On the Fourth of July around seven AM, he wanted to have sex. There wasn’t time; he had a golf date, and he wanted her to join him later for the annual clambake at the club.

She said the smell of clams would make her nauseous. “I’m pregnant.”

“What?” He raised up on an elbow, looked her in the eye. “You said ...”

She touched his face, her eyes and her voice clear and steady. “We’re having a baby.”

“Can’t be.” He felt the sap drain out of him. Good thing he wasn’t upright.

“I wanted to tell you last night. It was so late when you got home, and you were bushed.”

Burnt out. Four days on the road, too many miles, too many meetings. “A baby,” he muttered, incredulous. “When?”

“Dr. Shipley thinks, after the first of the year.”

In spurts of hot and cold, sap flowed back into his limbs. He pushed the sheet aside, knees knocking, he came to his feet. “You’ve seen Ted Shipley?”

“While you were gone,” she responded, a concerned look coming into her eyes. “He’s not sure about my due date.”

“Too soon,” Austin mumbled, pacing. This has to be a mistake. “The foam,” he blurted, putting words to a sudden thought.

Jenny came to her feet beside the bed, turning a wary look on him. “It could have happened on our trip to Florida, or ... well, you know.”

Flashing back, sex more spontaneous than careful, he felt sick, and foolish. Man, a baby! “I’m blown away here.” Neither pacing nor shaking his head cleared a tangle of emotions.

Jenny came around the bed, slipped her arms around his middle. “I’ve felt this life inside for weeks. I had to be sure before I told you.” She kissed him with a tenderness he couldn’t accept.

Life inside. No question she was pleased. Later, when he’d had a chance to get his bearings, he’d regret pushing her away. Not hard, enough force to send a message. “I gotta’ go.”

As though frozen to the spot, she stood where he left her.

He pulled on his golf clothes. “You expect me to stay?” he snapped.

“No … go! Go to the club.” She turned away. “I have things to do.”

He had to get his head straight. Right now he couldn’t deal with tears.

Focus, and control, that’s what it takes to play the game. He couldn’t focus; forget about control. His drives sliced out of bounds, chip shots hit the traps. Ted Shipley playing in the foursome just ahead didn’t help his game at all.

“How ya’ doin’, Austin?”

Tallying his scorecard, he must have looked green around the gills when Ted approached. No other players close enough to hear, yet he kept his voice low. “She gave me the news this morning, Ted. I’m still in shock.”

“Ahhhh.” Ted nodded, resting a benevolent hand on Austin’s shoulder. “You’ll get used to the idea.”

“Seems impossible, you know.”

Ted laughed, a calming, good-natured sort of laugh befitting the man and his profession. “Come by my office. We have packets we give out to our new fathers. I’ll leave one for you at the front desk.”

“Right.” Packets of what? This was no place for a long-winded explanation.

Ted moved on and so did he, to the tent where kitchen help shucked clams and drew off foaming mugs of beer—a stomach churning combination. He hadn’t eaten all day. A plate from the brunch buffet, he found a seat at a table where some well-heeled locals—singles and young married couples—traded life-style taunts: skiing in Aspen or the Alps; yachting in the islands; shopping in Manhattan, and world-wide golf. No chains on them.

Ted’s words—new father—bouncing around in his head, the image couldn’t find a foothold on the slippery slopes that were his brain cells. He had to drive the dark thoughts out. They couldn’t have a baby; his job, their finances, the world exploding. And what about that dirty, undeclared war no one dared talk about. For more than an hour, he sped along a country road that circled back to town. Almost out of gas, he pulled into his driveway where he sat conflicted a full ten minutes. Pretense out of the question; too late to put on a show. Too soon for them to have a baby.

“Jenny,” he called out coming through the kitchen. ... Silence. The place had an empty feeling. Under a magnet on the fridge, she’d left a note—so curt, he knew he was in trouble: Gone to Hamlin Circle.

