Rainy Day Sisters (21 page)

“Well . . .” Okay, yes, she was. For a lot of different reasons. “Tell me about it,” she said, and Juliet laughed again.

“What is there to tell? He was married. I knew he'd never leave his wife.”

“Was this here—”

“No, in Manchester, while I was working for a big hotel. He was in management there.”

“Did you love him?”

Juliet thought about this for a moment. “No,” she finally said. “I don't think I did.”

Lucy pondered too, about how different she and Juliet really were. Juliet kept herself from loving people, while she swan-dived into the emotion with abandon and glee.

“What about the baby?” she asked Juliet. “Did you . . . did you want the baby?”

Juliet's face contorted for a second and then her expression ironed out. “Yes,” she said tonelessly. “I wanted the baby.”

“Oh, Juliet . . .”

Juliet shrugged off any sympathy Lucy had been about to give. “It was a long time ago.”

“But it must have been awful,” Lucy said quietly. “Going through that alone . . .”

“Yes,” Juliet agreed after a slight pause. “Yes, that part wasn't much fun.” She took a deep breath and then continued, her voice low. “The man in question wasn't keen on me having a baby, of course. He wanted me to have an abortion, and when I refused, he stopped speaking to me altogether. I didn't mind so much then, but when I was in hospital with the burst tube and I was unconscious . . .” She paused, her gaze shuttered and distant. “The hospital called him, as my emergency contact. And he refused to come.”

Lucy's heart ached to imagine Juliet alone in the hospital, her very life in danger, and the father of her would-have-been child refusing even to see her. No wonder her half sister had a few issues.

“I'm so sorry,” Lucy whispered. And then, because she wanted to show her sister that
she
wouldn't reject her, she stood up and opened her arms up for a hug. Juliet simply stared. Lucy started walking towards her.

“What are you doing?” Juliet asked, her voice cracking.

“I'm giving you a hug, silly.”

Juliet stood woodenly while Lucy put her arms around her, and didn't soften into the hug in the least. After a moment Lucy took her arms away and stepped back. So maybe they'd try that again someday.

“So, you still want a baby.” Juliet eyed her warily and said nothing. “What are you going to do about it?” Lucy asked.

Juliet hesitated, and then answered, “My appointment in Carlisle a few weeks ago was at a fertility clinic. I was looking into going the sperm donor route.”

“Oh, don't,” Lucy cried, and Juliet raised her eyebrows.

“Why not? It seems a sensible option.”

“Because I hated not having a dad. I still do. Even kids with divorced parents have someone, you know. A deadbeat dad is better than nothing, a man who doesn't even know you exist.”

“You can contact a sperm donor when you turn eighteen. Did you think about doing that?”

“Thought about it,” Lucy admitted. “But I never did. It just seemed too . . .”
Risky.
She didn't really need another parent in her life who wasn't interested in her. “Didn't you wish you had a dad?”

Juliet frowned. “I wished I knew who my dad was.”

“And don't you think your child would be the same?”

She shrugged impatiently. “It hardly matters. Like I said, I have limited fertility. I got a reminder from the clinic today to go in for my fertility consultation.
Assessment.
” She pressed her lips together, and Lucy guessed this was what had put Juliet into a dark mood.

“So what are you going to do?” she asked.

“I don't know. Forget it, probably. It was a stupid idea.”

“Having a baby isn't necessarily a stupid idea. If your biological clock is ticking—”

“What does that even mean, anyway?” Juliet said, and Lucy smiled.

“I don't really know. But what was motivating you, then, to even think about sperm donors?”

Juliet took a sip of tea, her expression turning both thoughtful and guarded. “I suppose,” she said slowly, “I just want someone to belong to. And someone who belongs to me.”

A lump rose in Lucy's throat. Wasn't that what she wanted, had always been looking for?

“What about going about it the old-fashioned way?” she asked after a moment.

Juliet shook her head. “I don't have time for relationships. Do you know how long it would take to meet someone, decide if he's right for me, work our way towards settling down, marriage, the whole thing?”

“How long?” Lucy asked with a little smile, and Juliet shook her head again, more firmly this time.

“I'm not cut out for romantic relationships. I'm going to do this my way. Alone.”

“So you're going to go ahead with the assessment? The sperm donor?”

Uncertainty flashed across Juliet's features, making her look vulnerable and surprisingly young. “I don't know. I still hate not knowing my father. I'd rather be able to tell my child who his or her father is, even if he's not involved, but . . .” She trailed off, shrugging.

It sounded to Lucy like a potential minefield of hurt and disappointment, the kind they'd both experienced in different ways. “Single parenting seems tough to me, Juliet,” she said. “I was talking to Alex and—”

“Oh, were you? Getting cozy with Alex?”

“Not cozy,” she said. “Friendly. Maybe.”

Juliet's gaze narrowed. “What do you mean, maybe?”

“We've had one dinner, and he asked me to teach an art class to the older pupils. Satisfied?”

“Not really.” Juliet emptied her mug into the sink. “Be careful, Lucy.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are a lot of people involved who could get hurt if you and Alex start something. And I'm not just talking about you.”

