The Consequences (6 page)

CHAPTER 10

“H
ello?” a man's voice answered, sounding slightly puzzled.

The same explosion and gunfire sound echoed tinnily in the background, and Stephanie knew that Robert Walker was watching the same movie as Izzie and Dave.

“Hello?” he repeated.

“You may want to move away from the TV and find someplace private where you can talk,” Stephanie said softly. She was sitting up in bed, her chin propped on her knees, her right arm wrapped around her legs, while she pressed the chunky portable phone to her ear.

The line hissed and popped, but she could clearly hear Robert Walker swallow. She smiled. She could imagine him sitting at home, maybe surrounded by his wife, children, and relatives.

“Sure . . . sure,” he said with forced joviality. “And a Merry Christmas to you too. Let me just step out of the room, away from the TV. . . .”

She heard the phone move away from his lips, and his voice, muffled, as he made an excuse to someone in the background. She heard the two words “Christmas . . . dinner,” and was unable to resist a grin. Izzie had been right; she was about to ruin his appetite.

There was a click, and then the ambient sound on the line changed as Robert swapped phones, and his slightly fast, almost panicked breathing was now clearly audible.

“Are you okay?” he asked immediately.

“Yes . . . no . . . I don't know,” she answered truthfully.

“I've been worried out of my mind, and when I couldn't get hold of you, I didn't know what to think, and then before, when we were instant-messaging and you said you didn't want to see me again, I was devastated.”

Stephanie took a moment before she responded. He was devastated. And yet he'd lost nothing. His affair with her had cost him nothing. Whereas the same affair had cost her so much more and, if she really was pregnant, it had altered her future irrevocably. There were a dozen responses she could have made—sad or sarcastic, bitter or angry—but in the end, she contented herself with the blunt statement “I think I'm pregnant, Robert.”

The silence that followed was so long that Stephanie was forced to interrupt it. “What? No quick comment, no witty retort, no congratulations?”

“I . . . I . . . No. I don't know what to say.”

“Well, think of something.”

“How did this . . . I mean, when did this happen?”

“Who knows? We've had sex a couple of times without using protection.”

“I said you should have gone on the pill.”

Stephanie bit back the snap of anger and swallowed hard. This was not a time for scoring points. This was a time for decisions.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “Certain?”

“Reasonably,” she lied. “My period is ten days late.”

“Ten days isn't a lot, is it?” he said desperately.

“It's long enough.”

“But you've taken a test, haven't you? Confirmed it?”

“It's Christmas Day, Robert, just in case you've forgotten. Where am I going to get a pregnancy test kit today?”

She could hear him licking dry lips. “But you really think you could be?” He couldn't even say the word.

“Yes, I do.”

There was a sound that might have been either a sigh or a moan. “Have you decided what to do about it . . . about the baby?”

“No. But you're the father. I wanted to talk to you first. Make some joint decisions. Real decisions.”

“Yes, yes, yes, of course. Look, can we meet? Not today obviously . . .”

No, not today because he was having a Christmas family get-together and would not be able to fabricate an excuse to get out of the house.

“Tomorrow. Can we meet tomorrow?”

Stephanie allowed herself a smile. “Tomorrow might be a little difficult for me. . . .”

“I really need to see you, to talk to you,” Robert protested. “I can meet you. Anywhere,” he added.

“Anywhere?”

“I'll go anywhere,” he insisted.

“Fine then. I'm at my parents' house.”

There was a pause. “In Wisconsin?”

“Yes.”

“What are you doing there?”

“Having a family Christmas,” she said, unable to keep the touch of bitterness out of her voice. “Robert,” she hissed, “what did you expect me to do? Sit around in an empty house on Christmas Day reminding myself just how stupid I'd been?”

“Look, about yesterday . . .”

“Not now,” she snapped. “I don't want to talk about the past. I want to talk about our child.” Something twisted inside Stephanie at the phrase “our child,” and she was forced to take a deep breath. “You know, I had no intention of ever seeing you again, of ever having anything to do with you. But that's changed now. If I am pregnant, I have to see you.”

“Yes, yes, of course you must.” There was another pause, then she heard him draw in a deep shuddering breath. “How sure? I mean how certain are you that you're pregnant?” She could hear the desperation in his voice, the panic bubbling to the surface.

“You've asked me that already, and I'll give you the same answer: reasonably sure.”

“When will you know for certain?”

“Tomorrow,” she said, wondering if the local Target or Walmart would be open and guessing that they would.

