened it, her fingers stiff and reluctant. She felt as if she were sharing something incredibly private, pulling back a curtain on the small, sunny space that was her life.

He came back to the table and sat down. As she removed the pile of photos from the envelope, he pulled a matching one from the pocket of his suit jacket. When she pushed the photographs across the span of oak, he did the same with his.

Lynn reached for them, hesitated.

“She looks like you,” he said, startling her.

“What?”

“Her hair.” His gaze felt like a touch. “Her nose, and her freckles, and her chin. But her eyes are blue.”

“Brian’s…Brian’s are blue.”

Her hands were even more awkward now. Did she want to see the child’s face? There might be no going back.

She turned the small pile of four-by-five photographs, peripherally aware that he was doing the same. And then the fist drove into her belly, bringing a small gasp from her, and Adam Landry vanished from her awareness.

She saw only the little girl, grinning at the camera. At her. My daughter, Lynn thought in astonishment.

He was right: Jenny Rose could have been Lynn at that age, except for the pure crystal blue of her eyes. The little girl’s face was round, solemn in the other pictures Lynn thumbed through. She was still plump, not skinny and ever in motion like Shelly. The freckles—Lynn touched them, almost startled by the slick feel of photographic paper instead of the crinkling, warm nose she saw. How like hers! Rose’s mouth was sweet, pursed as if she wanted to consider deeply before she rendered a judgment.

There she was in another photo, on Santa’s lap, not crying, but not entirely happy, either. And younger yet, a swimsuit over her diaper, the photograph taken as she stood knee-deep in a small backyard pool filled by a hose. Why wasn’t she smiling more often? Was she truly happy?

Lynn looked through the pictures over and over again, beginning to resent the meager number, hungering for more. What was she really like, this little girl who had once been part of her? What made her sad? What did she think was funny? Did she suck her thumb? Have nightmares? Wish she had a mommy?

At last, at last, she looked up, aware that tears were raining down her cheeks, that Adam Landry had made a sound. Like a blind man, he was touching one of the photographs she’d given him. His fingers shook as he traced, so delicately, her daughter’s face.

She saw him swallow, saw the emotions akin to hers ravage his features.

“Jenny,” he whispered.