“Of course not,” Lucy answered dryly, but Juliet steamrollered over her.

“You're leaving in a little less than three months. Alex has two girls who are in a vulnerable place.”

“I know that, Juliet.” She was in a vulnerable place too. She didn't need Juliet telling her what a bad idea being interested in Alex Kincaid was, never mind actually starting something.

“If they became attached to you—”

“Trust me, you're not saying anything I haven't already thought myself,” Lucy said. “We're just friends,” she said.
“Maybe.”

“That's for the best, I think,” Juliet answered, and even though she knew her half sister was probably right, Lucy wasn't sure she could agree.

Juliet

“AND NOW IF ANYONE
has any more points of business . . .”

Louise Walker, the chair of Hartley-by-the-Sea's parish council, looked up from the minutes of their meeting, eyebrows raised expectantly.

“None for me,” Rob Telford stated, his legs stretched out in front of him. The eight other people round the table echoed him one by one, starting with Peter Lanford, who sat next to him, hands resting on his jeans-clad thighs, his voice a low rumble.

“Juliet?”

Juliet blinked and saw Louise was gazing at her with an expectation that bordered on annoyance. Like Juliet, Louise liked these meetings to be short and sweet. She had four children and three Patterdale terriers at home, and she was on half a dozen committees. The woman was practically a machine of efficiency.

“Nothing from me,” Juliet said hurriedly, and glanced away again, trying not to fidget.

Ever since she'd told Lucy about wanting a baby, she'd been determined to do something about it. Telling her sister had made the desire both more real and more dangerous; if she didn't do anything, she would look and feel pathetic. Even worse, nothing would change. And if there was one good thing Lucy had done for her, it was make her realize she needed to change.

And to change, she needed to act. Tonight.

Louise had concluded the meeting and everyone started rising from their chairs, heading out into the chilly evening. It was the first week of October, but it felt more like December. Juliet watched Peter out of the corner of her eye; he rose from his chair slowly, smiling and nodding towards several of the other parish council members who filed outside.

Taking a deep breath, she headed across the room. “Hello, Peter.”

“You areet, Juliet,” Peter answered with one of his slow nods and smiles.

She'd seen a fair bit of Peter over the last two weeks; thanks to Rachel's determination, they'd become something of a fixture at the Thursday night pub quiz. Juliet had even started to relax a little, answering questions and enjoying herself, although it still felt strange to be sitting there among friends. She always stuck to a single glass of wine.

Peter had also stopped by Tarn House several times for a cup of tea; the first time he'd come by, Juliet had been alone, cleaning the oven, her hair piled on top of her head and yellow rubber gloves up to each elbow. She'd been flustered to see him there, standing at the back door as if it were a usual occurrence, then taking off his mud-caked boots when she, stammering, had invited him in.

She'd gotten stuck, removing the rubber gloves, and Peter had reached over and tugged one off in a gesture that felt—well,
suggestive
. Of course it wasn't, Juliet had told herself crossly, but she still could feel herself reacting as she turned away to put the kettle on.

Their conversation had gone in fits and starts, with Juliet needing to fill the silence; Peter had seemed content to simply sit, a mug cradled between his hands.

After a few of these impromptu chats it had become easier simply to talk, and then it had started to feel shockingly natural to have him in her kitchen, chatting about nothing in particular, his sock-clad feet stretched out towards the Aga. Once, at her invitation, he'd removed his wet socks; Juliet had been unsettlingly transfixed by the sight of his knobbly toes.

Part of her relished these changes to her life; another part of her felt how pathetic she was, to be pleased by such small things. And it was that ever-present sense of her own inadequacy that made her even more determined to act.

She'd gone back to the clinic, and suffered through a fertility assessment and its expected results: “Limited fertility, but with the proper course of treatment, a pregnancy might be viable.” Now she just needed a dad. A donor.

She'd looked into the banks in the US and Denmark, and realized that going that route was going to cost her thousands of pounds, and make her baby's father a stranger. Then she remembered what Dr. Allen had asked—
Are you going to use an acquaintance's sperm?
—and so now she was here.

“I was wondering,” she said to Peter, her voice just a little too strident, “if you fancied having a drink at the pub. With me.”

He didn't answer for a moment, which made Juliet feel both nervous and tetchy. Then he nodded. “That'd be areet.”

Juliet nodded back, no more than a jerk of her head, and they headed outside. They didn't speak as they walked from the village hall to the pub; Juliet could feel everything inside her coiling tighter and tighter.

In the pub Peter said hello to a few people and then asked Juliet what she wanted to drink.

“I'll buy—,” she began, to which Peter responded with a decisive shake of his head.

“No, you won't. Now, what will it be? Glass of red?”

“All right,” Juliet relented. She had bigger things to worry about than who bought the drinks.

She found a table in the back corner, the most private one in the place, and sat down with her back to everyone else. She sucked in a breath and told herself she wasn't actually asking Peter for that much: fifteen minutes and a paper cup. Some sperm. No responsibility, no commitment, no
feelings
.

