Do Anything (19 page)

“Oh, you’ll most likely gain more than a half a pound. I’m just talking about the growth of the baby,” he clarifies.

“Yup, the news just keeps getting better,” I moan.

“It’s a good thing. A growing baby is a healthy baby.” At those words, my chest aches. A healthy baby. I’m growing a child inside of me, and when this is all over, if everything goes well, I’ll have a healthy baby.

I shake my head. “I’m sorry, you’re right,” I say softly.

He pats me on my leg and tells me everything looks great, and I can go ahead and get dressed. Just before he exits the room, I find the courage to ask a question that has been plaguing me since the day Holden kissed me upstairs at the in. “Dr. Marshall …”

“Yes.” He pauses, looking back at me.

“I did have one question,” I begin. He shifts his body, facing me. “You said the baby’s brain is growing rapidly now?”

“That’s right,” he confirms.

“Does this include their memories?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”

“Will the baby have memories of things that are happening right now? Conversations I have, things I experience.” I want to shake him as I ask the question
Just tell me if my baby will have memories of another man kissing me, or how it felt for Mommy when he did
.

“Some have said there are people who can remember their birth, but common medical opinion is that memories often do not date back younger than age three, maybe two,” he explains.

“But it could go further back?”

“Is there something in particular that’s concerning you, Miss Hart? Maybe I could answer your question better.”

“No, of course not. I’m just curious.” I watch as he leaves the room. Hopping down from the bed, I get dressed. The thought of my child remembering things while in the womb haunts me. Talk about a tragic start to life. All of this is exactly what I’m determined to protect my son or daughter from.

Slipping on a pair of mules, I make my way outside to the receptionist and make my appointment for a follow-up visit. As soon as the waiting room door opens, Holden is on his feet. He looks worried. I stare at him, puzzled. “Are you all right?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he huffs. “I was just about to ask you the same question. You were back there forever.”

I giggle.

“What? You were,” he insists.

“It wasn’t that long,” I argue with a smile, walking toward the exit. He follows closely behind me, pulling the keys from his pocket.

“I was about to ask the receptionist if everything was okay,” he adds.

I reach out and squeeze his arm. “I’m fine.”

He pauses, causing me to come to a sudden stop. We’re now standing just in front of the truck. Looking into my eyes, he asks, “And the baby?” The way he says it causes a chill to flood through my body. He’s so serious. Is he actually concerned about this baby?
Why?

“The baby’s fine,” I answer in a soft tone, still staring at him.

He opens the door for me before hopping in the other side. He’s smiling, and I don’t know what to think.

My days have become routine. This is a preferred form of distraction for me. It’s hard to think about Jack and his threats when I’m busy from the moment I wake up until the moment I go to bed. If I have a second of quiet time, I fill it with writing. My latest journal is almost full, and every time I crack my notebook, I feel a calmness wash over me. There’s contentment in me that I haven’t known for some time.

As soon as I wake up in the morning, I head straight out back and collect the eggs from the chicken coop for the breakfast run. This was been a new experience for me, but Abner seemed more than happy to show me how it’s done. What he didn’t tell me was that the Rooster is a bastard. He loves a good chase during egg collection time, and at thirty-one weeks pregnant, I’m not getting around as quickly as I used to. After the initial attempt, it was a simple matter of learning the trick; you trap the beast in the corner with the gate. After that it’s smooth sailing.

I also found out they collect their own milk, but Holden wasn’t letting me or my perfectly round belly anywhere near the back end of a cow—a luxury reserved for Abner. Bea keeps a mini greenhouse to the side of their small cottage at the rear of the Inn. My second daily chore is to collect all the fresh herbs she needs for that day’s kitchen duties.

I tried to carry in firewood a few days ago, as winter is now squarely upon us, but again, Holden wouldn’t hear of it. I’m sure he’s right when it comes to me over doing it, but I’m still not used to having physical limitations.

Given the recent kitchen disaster, I was glad to take on the responsibility of waitressing during dining hours. One of the things that Bea hates, which comes quite naturally to me, is the bookkeeping. When I volunteered to take this off her hands it seemed to earn me some favor with her.

Each day I handle the billing on the two remaining guest rooms, as well as all the receivables and payables for the inn. I like it here. It’s simple. I know my job, I take care of my responsibilities, and I have time to write.

The problem is, in nine weeks my life is going to get flipped upside down. I’ll have a baby. There are choices I have to make. I’m not a citizen here. I can’t hide forever. But being here with Bea and Abner and Holden, it’s hard not to ignore the world that awaits me for the life I have right here.

“The lunch rush seems to be clearing out,” I say, stepping up to the bar. “Do you think I could take a break? I have a scene that’s been stuck in my head all day, and I want to write it down.”

Holden looks around the room and nods. “Sure.”

It never feels like I’m working for him, and I appreciate that. My room and board is free, my meals are all free, but I still have a lot of freedom with my schedule. It’s just as Bea had described: a family atmosphere.

I climb the stairs. You think I’d be used to the narrow staircase, but each week, as my stomach continues to grow, it is presenting a larger challenge for me. I’m not sure how any woman can embrace pregnancy. It’s like your body is stolen from you—taken over by this entity inside of you that forces you to eat massive quantities of food, pee frequently, and makes basic movements absurdly difficult.