He showered, put on fresh slacks and shirt. He should go after her, on second thought, he couldn’t face her, and her family. So, he took the morning paper out to the porch. “Ahhhh.” A breeze but far from cooling. Flopping on the swing, he closed his eyes against the sun’s glare. His eyeballs itched—sprayed sand from all the traps his wedge had found. Jenny was pregnant. He knew that baby was his. So, why was he feeling betrayed?

“Austin?”

He sat straight up. “Out here.”

“Be out in a minute.” She headed for the bathroom.

He’d have a minute to pull himself together. She’d been in the bathroom a lot lately; a clue he’d missed. The paper made a handy prop. He picked up a section, folded it in half as though he’d been reading an article.

“Hi.” She stood in the doorway, working lotion into her hands. “Did you have dinner?”

He looked up from the paper. “At the club… did you?”

“Picnic … the family was there.”

He came to his feet; Hamlin Circle was five miles at least, and he’d left her stranded. “You walked all that way?”

“Uncle Charlie picked me up and brought me home.”

Did Charlie know? Did the family know?

She stood silent in the doorway watching him. That ugly incident this morning left a chill between them. He tossed the paper aside. “I saw Ted Shipley at the club,” he related, an edge in his voice. “Ted said, I’d get used to the idea.”

“Will you?” she asked, her eyes searching his face.

“I don’t know. This wasn’t in the plan, ya’ know.”

As though he’d struck her, her hand went to her belly. “I want this baby more than anything.”

Leaping from the swing, raw emotion sprang to the surface. “More than us?”

Her face dark and defiant, she turned away. “That’s an impossible choice.” Stepping out of his line of vision, she opened windows, turned on fans, drew a bath.

He’d never seen her like this; pushed into a corner, she fought back. Gutsy, disturbing, and it was an impossible choice. From this point on, it wouldn’t be the same with them. The baby would come first with her. He had a rival he couldn’t banish from their lives.

Strong emotions needed cooling before they talked again, he figured, closing his eyes, drifting off. Throughout a troubled state between reality and dreaming, the day’s events more out of control than the way they’d taken place. Too sudden—a baby, he’d let go with a gut reaction. If he’d had some warning, he’d have a strategy in place. No excuse. He’d been a freakin’ jerk; he hurt her. At the time, too out of sorts to care, now, he had regrets for what he’d said and done. He couldn’t lose her. Chills, an awful sense of loss, stiff, shivering and racked with remorse, sometime in the early morning hours, he came awake.

Shaking off confusion, he made his way to the bedroom where she was fast asleep. Soundlessly, he undressed, crawled in beside her, pulling a blanket over them. She stirred, reached out, touching him. He kissed her shoulder where the skin was soft and fragrant. Childlike in many ways, she was still a girl. He was older, more experienced, her guide and protector. Okay, protector, how did you let this happen? Man, he couldn’t lose her. Her body heat warming him; his shivering stopped. The dark thoughts faded into nothing.

Saturday morning they slept late, had breakfast late. While he was in the shower, she stuffed sheets and towels and underwear into a tall, canvas bag propped up by the back door.

He pushed his bath towel in the top. “You’re going to the Laundromat?”

She nodded. They weren’t talking about what happened, or much else.

He hoisted the laundry bag onto his shoulder. “I’m going with you.” No way he’d let his pregnant bride haul fifty pounds of laundry down the back steps. He hadn’t done laundry since he was at Penn State. With both of them sorting and folding, a distasteful task was done before the noon whistle. The last dish towel and pair of socks tucked into separate drawers, he checked his watch, suggesting they had the afternoon to drive out to wine country, have an early dinner at an inn he’d heard about.

She gave him a wary look.

They could use a change of scenery, he argued. She agreed.

The inn was hunt-club, country charming, just as he’d been told. A bit shabby, but the AC was running, and the hostess handed them a decent menu with a nice assortment of wines from the local vineyards. Jenny liked a Taylor’s white. He suggested they order a carafe.

“I can’t drink wine,” she whispered, matter-of-factly.

She hadn’t complained; she wouldn’t. He ordered an imported beer. They’d skipped lunch. “Hope you’re hungry. I am. I heard the steaks are prime.” He ordered New York Strip; she had fresh-caught local walleye.

