LITMIR.BIZ

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kitchen table. “You still up for Whitney’s dance thing?”

      She joined him with a collection of utensils and a couple more containers of food. “Actually, yes. I think it will be good for me. Would you mind driving, though?”

      “Not at all.”

      They ate in silence for a minute.

      She said, “I know I told you I didn’t want to talk until Wednesday.” About their situation. The baby they had conceived. “But Anita’s pregnancy changes things. She and Troy plan to tell Dad at dinner on Sunday. I think we should, too. It wouldn’t be right to listen to their announcement and not make our own.”

      “Are you sure?”

      She shrugged and took a bite of pasta salad.

      “Don’t you think they’ll have a lot of questions?” Kyle said. “About you and me, that is.”

      “I already told Anita.” She watched his expression change. He looked almost tense. Normally he was so easygoing, she thought, so unconcerned. She was supposed to be the uptight one.

      “Told her what exactly?”

      “I told her we’d gotten together one night.”

      He swallowed a bite of rotisserie chicken. “Oh? What did she say?”

      “She was shocked. She asked if we were getting married. I said no, of course.”

      “Mmm. So, what do you want to tell your dad?”

      “That’s the thing. I don’t know. Maybe I should say I don’t know who the father is.”

      “Right.” He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

      “I could say it’s someone I met at a medical conference. Someone from, say, Cleveland.”

      “Any particular reason?”

      She shrugged again.

      “Melissa, it’s not going to work. We have to tell him I’m the father.”

      “He’ll be mad at you. Madder than he’ll be at Troy, I’m sure.” At least Troy and Anita shared a household; at least they were a real couple.

      “Fine. I’ll take the heat. I’d rather do that than hide behind an imaginary guy from Cleveland.”

      “God…maybe we should get married. It would make this so much easier.”

      “I’m sorry?”

      She shook her head. “I don’t know. It was just an idea.”

      “A crazy one,” he said.

      “Can you come up with something better?”

      Kyle thought for a moment. “Maybe not. You’re sure we should tell him on Sunday?”

      “Yes. I’ve already told Anita. She doesn’t want to have to keep the secret. Anyway, she’s afraid she’d accidentally spill the beans.”

      “But finding out about you and Anita at once—”

      “Will be even harder on Dad. A double whammy. Yes, I know.” She paused. Reached across the table for a gingersnap. “If we could tell him we were getting married, though…”

      Kyle set down his silverware. He leaned forward and captured her gaze. “You keep saying that and I don’t know why. You’re not serious.”

      He was right, Melissa thought. She couldn’t be serious. It was too outrageous. Too extreme.

      And she didn’t miss the flicker of panic in his eyes. Marriage and Kyle? No, not since Felicity had that been a possibility, and it wouldn’t be for years to come.

      Not too difficult to figure out that the suicide of a loved one was even harder to get over than a regular death. Not too difficult to figure out why Kyle kept his love life shallow and uncommitted.

      And her own feelings about marriage? The subject was an uncomfortable one. She didn’t like to go there. She hadn’t expected it to be an issue. The two proposals she’d received in her life had not even remotely tempted her. She found it impossible to imagine herself as a wife, as part of a happy little picket-fence family.

      But this wasn’t a normal situation, she thought. It felt unreal, as if they’d slipped into an alternative universe.

      One in which marriage might be a strangely appropriate solution.

      “Mel,” he persisted, “tell me you’re not serious.”

      “I don’t know, Kyle. What if I were? What if we could have an old-fashioned marriage of convenience?”

      “What in God’s name is that?”

      “One that’s not based on romance. One based on other things. Like—”

      “Convenience. Come on, Mel. That’s crazy.”

      “Is it, though?” She frowned, trying to think it through. “We get along well. We want the same things in life. Oh, Kyle. Marriage could be the smartest way to handle our circumstances.”

      “What you’re talking about is a shotgun wedding. The thing your sister refuses to have.”

      “Fine,” Melissa said. “I’m not my sister, though.”

      THEY DISCUSSED IT on the way to the dance performance. Kyle thought she’d lost her mind. And maybe she had. Maybe she’d damaged her brain cells when she’d hyperventilated. A week ago she would never have considered such a radical solution.

      But she felt very calm. And very sane. And the more they talked about it the surer she became. Why not get married? Neither of them had looked forward to a regular marriage someday; this wouldn’t get in the way of a future relationship.

      She realized, too, that matrimony seemed so much safer without the complication of romantic love. So much less disturbing.

      The idea of having a child already disturbed her enough—more than she could ever acknowledge out loud. It scared her. The fear wasn’t rational. It was deep and instinctual. Sometimes she thought she’d simply seen too much at work and in her own family not to be aware of the risks of losing people. Of the potential for devastating pain. Despair that took away your ability to get through the day. Your will to live.

      How many times had she had to tell people their child or spouse had died? Enough to know she didn’t want to be on the other end of that conversation.

      And it never got any easier. Sometimes it even got harder—when one of her patients somehow got under her skin. Like last July.

      And now, because of that day, she would be a parent after all. She would accept the risks because abortion and adoption were even less acceptable to her. And she might marry Kyle, too—if she could talk him into it.

      “All right,” Kyle finally said. “Let’s sleep on it. Maybe you’ll come to your senses by morning.”

      “Maybe not,” she said.

      A minute later he pulled up outside their destination, a small, avant-garde theater in southeast Portland, and cut the engine. “This place is creepy looking,” he said, grinning. “Like it might not be good for a pregnant lady.”

      “Oh, please. Don’t start coddling me.” She didn’t want him to treat her any differently because of her breakdown tonight. It had only been temporary. She was still a strong person. She didn’t need to be sheltered from every little thing.

      “Right,” he said, and exited his blue Toyota.

      But he circled the vehicle and helped her out. And all the way into the theater his hand rested between her shoulder blades. It could have been a simple, friendly, gentlemanly gesture. But it felt like more. It felt both protective and possessive.

      They ran into Barbara Purcell in the lobby.

      She

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