Peter returned with their drinks, a glass of red for her and his usual pint of bitter. He slid onto the chair and raised his glass in a toast. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” Juliet heard how nervous she sounded, her voice going up nearly an octave, and she took a sip of wine. Maybe she shouldn't have picked the pub for this conversation. No matter how private their table, it felt like a very public place for what was going to be a very personal conversation.

But asking Peter in the cozy comfort of her own kitchen would feel much too intimate, as if by inviting him into her house, she was inviting him to share her life. The pub put this meeting on terms she could live with.

“How's your dad?” she asked, deciding that a few minutes of small talk might smooth the way.

Peter lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Same, I suppose. It's not going to get any better.”

“You could have some help,” Juliet suggested. “Professionals who come in—”

Peter shook his head. “Dad wouldn't like that. And we manage areet as it is. He doesn't wander, and he can look after himself for most of the day. I check on him often enough. Jake helps.”

There was something faintly repressive about Peter's tone, making Juliet feel that his father had not been a wise choice for a topic of conversation.

“What about you, Juliet?” Peter asked. “Things rolling along?”

“Well. Yes.” She cleared her throat, and then decided there was nothing for it. She'd have to jump right in, after all. “Actually, Peter, I was hoping you could do me a—a favor.”

His heavy brows drew together as he frowned at her. “Of course I could,” he answered, and the unquestioning simplicity of that statement nearly brought a lump to Juliet's throat.

“Well. Good.” She cleared her throat. “I'm glad to hear that.”

“What needs doing?”

For a horrified second Juliet pictured exactly what needed doing and suppressed a near-hysterical laugh. “Umm. Well, I'll get to that. The thing is, I actually . . .” She lowered her voice. “I'm actually trying to have a baby. Well, I'd like to try. I haven't tried yet.”

Peter went very still, which was saying something for him. He was usually such a still, silent man anyway, yet now he seemed utterly immobile.

“I mean, as a single parent,” she hastened to explain. “On my own.”

“Oh, aye?” he said, and Juliet couldn't tell anything from his voice. He took a sip from his pint of bitter, waiting.

Juliet swallowed; her throat felt constricted, the words hard to get out. “Yes. You know, I'm thirty-seven, and I suppose my biological clock is ticking, as clichéd as that sounds.” Still nothing. “And so I've been looking into options. I've done a fertility assessment, and while a pregnancy isn't going to be easy for me, it's possible.” She waited for him to say something, and he finally did.

“Seems as if you've got yourself sorted, then.”

“Well, a bit,” she agreed, latching on to his words like a drowning woman reaching for a life preserver. “But I'm also aware—you see, I never knew my father. My mother refused to name him. And Lucy doesn't know hers, either. Fiona—our mother—decided to go with a sperm donor with her. We've both disliked that, the not knowing, in different ways.”

“Aye,” Peter said after a moment, his voice definitely wary.

“So I realized,” Juliet continued, relentless now, “that I want my child to know his or her father. And so that brings me to—” She swallowed convulsively, the gulping sound audible, she feared, even over the din of the pub. “—to you.” No response, but Juliet knew she could hardly expect one. “I wanted to ask you, Peter, if you—if you would donate your sperm.”

What a cringingly awful, awkward question, and yet how else could she have phrased it? Peter had gone rigid, his pint glass raised halfway to his lips, his eyes widening as he stared at her.

“Donate—,” he began, and then stopped. “You want me to be the father of your child?”

“Well—yes. I think you'd make a good father, Peter.” Too late she realized how that sounded. “Not that you'd actually be involved, of course. I wouldn't expect anything from you but—well, the obvious. I mean, just the sperm.” In case there was any question.

“Let me get this areet,” Peter said, and his voice was low, thrumming with emotion. Bad emotion. “You want me to wank off into a paper cup so you can have my sperm for your baby, and then raise that baby in front of my nose, but not have me involved?”

Was there any good way to answer that? “I just don't want you to feel beholden,” Juliet finally said.

“Beholden?
Beholden?
” Peter's voice had risen so a few people nearby started shooting them openly curious glances. Out of the corner of her eye Juliet saw Maggie Bains, recently back from Newcastle and a terrible gossip, turn towards them. She definitely should not have chosen the pub for this conversation.

“I only meant,” Juliet said coldly, retreating into hauteur, “that I wouldn't expect you to actually act as a father. I'm going to do this on my own, but I wanted to be able to tell my child who his or her father was—”

“And you could also say,” Peter cut across her, his voice low but intense, “that you can go up the road and see him anytime you like. The man who fathered you but can't have aught to do with you.” He shook his head, clearly disgusted.

“Don't overreact,” she snapped. “I didn't mean it like that—”

Peter shook his head again, the movement so vehement, so scornful, that any retort she'd been going to make stopped with the breath bottling in her lungs.

“I know how you meant it, Juliet,” he said. He placed his pint glass on the table with a final-sounding clink. “And I'll tell you this. If I bring a child into this world, it will be to love and cherish it, not just walk off as if I hadn't a care in the world.” Juliet opened her mouth and nothing came out. “And I'll tell you this, as well,” he added, thrusting his face close to hers. “If I decide to have a barney, I'll go about getting it the old-fashioned way!”

And with that startling pronouncement, he got up and stalked out of the pub.