They talked about the decor, the food the service, watched ducks swimming on a pond outside their window table. The elephant in the room made for awkward silence. The waitress took away their dishes, brought his coffee and a pot of tea for Jenny. He’d decided his approach; the time was right. “I thought we’d wait a year or two,” taking her hand, he began, his voice calm and thoughtful. “I like the way we are. ... Just us.”

A wistful look coming to her face, her eyes held his. “These past months have been wonderful.” Pausing, she looked away. “I didn’t pick the best time to tell you, I guess.”

Timing wouldn’t have mattered. “I’m not ready,” he confessed. “I don’t know if I can let another person in.”

She drew a breath in deep, let it go. “I had mixed feelings ... at first.”

“Not now?” He knew the answer.

“No.” She smiled at him. “I got beyond it.”

He studied her. “Being a ... dad … takes some getting used to.” It dawned on him how scared he was. “Don’t give up on me. I’m getting there.”

Driving home, he had to keep his focus on the road. She relaxed her seat and closed her eyes. In the months ahead, he wondered how she’d change in size, shape, personality. On the one hand, he could accept that things would change. Still, he dreaded the loss of a bride, all his. Under the surface, there was something ugly he had to keep from swelling out of control.

Things were still tense, but better between them when they went to bed. She wanted to make love.

“Is that allowed?” Honestly, he didn’t know.

She assured him, it was.

Physically, he wanted to have sex. Awkward and unsure, he couldn’t.

She let him off the hook. It was hot and sticky and both of them were tired.

Long after she’d gone to sleep, he lay awake staring at the ceiling. Man! He couldn’t. That never happened, not with Jenny. They’d always been in sync. A baby on the way, he’d insist she leave her job in Corkran’s office. A positive.

Sunday, he played golf. When he got home, she had their supper ready. She hadn’t told the family. Only Robin knew; she’d been sworn to secrecy. They agreed they’d keep her pregnancy quiet for a month or so until she was farther along. The secret brought them closer. Most of all, it bought time to let the idea grow in him.

Tom Scott had a mega-million order perking with a multi-national: equipment for a pipeline from Manitoba, down through mid-western states. The deal required a Welborne man on this side of the border. Tom requested Austin; AJ had assigned him to the project. In effect, a step up, a salary increase, a wealth of contacts on both sides of the border, the opportunity to work with Tom—Welborne’s top producer.

Jenny knew about the project. It meant they’d stay in Welborne for at least a year. That made her happy. The downside was traveling. More days on the road than he was working now. Tuesday he’d be leaving for Toronto, three days of meetings. That Monday he was working from the home office.

On his way to lunch, he drove past Shipley’s practice. At the stoplight on the corner, he remembered Ted’s suggestion; waiting for him at the front desk in a plain brown envelope, a packet for new fathers. Returning to his car, he looked inside the envelope: a handful of pamphlets and a note from Ted saying: feel free to call were questions to arise. He slipped the packet into his briefcase, drove on to meet a colleague.

After dinner, Jenny drew a bath. He packed for an early morning flight: shirts, silk ties and sundry, a blue suit and a gray—summer-weight. Tom most often wore English tweed or herringbone; too warm for summer in the states. For this meeting would Tom wear “the uniform”—his tongue-in-cheek description of accepted business dress this side of the border.

They’d be meeting with top brass, Tom’s contemporaries. The way they dressed, behaved, how well they were prepared, evaluated. Except for herringbone and tweed, he’d follow Tom’s example. Always edgy, beginning a new project, he carried his bag to the front hall where his briefcase stood against the wall, the plain brown envelope inside. He’d been on the phone all afternoon or in a meeting. Now he had free time. Leafing through the envelope while walking to the open porch, he pulled a pamphlet from the bundle.

Conception: standard health class 101. Thumbing to the final page, he scanned cartoon-like drawings: hanging stars, moon-lit lagoon, squiggles representing sperm swimming broad stroke up the birth canal; one single-minded mission, trap an egg and penetrate.

