The Baby Truce (14 page)

T
OM WAS EXPERIENCING A MAJOR
disconnect. Reggie was definitely pregnant; his child was growing inside her. Over the past few weeks, she'd gone from being upset about the pregnancy to, well, nesting. Seeing her so excited about paint drove home the point that they had very different perspectives on this pregnancy.

Why did the kid still seem so surreal to him? Why wasn't his paternal instinct kicking in?

Maybe getting involved with painting—preparing the baby's room—would spark some paternal instincts and he'd know what he needed to do to be a decent father, because right now, he hadn't a clue.

Reggie didn't talk much on the drive to the home-improvement store, but once they hit the paint section, she lit up. And for a person who had a bright red wall in her kitchen, Reggie seemed hopelessly drawn to pale pastels. Tom favored the bright and the bold.

“I'm thinking peaceful, restful colors,” she said, holding up a pale lavender chip.

“I'm thinking stimulation.” Tom grimaced at the color. “I read babies need a lot of stimulation.”

“They also need sleep.”

Tom continued on down the long row of paint cards, pulling whatever happened to catch his eye, until he had
a handful. Then he turned and propped the cards against the gallons of paint on the opposite side of the aisle.

“How about this green?” he asked. “I know you said you didn't want green, but this one is kind of peaceful and at the same time kind of stimulating.”

She cocked her head, studied the color. “Put it in the pile.” So far they had a muted blue, an apricot, a pale yellow that Tom hated, and the green.

Reggie looked at the back of a paint card. “Which of these are the really nontoxic paints?”

A store associate in a red vest walked by within seconds of her asking, and Tom called him over. “Which of these paint brands are nontoxic?”

“All of them,” the associate said proudly, rocking back on his heels.

“So, I can eat this paint and nothing would happen to me?”

The man's eyes bugged. “What exactly are you planning to do with it, sir?”

Reggie laughed. “We're painting a baby's room.”

“Ah.” He smiled with exaggerated relief, ready to play along and make a sale. “Well, I can understand your concern. These paints are all nontoxic, but I still don't recommend eating them.” He led the way to a special display. “These are the least toxic and also, unfortunately, the most expensive.”

“The colors we picked aren't this brand…except for the yellow,” Reggie added with a note of triumph, holding up the color chip.

“Oh, we can create the tones with any base paint,” the associate assured them in a conspiratorial voice.

“Great,” Tom said, suspecting Reggie already knew that from the look on her face. “Thanks for your help.”

“Wait until you see the yellow in the room,” Reggie said as they headed for the exit twenty minutes later, each with a handful of favorite colors. “It'll be great.”

“Kids fight more in yellow rooms.”

Reggie stopped walking and stared at him. “How do you know that?”

“I read a lot.” And he did. Every night, with his laptop balanced on his legs and Brioche curled up beside him. What else was he going to do during the evenings? He'd learned a lot, but it ate at him that he couldn't visualize his kid—even after searching in vain for the perfect nursery paint color. Did all guys experience this? Was he destined to be a failure as a father because he had no paternal instinct? Is that why his dad was able to spend so much time away from him?

Tom shoved the matter out of his mind. Or tried to.

They'd driven to the store in Tom's rental car, so after he got behind the wheel he said, “Let's get something to eat.”

“I thought you had a barbecue at two.”

“Part of going to a barbecue, done properly, is sitting and smelling the meat cooking for three or four hours.”

“You're right. We need to eat.”

“Now all we have to do is find a good peanut butter joint.”

Reggie laughed and Tom felt a deep sense of satisfaction. It felt so damned good not to be at odds with her. He was beginning to believe that hanging out in her
kitchen really had been a good idea. The baby would benefit.

Tom pulled into a breakfast place in a small mall.

“Internet?” Reggie asked.

“Yep.”

The food was good. Not stellar, but satisfying. When the server brought the check, she asked, “How was it?” with a perfunctory smile as she set the slip on the table.

