Pursued by the Playboy (22 page)

Even though Marc had been too young to remember it, he knew that his own mother had given up her nursing career when he was born.   Then she had died and the two years that followed spiraled into barely-contained chaos.  His father had buried himself in work, and Marc’s care had been relegated to various housekeepers and assorted relatives.  There was Aunt Mary, his mother’s older sister, a frail, easily overwhelmed woman, struggling with two children of her own and an absentee husband.  And his father’s sister, Aunt Lucia, who had been at the opposite end of the spectrum:  stout, eagle-eyed, generous with bone-crushing hugs, but not averse to the occasional well-deserved swat on the backside to keep her boys in line.  She’d had two sons, a few years older than Marc, and had taken Marc’s frequent presence in her household in stride.  But with her attention pulled in so many directions at once, she wasn’t able to devote sufficient time and energy to engage an increasingly withdrawn preschooler.  That had taken Sophia’s persistence, and even then there had been setbacks, particularly after Emma and then Izzy had been born.  But Sophia had been determined to win him over, and in the end she had succeeded with a combination of patience, love, and attention. 

As an adult, Marc recognized the enormity of her commitment to her family and children, and was grateful for having been embraced into that charmed circle despite the sullen and at times downright nasty attitude he’d had as a child.  Though Sophia was now director of nursing at the local community hospital, back then she had scaled back her work hours to just a few per diem shifts a month.  Just enough to keep a toe in the water, she had joked, while still devoting the bulk of her time and attention to raising her children. 

Sure, times were different now.  And some women managed to work and raise children simultaneously.  Emma, for instance, seemed to be managing reasonably well.  But then she worked as a dermatologist, and did a lot more cosmetic work than general dermatology.  That allowed her significantly more flexibility of schedule than anyone in a tenure-track faculty position at a major research university could ever hope to have. 

And it wasn’t like they needed Kate’s income.  They would be quite comfortable financially even if she never worked another day in her life. 

Not that he expected Kate to raise their child single-handedly.  He’d help when he could.  And they would need to negotiate additional time with their housekeeper Luisa, to deal with the mountains of laundry and cleaning and chaos that having a baby generated.  His family would pitch in, too.  Sophia would be thrilled at the prospect of having another grandchild to fuss over. 

All he needed to do was convince Kate. 

The sound of water running in the master bath had him scrambling up and tossing the spilled contents of Kate’s purse back inside.  He debated for a moment before finally slipping the ultrasound picture back into the Blackberry clip the way he’d found it.

A quick glance at his watch had him cursing.  For the first time in years, he was going to be late to the O.R. 

Chapter 22

If Kate were prone to superstition, she might have concluded that over the following week, fate was conspiring to keep her from moving back to her own apartment. 

First there was the equipment malfunction at work that had her scrambling to borrow space and time in several colleague’s laboratories, while waiting for one of the sterile laminar-flow hoods in her own lab to be serviced.  The quagmire of paperwork involved in getting things back up and running resulted in daily headaches that Tylenol did nothing to relieve.  She was too afraid to take anything stronger without checking with her obstetrician, but every time she picked up the phone, something would interrupt the call and require her immediate attention.  All of which left her in pain and too irritable to tackle the task of cleaning her apartment or packing.

Then there was the on-again, off-again dinner invitation from her mother.  After several days of phone tag, Margaret postponed it indefinitely, with some cryptic reference to a scheduling conflict with “couples counseling”. 

“I thought that’s what people do when they’re trying to save a marriage,” Marc said when he heard the story.  “They’re not thinking of getting back together, are they?”

“Not as far as I know.” Kate filched a piece of carrot from the pile of vegetables he’d been chopping.  “Maybe she meant divorce mediation.”

Marc set a steaming basket over a pot of boiling water and dumped in the vegetables.  A pressure cooker filled with brown rice stood cooling nearby.  Was it her imagination, or had he started preparing blander food lately?   The fragrant garlic- and chili-laden concoctions whose aroma had driven her out of the kitchen over the last few weeks had been replaced with steamed vegetables and whole grains, salads with plain grilled chicken and the lightest hint of olive oil and lemon. 