Uncomfortable, he chuckled. Dr. Shipley had a twisted sense of humor. One last peak into conception cave-man style, he lay that one aside, picked up Marital Relations. A cold, impersonal term. With Jenny the most intimate expression of affection he would ever know. Man, he missed it.

The pamphlet said, marital relations were permitted—with caution—up to the last trimester providing the mother was healthy. Jenny was healthy, and in her first trimester. He wasn’t sure they should, or that he could. The pamphlet said they could, and should, and that mothers-to-be thrived on affection.

Okay! But, what was meant by “caution?” He figured no more wild and free.

A sudden gust of wind scattered the pamphlets across the porch. Thunder rolled, lightning flashed. He scooped up the pamphlets, moved inside. “Jenny, storm’s coming. I’ll lock up and close the windows.” The temperature dropped a good ten degrees.

Their apartment secure for the night, her found her in their bedroom brushing her hair to a fine golden shine. “Cooler,” she observed.

“Yeah. I think we’re in for it.” In the center of the room, he fanned through the pamphlets. “I stopped by Shipley’s office.”

She smiled, expectation in her eyes.

“Interesting,” he noted, smiling back.

“Dr. Shipley’s famous for his reading materials.” She put her brush down on the table. “And I talk to Robin.”

He held up the pamphlet titled Marital Relations. “You talk to Robin about this?”

“Too a point,” she answered, cautiously.

“What point?”

“Ahhhhh … ”

Girl talk. “Never mind.” He’d let her off the hook. Opening the pamphlet, he held it out to her. “Read page three and four.” Rain beat the roof and windows.

She took the pamphlet reading while she perched on the side of the bed.

He undressed, came to the foot of the bed as she set the pamphlet aside. “Can we do that?”

“I like to make love in the rain.”

From the look of her he knew, they’d try.

For the meetings in Toronto, Austin wore the standard blue-gray business suit. Tom Scott, master of his universe, wore trademark tweeds; a well-timed anecdote greasing the wheels of industry. Canadians value a well-told story. The quick-witted Tom one-of-them; the American an unknown; Tom’s blessing a plus, though not a pass. He had to prove himself, without tromping on Tom’s toes.

Part A, the project; he had his specs down cold. Part B, after business hours in the night spots around town: warm beer and shots, enormous cuts of prime Canadian beef. A mix of work and play—Welborne picking up the tab. He had to hold his liquor with these two-fisted drinkers—a genteel drunk accepted. Yank or Hoser, no one partied with a sloppy drunk.

Camaraderie and alcohol loosened his tongue, he figured. Tom would be the first outsider he would tell about the baby. They were chilling in the VIP lounge, a layover, changing planes. In the course of conversation, wives were mentioned. From his wallet, Austin took the photo he carried, handing it to Tom. “That’s my bride, Jenny.”

Approval lighting up Tom’s face, he studied the picture. “Amazing eyes,” he concluded, arching a brow. “Bonnie Lass, aye.” Handing the photo back, he asked Austin how they’d met.

“Rob Milano introduced us,” Austin answered.

“Rob, aye! Good Man.”

“Yeah. Rob’s wife Caroline, Jenny is her niece.”

“Caroline. Ahhhhh, yes. I know Caroline ... lovely lady. A family resemblance, I’d say.”

Taking a long look at the photo, he put it away. “First time I looked into those eyes, I was hooked.”

Tom laughed. “Fireworks. Mind you, the best romantic adventures begin that way.”

“Fireworks, yeah,” Austin chuckled. “Couldn’t let her get away. We eloped.”

“A man of action, aye mate. I admire that in a man.” Approving, he tipped his glass, took a long, hard swallow.

Tom wouldn’t call him mate with colleagues. More than twenty years between them, and from different backgrounds, he and Tom were solid. That’s how their secret slipped out.

“Smashing!” Tom proclaimed. He slapped Austin on the back. “Responsibility builds character, I always say.”

“Not what I expected, right away, ya know.” Austin admitted. And then he blurted something he hadn’t meant to say. “No matter what they say, this baby is legal.”

The pause meant Tom was taken aback.

Calm and controlled, he laid a hand on Austin’s shoulder. “What is important in these matters is a healthy kiddo, aye, and a healthy mum.”