“When are you coming home?” he asked.

“I don't know. I wasn't planning to come back until after the New Year, but I think this changes everything. I'll see if I can get back before the weekend. I'll check flights later.”

“Let me know what flight you're coming in on. I'll pick you up. We can talk. Make decisions. See what you want to do about it.”

Stephanie didn't like the way the tone of the conversation had shifted. “Robert, it's not what
I
want to do—this is our baby. It is all about what
we
want to do.”

“Well, let's talk about options. . . .”

Stephanie frowned, feeling something sour at the back of her throat. “What do you mean by options?”

Something in Stephanie's tone must have alerted Robert, because he immediately changed tack. “I mean what's best for you and the baby.” There was a pause, then he said, “Look, I've got to go. It's great to hear from you, and good to know that you're okay.” He attempted a laugh, which sounded hollow. “Though how you got to Madison on Christmas Eve, I'll never know. What were you thinking?”

“I wasn't. Bit like when I began my affair with you, Robert. I simply wasn't thinking of the consequences.” She hung up, dropped the phone on the bed, and flopped back on the pillows. Then she smiled. There was a certain grim satisfaction in ruining his Christmas. She'd dearly love to be a fly on the wall in his cozy Brookline home right about now.

Stephanie's practical nature kicked in. Maybe she was pregnant; maybe not. The first priority was to confirm that. If she was, then she needed to get back to Boston to confront Robert and decide what they were going to do. There was never any question in her mind that she was going to have the baby. An abortion was out of the question. Even if she had not been born and raised in a strictly Catholic household, she suddenly realized that she wanted this baby. There had been that moment during her conversation with Robert when she had thought he was going to suggest an abortion, but she knew that wasn't going to happen. Perhaps if she were younger, but instinctively, she knew that she wanted this baby.

There was the problem with her job. If she had a first love, it was her career. How would having a child have an impact on that? It would certainly restrict her free time and opportunities for promotion, that was for sure. Her particular position entailed a great deal of travel; she'd have to cut down, and she'd have to find a good nanny.

She hadn't really thought about children until Robert had proposed to her on Saturday. My God, was it four days ago? It felt like a lifetime. Some of her female colleagues had chosen to raise a child without the encumbrance of a man, and Stephanie had nothing but admiration for them. But, she knew she would never consider having a child unless she had a partner, someone to share the responsibility . . . and the burden.

Stephanie suddenly took a deep breath, held it for twenty seconds, and then slowly exhaled. My God, but she was getting way ahead of herself. Less than half an hour ago, the thought of pregnancy hadn't even crossed her mind; now she was thinking about managing a child and a career.

First things first: She had to find out if she was pregnant.

CHAPTER 11

C
hristmas dinner in the Burroughs household finished with their peculiar version of grace: It was said after the meal.

“Dear Lord, for all that we have received and eaten at Your table . . . ,” Matt intoned.

Stephanie, sitting halfway down the long table, once asked her father why they didn't say grace before a meal like everyone else. Matt told her that he always thought that giving thanks for something you hadn't yet received was somehow presumptuous, whereas giving gratitude afterward was perfectly acceptable.

Sitting around the Christmas table, along with her four brothers and two sisters and their extended families, was a trial. The children were eating in the kitchen, but they were in and out of the dining room every five minutes, or one or the other of the parents kept hopping up to check on a particularly loud scream or bang from the other room. Stephanie came roughly in the middle of the Burroughs clan, but there was only a twelve-year difference between Billy, the eldest, and Joan, the youngest. The family remained remarkably close, with the exception of Stephanie, who had left home early and rarely returned. She felt slightly out of place—almost a stranger—sitting here surrounded by her Midwestern family. But it was better, infinitely better, than sitting at home in Boston in an empty, lonely house, she reminded herself.

After dinner, Stephanie and Joan found themselves in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher. The four boys and CJ, who'd always been a tomboy, were ferrying the dirty dishes in from the dining room, while Toni and Matt and the various spouses and partners played with the children. The kitchen still smelled wonderful—rich and warm with the aromas of meat and spices, herbs and liquors.

“God, I feel like I'm about ten again,” Stephanie said. She breathed deeply. “These Christmas smells are the defining scents of my childhood.”

“Mine was always the smell of tree sap,” Joan said. “Remember when Dad would top the trees in the backyard, and the boys would drag the cut wood across the garden?”

“And the smell of burning leaves.” Stephanie smiled. “The smell of autumn.”