“The eggs were good. The bacon overdone and, frankly, the home fries would have benefited from a little hot paprika.” He held up his thumb and forefinger. “Just enough to color them, but not overpower the potato flavor.”

The server nodded blankly and said, “I'll, uh, tell the cook,” before she hurried away.

“I think that was more of a rhetorical question,” Reggie said with a laugh, reaching for one of his leftover fries.

“If you don't want to know, don't ask.”

It felt so much like old times that Tom had to remind himself it wasn't.

“Do you want the ham bone for your dog?” Reggie pushed the ring of bone across her plate with her fork.

Tom shook his head and reached for the check. “I try to regulate her diet.”

Reggie gave him a who-the-hell-are-you stare. “The dog you aren't going to keep.”

“Right now she's good company. I'll find her a home when I leave. I'm working on the old guys.”

“Will you miss her?” Reggie asked, an odd note in her voice.

“Of course I will. A lot, actually. But…if I end up in a city, I won't be able to care for her.”

“Does she have a name yet?”

“Brioche.”

Reggie's eyebrows shot upward. “You named your dog Brioche?”

“You saw her. She's got many briochelike qualities.”

Reggie nodded slowly. “I guess.” But she continued to look at him as if he were some kind of alien.

“Let's go,” he said.

When Tom parked in front of Reggie's house, she turned in her seat and said, “If you don't mind, I'll take a rain check on the barbecue.”

“You don't want to come?” Or maybe she didn't want to spend more time with him.

“I plead exhaustion.” She was tired. Tom could see it in her face.

“All right. I'll go alone.” He walked her to the door, feeling like a high school kid delivering his date home…although he'd never done that, having been away at boarding school.

When they reached the porch, she asked, “Do you want to come in and see the baby's room?”

In an odd way, the idea seemed intimidating. “I'd like that,” Tom said, manning up. Why should a room be threatening?

Reggie unlocked the front door and led the way through her living room to a hallway. The first room they came to was obviously her bedroom. He recognized the purple afghan lying across the foot of the bed—a present from her mother many years ago.

Reggie opened the next door and stood back, allowing Tom to go in first. The room, empty and smallish, had a closet and a window looking out over the flower garden in the backyard.

“It used to be my office,” Reggie said, “but now that I do everything on a laptop, I prefer to be out in the living room when I work.”

“It's nice.” Tom had a hard time visualizing his child living here, in this room. He glanced down at Reggie and asked the question that had been on his mind as he'd watched her debate about paint and plow through two lunches.

“Can you feel it?” A perplexed expression crossed her face. “The baby,” he said softly. “Can you feel it move yet?”

She shook her head. “Soon, the doctor tells me.”

He nodded. Looked out the window again. She couldn't feel the baby yet, but still had a parental instinct. Maybe it was just him. “Nice view.”

“Stimulating,” Reggie agreed. She took in a deep, audible breath.

“Do you get lonely, Reg? Living here alone?”

A shadow crossed her features. “Sometimes. But everyone gets lonely. And I spend a lot of time at the kitchen.”

“No friends?”

“I have friends. Just…not a lot of time, you know?” She jutted out her chin. “But I'll have time for my baby.”

“I know you will.” He'd never doubted that. Reggie was a caregiver.

She turned off the light. His signal to leave.

He didn't want to. He wanted to go back to the past. Have things between them be the same as they used to be.

But they couldn't, because he and Reggie hadn't yet discovered where they belonged in the world back then. The equation hadn't been complete.

When they reached the living room, Tom went for the door, even though he didn't particularly want to leave. She followed him out onto the porch.

“Reggie…are you still angry with me?”

She contemplated the question for a moment as she dug the toe of her shoe into the porch planks. “You are who you are, Tom.”

“That's not an answer.”

“It is,” she said. “You have this ambition that overrides everything else.”

He didn't want to admit it, but there was more than a grain of truth to that. What was wrong with wanting to be the best?