Tom was right. Idle gossip didn’t matter. He told his friend he was the first to know about the baby. He could depend on Tom’s discretion.

The smell of fuel, the roar of turbines straining against to pull of Earth, a man feels small and vulnerable peering over the wing of an aircraft, ceding control to an anonymous crew. Beyond, the dark, treacherous waters of the deepest of the great lakes—a harbor, a marina, a maritime community oblivious to observers now swallowed in a bank of clouds.

Austin reclined his seat. Within minutes, they’d be crossing the border. Two hours in the air, an hour ground transport. As the weeks had passed, he’d learned the routine; his company gaining ground. He could put the last few days behind him, focused on the weekend.

She liked the lighter summer menu at Welborne House. He’d take her there for dinner, then back to their apartment where they could be alone. Not completely—the baby. A being he couldn’t quite accept. Uncomfortable now with his thoughts, his hand ran down his face, he shifted in his seat, unfastened, stood, moving into the aisle. Around him, passengers, business types mostly, heading home, as he was. The flight attendants parked the drink cart next to the galley. A wait. He could use an ice-cold Molson after all that tepid booze across the border. Raising the overhead, he snapped the latch on his briefcase, reached inside.

Tuesday, on the plane flying to Toronto, he’d learned why Jenny had the weeps: raging hormones. During pregnancy, the pamphlet stated, shifting hormone levels bring on mood swings and physical complaints. Nibbling crackers helped relieve morning sickness—her only complaint. The weeps, she claimed, were “happy tears.”

Reluctant to open the cover, he turned the pamphlet over in his hand to see which one he’d fished from his briefcase: The Developing Fetus. Did he want to know the goings on inside? How bad could it be? Returning to his seat, he slid the pamphlet inside a magazine before he flipped the cover. Drawings from conception to full term: alien creatures curled up in their bubbles, more human in appearance as the weeks progressed. An alien, like one of these, had taken over his bride’s body. A creature he had brought to life.

He closed the magazine, as the attendant set a sweaty bottle on his tray. From the bottle, he took a long, hard swallow. Beer didn’t chase the pictures from his head. Jenny was convinced their fetus was a boy, they would name him Daniel, if Austin didn’t object. He agreed that Daniel was a fine, masculine name; though he cautioned odds were fifty-fifty the baby was a girl.

“Next time,” she responded.

“Next time?”

“The next time,” she repeated, “we’ll have a girl.”

They’d never talked about how many.

“I’d like to have three or four,” she said, noting his look of concern.

“How many?” More protest, than question.

She laughed, holding up two fingers, a compromise.

One intruder he hadn’t yet accepted.

He couldn’t picture their baby, boy or girl. The Tracys’ kid had Robin’s coloring; his dad’s toothy grim. He’d want a girl to look like Jenny. Opening the pamphlet to the back page, he found a list of names: boy names—decided. Girl’s, from Abigail—Abby, not bad—to Zsa Zsa—not a chance, Susan would be okay. A baby with a name would be too real. He wasn’t ready for that. Damn, a baby! If he hadn’t lost control there wouldn’t be a baby. An appetite, a drive, a belief it wouldn’t happen—yet. Wrong.

He’d had a birthday—twenty-five. Old enough to be a father. He hadn’t made the leap, resisting the push of on-rushing events. He hadn’t met with Saul Jacobs regarding Uncle Lyman’s crazy claims. From a phone call, he learned the attorney was “keeping his ear to the ground.” All quiet on that front, but a cloud hanging over his future, and Jenny’s and a child on the way. At the home office, whispering began; months counted. Loose-lipped busy bodies, screw ‘em! He knew the truth.

Jenny had called her mom, then they told the family, and Cork, who wouldn’t hear of her quitting, suggested shorter hours, maternity leave. Cork was so accommodating, Austin couldn’t push his points; Jenny’s employer out-foxed him. That set him on a slow burn.

She wanted him to be the one to tell his mother. Like his mother didn’t know from Aunt Audra. Before he’d found the time to call his mother, the unexpected intervened.