“Have you heard from your dad lately?”

She blinked at the change of topic.  “Earlier today, actually.  He called when I was in the middle of a faculty meeting, so I couldn’t talk long.  And I haven’t been able to reach him since.”  Kate started gathering dishes and silverware to set the table.  “Apparently Tiffani is on bed rest.  Her mother came up ahead of schedule to help out.”

“Really?  What happened?”

“He was pretty vague.  Something about bleeding.  It’s not clear how involved he is at this point.” 

“How involved…?”  He broke off and muttered something beneath his breath.  “I know he’s your father, Kate.  But...
damn
.” 

Kate tore off a couple paper towels to use as napkins.  “I’m not his biggest fan at the moment either.  Still, you met Tiffani.  You said yourself that she’s probably doing drugs.”

“I don’t know.  I’m not her doctor.  But if she’s pregnant with his child, he needs to take responsibility and make sure she gets the care she needs, instead of standing back and letting her do God knows what and putting the pregnancy at risk.”

Kate blinked at his fierce expression.  She thought about her own pregnancy and wondered how Marc would react when she told him about it.  For a moment, she felt lightheaded, and swayed slightly before sitting down abruptly in a nearby chair.  No need to rush, she thought.  There was plenty of time.

“You okay?”

She glanced up into Marc’s concerned face and swallowed.  “Yes.  Fine.  Thank you.” 

He stared at her intently.  “I’ll get you some water.”

By unspoken consent, they stuck to neutral topics over dinner.  She felt Marc’s gaze rest on her intermittently through the evening, and at one point he cleared his throat and caught her hand in mid-gesture.  But before he could say anything, the phone rang, and the moment was lost.

###

The following evening, Marc’s sister Emma invited Kate to go shopping.  The call came out of the blue, when Kate finally found some time to lie down in the quiet air-conditioned dimness of Marc’s bedroom.  Emma had apparently heard from her brother that Kate was worried about showing up empty-handed to the DiStefano’s anniversary party.

“I need to pick up something last-minute anyway,” Emma said.  “I thought we could keep each other company, maybe stop for a bite to eat while we’re out.  Alex is on kid duty tonight.”

A
s
they wandered from shop to shop
at the mall
, assessing and dismissing decorative ceramics, hand-embroidered linens, and imported pieces of native art, Emma regaled Kate with anecdotes about the DiStefano clan. 

“Aunt Lucia—that’s Dad’s sister—just turned seventy this year, and she thinks that entitles her to say whatever she wants.  No mental filter at all.  Which is pretty funny, especially coming from someone who looks like your typical Italian widow.  Shapeless black dress, hair in a bun, big old cross.”  Emma grinned and rolled her eyes.  “I think she’s making up for all those years of staying home and being the accommodating little wifey-thing.  Once the kids grew up and Uncle Sal died, she pretty much cut loose.  Decided to try her hand at writing racy romances.  You know the ones with the lurid covers of half-naked women with their boobs spilling out?  And the hero’s a pirate or Viking or something equally alpha, with pecs and biceps out to here?”

Kate nodded.

“That’s what Aunt Lucia writes.  And she’s quite successful at it, too.  Nick and Paul—those are her sons—used to get embarrassed about it.  Now I think they’re pretty much resigned to the fact that their mother writes stuff that’s way kinkier than anything they’ve ever done.  Not that I’m privy to my cousins’ sex lives, but they’re both rather stuffy.  Catholic school, starched shirts, matching ties, no imagination.”  She paused to examine a brown and gold batik scarf.  “Nick’s an orthopedist, does mostly hips and knees.  Paul’s a general surgeon.  Don’t get me wrong, I like them both.  But they were pretty overbearing when Izzy and I were growing up.  Much more so than Marc, even though he pulled the big brother routine on us plenty of times.  So it’s fun to see them flustered, especially when they have to explain to their own kids what ‘Nana’ means when she’s talking about
ménage a trois
.”

“How old are their kids?”

