The Baby Legacy

“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 a normal, caring person who would be a good mother to this baby, maybe his conscience would be satisfied and he’d just go away.

As Megan swung her cart around a corner, excitement coursing through her, she narrowly missed running into Blanche Hastings, one of the town busybodies.

“Well, hello, honey,” Blanche said, her gaze darting to Megan’s stomach. “How’s our little mother doing?”

Megan forced a smile. She suspected that Blanche and her friend, Flo Harris, weren’t above gossiping about Megan’s pregnancy and her lack of a husband. They prided themselves on knowing everything that went on in town.

“I’m just fine,” Megan replied politely as she maneuvered her cart around Blanche’s. “And you?”

“Right as rain, and glad winter’s finally over. Are you getting ready for the blessed event?”

“Sure am.” Megan didn’t want to get stuck answering any probing questions like the last time she’d run into Blanche and Flo. Lucky for Megan, another of their friends had appeared and she’d been able to make her escape without responding.

“We’ll have to throw you a shower,” Blanche said now, eagle eyes sharp as she assessed Megan’s tummy. “When are you due?”

“That’s so sweet of you.” Megan’s smile felt stiff. “There’s still plenty of time, though.” The last thing she wanted was to be the center of attention in a roomful of women speculating about her circumstances. “I’ll get back to you, okay?”

Before Blanche could fire off another awkward question, Megan stuck out her arm and glanced at her watch with exaggerated horror. “Goodness, I have an appointment in a little bit,” she said apologetically, mental fingers crossed. “Sorry, but I have to run.” Without a backward glance, she hurried down the next aisle.

Too bad there wasn’t someone whose advice she could seek in what to do about Duncan, but she had no family with whom she kept in close touch. Although she’d made a few friends since moving here and a couple of them knew the circumstances behind her pregnancy, this wasn’t something she felt comfortable discussing with any of them. The decision was hers alone, and it was one she would have to make very soon, despite what she’d told Blanche.

Biting her lower lip, she plucked a bag of peanut butter M&M’s from the shelf. There was good health, and then there was quality of life, she reasoned as she headed for the pasta aisle. Hoping she was correct about assuaging the man’s curiosity, she made her decision.

“I’ve reconsidered.”

It seemed that every time Mac heard Megan’s voice, he was so surprised by it that he nearly dropped the phone. Since he’d last talked to her, he’d been swamped with the Merritt project at work, frustrated with the clinic’s continued evasiveness and curiously reluctant to seek legal advice from a family friend in Denver. Cooperation was always preferable to adversity, and he still hoped to resolve the issue between Megan and himself peaceably.

He’d talked to Dennis briefly and the other man had promised to look into the situation and call Mac back, which he hadn’t done yet.

Unfortunately Mac was leaving for Atlanta first thing in the morning to attend a huge trade show. The convention usually provided a few solid leads and he wasn’t about to forgo the trip while he waited for Dennis’s call.

“What exactly do you mean by reconsidered?” he asked her now in a cautious voice. Was she finally willing to listen to reason?

She blew out a breath. “You’re right. If our situations were reversed, I’d want to know what kind of person was raising my child,” she admitted.

Relief pumped through him. “Taking that class together would give us a chance to get to know each other,” he suggested, his mind leaping ahead. “It starts on Tuesday.”

To his astonishment, she didn’t immediately object. “I think we should have a face-to-face meeting before then,” she said instead.

“I’d like that, too. Unfortunately I’m leaving town first thing in the morning and I won’t be back until late the afternoon of the first class.” Mac felt genuine regret. What if they loathed each other on sight? “I’d postpone the trip if I could, but it’s too important.” Would she think his priorities were out of whack? That he should put the child ahead of everything else? He refrained from pointing out that her own stubbornness was the reason they’d run out of time.

Megan gripped the receiver tighter, still clinging to the hope that he’d lose interest in the class and in her soon enough. She couldn’t imagine him giving up two evenings a week for a stranger and a child he’d fathered with so little involvement. If she was wrong about his staying power she’d be stuck with him for the duration, but if she wasn’t and he did drop out, she would probably be allowed to continue the course without a partner, since her due date was so near.

The idea cheered her. She was tired of arguing, tired of dodging him. And it wasn’t as though she’d lined up anyone else to go with her. If the truth be told, she hadn’t even asked around.

“What time are you leaving on your trip?” Perhaps they could still meet before then.