She looked out through the kitchen window. Most of the trees were long gone now. They'd simply grown too large for Matt to handle. Five years ago, the four boys had come over late in the summer with their chainsaws and cut down the larger ones. They'd then sliced the trunks into fire-sized pieces, and the dry shed beside the double garage was still packed with the circular and semi-circular sections. There was probably enough wood to last for another three years at least.

“I could get used to living here again,” Joan said suddenly.

“Have you spoken to Eddie?”

“I had CJ talk to him for me. Told him where I was.”

“Guess he had a lonely Christmas without you,” Stephanie suggested, carefully stacking side plates in the dishwasher.

“Look, I missed him too. But he lied to me, Stef. And once a man starts lying to you, it's over. And when it's over, it's over.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Sometimes circumstances throw you right back at someone you've left,” she said grimly. She looked up and caught her sister looking quizzically at her. “Did you ask Eddie why he lied to you in the first place?” she asked quickly, trying to forestall an inevitable question.

“He was ashamed that he'd lost his job and didn't want to worry me.”

“That's fair.”

Joan blinked in surprise. “You're taking his side.”

“I'm not taking anyone's side; I'm just commenting. He was stupid, he lost his job. But he didn't want to worry you, so he got up every morning, got dressed, and went out and spent the day doing . . . What did he do?”

“Looked for a job, he said.”

“So he spent the day looking for a job, because he loved you.”

“And I forgave him that,” Joan protested. “When I eventually discovered the truth, we had a huge fight. . . . Well, I screamed and he listened and finally admitted that he'd lost his job because they were laying crew off. But that was another lie. He was fired because he was claiming overtime he hadn't done.”

“And you've never done that?” Stephanie wondered. “You've never padded an invoice, claimed for an extra hour, or slipped in a couple of additional expenses?” Before her sister could answer, she continued quickly, “Was he keeping this extra money for himself?”

“No, he wouldn't do that. It went into the joint account with everything else.” Joan bent down to the dishwasher and loaded knives and forks into their little plastic container, before looking up at Stephanie. “Oh. I see what you mean. I never thought of it that way. Everyone here's telling me to ditch him.”

“Everyone here doesn't know what happens behind closed doors. They just hear what they want to hear. See what they want to see. Besides, I'm not telling you to do or not do anything. I'm just giving you a different perspective.”

“You were always so smart,” Joan said. “Gosh, I look around this family and wonder how bizarrely we've turned out. Mom and Dad have been married forever, but . . . Jack, who's gay, is probably in the most functional relationship of everyone. There's Bill, who's now on his third wife; Little Matt and that strange older woman; Chris with his Thai wife, whose name I can't even pronounce; and CJ, who brought that woman with her today. At least I think it's a woman,” she added, then fell silent as the very masculine-looking female appeared in the doorway at that moment, carrying the last of the plates. She nodded, smiled, and left the kitchen without saying a word. “That leaves just you and me,” Joan continued. “And I'm married to a man who lies to me. . . .”

“Because he loves you and didn't want to upset you.”

“And there's you. At least one of us is not a complete screw-up. The man who gets you is going to be so lucky.”

“Oh, yeah, I'm a real prize,” Stephanie murmured.

Joan looked across the stacks of plates at her older sister. “Do you think I should give him another chance?”

“Yes,” Stephanie said without hesitation. “I think a man who loves you enough to lie to protect you isn't all bad.” But what about a man who was having an affair and lying to his wife; was he doing that to protect her too, and did that suggest that he loved her? Stephanie shied away from the thought, unable or unwilling to follow it to its logical conclusion.

Joan leaned over and kissed Stephanie quickly on the cheek. “I'm glad you came home. If you weren't here, I'd have kicked him out. I'm going to give him a second chance.”

“Just tell him: No more lying.”

 

A heavy Sherpa fleece blanket settled over Stephanie's shoulders, making her jump. She was sitting on the back step, staring out across the rolling snow-white fields. She looked up to find her father standing beside her. He was tamping tobacco into his battered pipe. Fragments of the brown leaf flaked off and settled on the white snow, looking like tiny questions marks.

“This was always your favorite place when you were a child,” Matt Burroughs said. “Whenever you were in trouble, I always knew where to find you. Sitting on the step.” He lowered himself gently beside his daughter. She lifted the blanket off her shoulders and draped it around his too, sharing it. They sat together in silence while Matt packed the bowl of his pipe, but they both knew he wouldn't light it in her presence. “Are you in trouble now?” he asked softly.