“The oldest is fifteen.  That’s Nick Jr.  The youngest is Paul’s daughter, Zia.  She’s six.  Her sister Sarah is fourteen, a real sweetheart.  She sometimes babysits for us, mostly when Alex is working from home and needs an extra hand with the boys.  And then there’s the rest of Nick’s brood:  Sam, who’s thirteen, and Lucy, who just turned twelve.”  She laughed at Kate’s alarmed expression.  “Don’t worry, the quiz isn’t until after dinner.”

“Thanks for the heads up.”  Kate paused over a display of small electronic gadgets.  She picked up an elegant digital photo frame.  “What do you think?”

“Nice.”  Emma examined the display model, then skimmed over the specifications on the box.  “High resolution, plenty of memory.”

“Do you think your parents would like it?”

With Emma’s approval, Kate made the purchase and had it gift-wrapped. 

“Now we can eat,” Emma said, leading the way to the food court.  Within minutes, they settled into a bright plastic booth with trays of salad and pizza.  Emma moaned in appreciation as she bit into her slice of pepperoni with extra cheese.  “Bet you don’t get this kind of culinary experience with Marc.”

“Are you kidding?  Marc’s version of fast food is vegetable stir fry made from scratch.  Not that I’m complaining,” Kate hastened to add.  “I don’t cook, so the fact that he does, and actually enjoys it, is great.”

“But…?”

“He doesn’t let me stock microwave dinners in the freezer.  Says they’re loaded with preservatives, taste like cardboard, and aren’t fit for human consumption.”  Kate squeezed some lemon into her ice water and took a sip.  “I have to sneak them, wrapped in plain brown paper, and store them in the freezer at work.”

Emma laughed.  “He always was a food snob.  When I was pregnant with the twins, I had to ban him from our house, because the first thing he’d do was rifle through the kitchen and start tossing out all my junk food.”  She pulled a half arm’s-length strand of cheese from her pizza and consumed it slowly.  “Eventually Alex negotiated a truce.   Marc promised to keep his paws off my loaded-with-fat-and-salt zero-nutritional-value processed stash.  I promised to let him play with the kids.”

“Sounds like a fair exchange.”

“Yeah.  Only problem is, I gained a ton of weight that I’m still working to get rid of.  I hate it when Marc is right.”  She sighed.  “This is the first pizza I’ve had in forever.  And the junk—well, that’s for emergency use only.”

Kate eyed Emma’s voluptuous curves.  It wasn’t so long ago that she had been racked with jealousy over a photograph of this woman on Marc’s arm.  Was it possible for Emma to be so oblivious to her own attractiveness?  Is that what becoming a mother did to a woman?  To counter that depressing thought, Kate said, “You look terrific.”

Emma brushed off the compliment.  “It’s the boobs.  They ballooned to twice their size with pregnancy and breastfeeding.   Sometimes if I lean down too far, I feel like I’ll topple right over.”  She wiped her fingers on a napkin and tackled the salad.  “I think that’s the one thing Alex will miss most once I’m done with weaning.  He’s even mentioned that it might be worth knocking me up again just to get a longer lease on the double-D’s.”

Kate choked and started coughing. 

“You okay?”

She nodded, waving off Emma’s help.  Apparently, Aunt Lucia wasn’t the only DiStefano missing a mental filter.  Come to think of it, Isabelle shared the same failing.  Even Marc seemed to suffer the occasional lapse of discretion, at least when it came to communicating information to his siblings.  Both sisters appeared quite well informed about Kate, though Kate knew for sure she’d had neither the opportunity nor the inclination to exchange such personal confidences with Isabelle and Emma.  If only Marc were as forthcoming with Kate herself.  Unfortunately, most of the time she felt completely in the dark about what he was thinking.

When Kate finally settled down, Emma resumed the conversational thread.  “I’m not opposed to having more kids, but the twins just had their first birthday last month.  Frankly, I’m exhausted.  They still wake up at night, and
Ben
is having a particularly tough time with teething.  Maybe in another year or so I’ll consider doing it all again.  What about you?  Any thoughts about kids?”