I leave my door open so I can hear in case anyone needs me downstairs, then sit on my bed. This has been another change. Sitting at a desk to write has become quite uncomfortable for my lower back, so instead I retreat to the comfort of my pillows. Flipping open the notebook, I reread the last paragraph of what I’ve written.

A throat clears in the hallway. Holden is standing there, his hands behind his back.

“Oh,” I gasp, startled. “Did you need something else?” I don’t stand … that would be far too much work.

His eyes shift to the ground and then nervously around the room. I’m stumped. He’s never nervous.

“Am I interrupting?” he asks at last.

“I hadn’t started yet.”

“Can I come in?” He lifts his eyes to meet mine. I wish I didn’t love those eyes so much; it makes it hard to look away.

“Of course.” I shift, rotating my legs around to the side of the bed.

He moves swiftly across the room, and I can tell he’s concealing something behind his back. For a moment he hesitates, hovering near me. I catch his scent, and I want him to be closer. I do my best not to reveal this.

He sits in the corner chair across from me, slipping something behind his back, just out of sight.

“Is everything all right?” I inquire, staring at him, brows knitted.

He takes a deep breath and shifts forward in his seat, narrowing the gap between us. “You’ve been back for five weeks now, and I think it’s been going well, don’t you?”

“I don’t understand … I mean … I guess,” I stammer, confused.

There’s a pause, and then he swallows hard. “I guess what I’m saying is, this is working out well for everyone. You’ve been a big help with Bea’s work, and it seems like you’re getting a lot of writing done.”

“Yeah, I have been.” The purpose of this conversation isn’t becoming any clearer to me.

He sighs before continuing. “I think you should make this permanent.”

“What?” I exclaim. “I can’t, Holden, I’m not a citizen.”

“I know, but they’ll let you stay six months without filing anything. I can sponsor you—say that your services have become invaluable to me.”

“I can’t just stay here forever.”

“Why not?” He’s frustrated. “Your ex sounds like a real creep. You have a life here I doubt you could get many places. I’m … I mean … you get time to write.”

“I know, but pretty soon the baby’s going to be here. I won’t be able to help as much, and then it’ll be time for me to go.” I’m touched by his offer, but I know I’m thinking more logically than he is right now.

“Please, will you at least think about it?” He reaches out to grab my hands, but stops himself, pulling back. This reaction surprises me.

“Okay,” I say softly.

He prepares to stand up and stops all of the sudden. “Oh, I almost forgot.” From behind his back, he pulls out the Macbook Air he had given me when I first came to the inn.

I shake my head. I know where this is going, and I refuse to allow it to happen.

“Wait a second,” he insists, waving his free hand in the air. “Before you tell me all the reasons you can’t, hear me out. I’m not giving you this with any expectations or strings attached. If you decide to leave and you want to return it to me, that’s fine. I gave it to you because I believe in you, and I think this will help. However, if you want to return it at a later date, I won’t hold it against you. Just please, next time do it with more than a note.”

“Haha, real funny, man.”

“No, seriously, I think you’d agree it would be much easier if you wrote your book using this.”

I bite my lip. He’s right, and I want to accept the gesture, but something is holding me back. He wants me stay here, to live here, to create my life here. If I take the laptop, will it give him hope? Will I be giving into his false delusions that something could ever happen between us? Am I enabling his fairytale? Or worse, would it be the first step in fooling myself into believing there could be a life for me here.
Damn it
. It’s just a laptop … take it already.

I nod, and reach out to take hold of the small, silver device. I set it on the bed next to me and push up off the mattress. Holden is already standing, looking at me, waiting for me to say something. I bow my head and whisper, “Thank you.” Before I realize what I’m doing I’m hugging him.

Let go
.
All right, you’ve been holding onto him for too long. Let go of him already.

We part; he smiles at me, and leaves the room. I stare at the empty hall for a second, before returning to the bed. Flipping open the laptop, I start up the word processor, and at the top, I type:
The Luckiest
by Annabelle Hart.

The cold outside is bitter; I avoid it, except to do my necessary chores. I stoke the fire, staring at the embers as they dance. Off to one side a local musician and friend of Holden’s, Leaf, is setting up to play his guitar. It’s been abnormally slow, which I admit I don’t mind. Now thirty-three weeks into my pregnancy, I’m noticing I tire easily.

I sit in one of the high-back chairs, open my laptop, and continue writing on my manuscript. It took a solid week to transfer my handwritten work into digital format. I didn’t mind; it gave me a chance to change things and make it stronger. In a way, it got me even more excited about the story. It feels like it’s really coming together. It’s odd, but sometimes when I read over things I’ve written, I find myself staring and asking,
did I do that?
It’s an intoxicating feeling, and I don’t want it to end so I write more. In fact, I’ve been hitting ten thousand words some days.

“Evening, beautiful,” I hear Holden say. Looking over the top of the screen, I see him sitting in the chair across from me.

I blush and smile back. “Hi.”

Even though I know a relationship with him would only complicate both of our lives, it doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy his occasional flirting. Something else I’ve learned about being pregnant: when you have a watermelon-sized stomach on the front of you, it feels fantastic to have a hot guy compliment you.