Stephanie allowed her eyes to drift. There was the tree where the old tire had hung, and the tumbledown barn where they'd played when the weather was freezing, and if she followed the narrow path through the trees, it would end up at the tiny pool where she'd first learned to swim. This was a place of innocence, a place where she'd always been happy. And with the thought came the awareness that she wasn't happy now; she wondered if she would ever be happy again.

“I hope you won't be disappointed,” she whispered, feeling like a teen again. “I think I'm pregnant.”

Matt put the unlit pipe between his lips and nodded slightly.

“Did Mom tell you?”

“Your mother has many wonderful gifts, but reticence is not one of them,” he murmured, “and don't you dare tell her I said so.” He glanced sidelong at his daughter. “You will always be that seven-year-old girl running wild through this garden, chasing the skunk just to make it spray, because you were one of the few people in the world who loved the smell. You will be forever ten, coming to me with the injured cardinal cupped in your hand. I will always remember you in your Communion dress, and your prom dress, and your graduation gown. I will never be disappointed in you. You've always made me proud, sweetheart. Always.”

Stephanie rested her head on her father's shoulder and remained silent, unwilling to trust herself to speak.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Stephanie drew in a deep lungful of the icy December air. “The father's name is Robert Walker. He's sixteen years older than I am and runs a small production company in Boston. And he's married. With two children,” she added.

“Still married?” Matt asked quietly.

“Still married. I know this goes against everything you've taught us and everything you believe in, Dad. But I fell in love with him. I allowed myself to fall in love with him, because he told me—and, in his defense, he genuinely believed it at the time—that his wife was no longer interested in him.”

“But he didn't leave his wife?”

“No. No, he didn't.” She sighed. “Last weekend I told him he had to choose.” She shrugged. “And he chose me. Told me he'd leave his wife after Christmas, that we'd be together. There was about forty-eight hours, Dad, when I was never happier.”

“Let me guess,” Matt said, not looking at her, squinting out at the snow-capped field, now losing definition as the world drifted into night. “The wife shows up?”

“The wife shows up.” She turned to look at her father. “How did you know?”

“Must have been something fairly dramatic that drove you back home on Christmas Eve. I can't think of anything more dramatic than that.”

“She showed up yesterday. And then Robert turned up a little later.”

Matt Burroughs's lips curled in a tight smile. “That must have been awkward.”

“You have no idea. I found out that she still loved him. And talking to her made me really understand what my future with Robert would be like. So . . . I made him go back to his wife.”

“How did he feel about that?”

Stephanie blinked in surprise. “I don't know. I didn't ask him. I suppose I thought since they both know there's a problem, surely they can work together to figure it out—get some counseling or something.”

“And now?”

“I don't know what to do. If I'm pregnant, I'll need to keep in touch with him.”

“Why?” Matt asked seriously.

“Because . . . ,” Stephanie began and then stopped. She'd no idea why. “It just seems right. For me, for him . . . and for the baby.”

Matt nodded. Then he asked Stephanie what she had been asking herself for months. “Does he love you?”

“I think so,” she said eventually.

Matt stood up and fixed the blanket over his daughter's shoulders again. Then he leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “There are some questions that are like math problems. There should be no equivocation: only one answer—in the positive or the negative. So, I'll ask you again: Does he love you?”

The twilight cast long shadows on the snow, turning the pristine whiteness to gray. The familiar lines of the backyard were disappearing into the gloom. High and clear in the cold air, she heard a child's voice, raised in delighted laughter, the sound pure and innocent. When you are a child everything is so simple, so easy. You believe what people tell you: Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. And they are all lies. That is the ultimate betrayal of childhood. And is it any different for adults? When a man stands at the altar and promises, in front of witnesses, that he will love and honor the woman by his side for the rest of his life, it is probably a lie . . . whether he knows it or not.

So, last Saturday, when Robert had stood in the street and said, “I love you. I want to be with you. To marry you. Will you marry me?” had he been lying? She didn't think so.

She nodded firmly. “Yes, I believe he loves me.”

“Do you love him?”

Yesterday, she would have said no. Yesterday, she had hated him, despised him. But that was yesterday. The day before that the answer had been different, and today . . . Well, she wasn't entirely sure how she felt about him today. “One of the reasons I let him go was because I loved him,” she admitted slowly and deliberately. “I was angry with him because he went back to his wife so easily.”