“I'm sorry, Tom.” Though he wasn't sure why. She rose up on her toes and planted a chaste kiss on his jaw. “See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

She turned and went into the house, leaving him on the porch.

As he walked back to the car, he touched his jaw, wishing that he'd really kissed her. There on her porch, for the entire world to see.

 

T
HE FIRST ORDER OF BUSINESS ON
Sunday morning, before Eden started cooking for her families, was a meeting
on the Reno Cuisine competition. Eden had made good use of her downtime, designing both a menu—which Tom had also worked on while the rest of the crew was at the wedding—and a set based on a French bistro theme. She had lists of supplies, building materials and costume necessities, which she distributed to Tom and Justin. Reggie already had a copy. As near as Tom could tell, the purpose of the meeting was to bring a yawning Justin up to speed.

“I assume you've taken that weekend off from the hotel, right?” Eden asked her brother.

“I haven't heard back, but yeah, I requested it.”

“You'd better hear back soon.”

“Tom will take my place if I have trouble getting off.”

“If I'm here,” he said. Reggie cut him a quick glance, but said nothing.

“We'll wear white shirts, black pants and suspenders,” Eden said.

“Suspenders?” Justin echoed with a grimace. “Why?”

“I like them.”

“Fine. Sissy shoes?”

“Anything black and comfortable.”

“Gotcha.”

“Not Vans,” Eden said. “No skateboard shoes.”

“I no longer own Vans.”

“Someone raid your closet?” Eden asked sweetly. “My
concern,
” Reggie said, “is the set. We need to find a cheap carpenter. I don't want to pour a lot of money into this, since we have no place to store it.”

“So we break it down,” Justin said.

“And no doubt try to store the pieces in my garage with all the rest of your stuff,” Eden said.

Tom reached out and turned the design so he could see it. A simple storefront with a wide window that acted as a serving surface. A door. An awning. He looked up. “Do you want me to ask my neighbors for an estimate? They have time on their hands.”

“Can they build a set?” Justin asked.

“They built the house I live in. And they have a big shop.”

“If they were agreeable, and affordable,” Eden said, “then maybe one of us could be present during construction. Kind of okay it as they go. Tweak it as necessary.”

“I'll ask,” Tom said.

“Yeah. Do that,” Eden replied. Reggie nodded in agreement.

“And I'll get a couple estimates from legit carpenters,” Justin added. “I just need a copy of the plans.”

The meeting broke up and Tom went to help Eden cook, since she had trouble moving around the kitchen in the compression boot for her broken ankle, which kept hanging up on the rubber floor matting. Reggie disappeared into the office and shut the door. Tom wondered if it was just business, or if she was erecting another wall. She'd barely said two words to him since he'd arrived at the kitchen.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked Eden.

“Well, Chef Gerard, how do you feel about chopping? Reggie tells me you're the best.”

“She should know,” Tom said. “Onions?”

She beamed up at him. “For a start.”

 

R
EGGIE SPENT MOST OF
S
UNDAY IN
the office, catching up on what little paperwork Eden hadn't done, and hiding from Tom. It was the safest tactic until she got a few things straight in her head—like convincing herself it was possible to enjoy Tom's company and not get herself into trouble.

She was so damned afraid of being hurt again.

You have the power to stop that from happening.

And maybe if she kept repeating that to herself, she'd believe it. It didn't help that when she'd given him the we're-just-friends kiss yesterday, all she could think about was how his stubble-roughened skin had felt beneath her lips. And about all the other places she wouldn't mind putting her lips.

Tom left early on Sunday and came in late on Monday. Reggie was once again holed up in the office, and she did her best to stay there, letting Eden run the kitchen. The schedule was light, a welcome relief after the previous week, so Reggie called vendors, dealt with clients, and basically did what she could to stay out of sight.

As part of her prep work for Reno Cuisine, she'd driven by the riverside park that morning, even though it was miles out of her way. She'd attended every competition since its inception as a spectator, getting ready for the year they got in. She'd been sure they would as their reputation grew.