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Tess had tried to talk Carol out of her donation, had assured her that there must be someone out there who was more deserving—someone who was oh, say… pregnant, for instance, unlike Tess—but Carol would have none of it. She’d assured Tess that she wouldn’t tell a soul about her condition, that she’d take the secret to her grave—which, of course, wouldn’t be necessary, because it wouldn’t be long before everyone in Marigold knew, would it?—and had hustled back down the street to meet her own brood.
Tess had actually followed her neighbor halfway down the block, assuring Carol all the way that there would be no baby, because there was no condition, because she wasn’t pregnant, but Carol had only nodded indulgently, murmured “Of course, of course” a few times, and told Tess to keep the clothes, anyway, just in case. So now the boxes were stacked haphazardly in Tess’s living room, and she had no idea what to do with them.
Nor did she know what to do with the boxes of maternity clothes stacked beside them that Rhonda Pearson and Denise Lowenstein had donated to the cause. Nor did she know what to do with the big bag of infant toys Cory Madison had brought over. Nor the crib that Dave and Sandy Kleinert had given her—the one that was still sitting in pieces, propped against the wall, where the couple had left it until Dave knew which room would be the nursery, after which, he’d promised Tess, he would come back over and reassemble it. And just that afternoon, Mr. Johanssen, whose backyard abutted Tess’s, had brought over a beautiful handcrafted cradle.
No matter how often—or how hard— Tess had objected to the gifts, her neighbors had only smiled and told her to keep them, just in case.
Whoever was at the front door now would be no different, Tess was sure. Because in spite of her adamant denial of the rumors of her pregnancy, nobody—but nobody—had believed her. The Marigold grapevine was an omnipotent power, infinitely more persuasive than little ol’ Tess Monahan could ever hope to be. If rumor had it that she was pregnant, then according to Marigold canon, she was.
Instinctively she dropped a hand to her belly as she went to answer the front door, as if she herself almost believed she was nurturing a new life there. Boy, smalltown gossip sure could be convincing, she thought as she tugged open the door.
And, boy, it sure could be humiliating, too, she thought further when she saw who stood on the other side.
Because she could think of no reason on earth why Will Darrow would come calling at her house, unless it was because he had finally heard talk about her imaginary pregnancy. And realizing that Will must be thinking it was true—why else would he have come over?—Tess felt the heat of a blush creep from her breasts up to her face. Then again, she always blushed when she saw Will—or even thought about him, for that matter—so why should this episode be any different?
Maybe, she thought, it was different now because deep down she’d always hoped that someday she would get pregnant and that when she did, Will Darrow would be the father of her child. That would of course be—at least in her fantasy—because he was her husband, too. And that would of course be—likewise at least in her fantasy—because he had fallen head over heels in love with her.
Hey, it was her fantasy. She could make it as outrageous as she wanted to. And having Will Darrow fall in love with her? Well, things didn’t get much more outrageous than that. He still ruffled her hair whenever her saw her. Ruffled. Her. Hair. Oh, yeah. That was always a precursor to romantic love. To Will, obviously, she would always be ten years old.
Involuntarily—and hopefully surreptitiously— Tess scanned her visitor from head to toe. She couldn’t help herself—she didn’t get that many chances to scan him up close this way. Even though he had been her oldest brother’s best friend since childhood, these days, she saw very little of Will. One might have thought—might have hoped—that seeing so little of him would cause her childhood crush on the guy to finally go away. Instead, that old saw about absence making the heart grow fonder had come way too true. Because Tess’s heart—among other body parts—was very fond of Will Darrow.
Always had been.
Always would be.
Then another thought struck Tess. If Will had heard about her “condition,” then Finn had probably heard by now, too. And if Finn had heard…
Oh, boy.
She didn’t even want to think about the rampage that must be going on down at Slater Dugan’s Irish Pub. No wonder Will was at her front door. He was probably looking for bail money.
At thirty-six years old, Finn Monahan was a fine, upstanding citizen and a bastion of the community, a complete 180-degree version of the quintessential bad boy he’d been in his youth. Until someone threatened or bad-mouthed a member of his family. Or, even more unforgivable, said a cross word about Violet Demarest, who didn’t even live in Marigold anymore, not since she’d married and moved away, but whom Finn had elevated to a pedestal—nay, an altar—a lo-o-o-o-ong time ago.
But whenever one of those two things happened, then Finn Monahan could be counted on to revert right back to the surly adolescent of two decades ago, the one who was always ripe for a fight. There was no question that talk of his little sister getting knocked up would put Finn in a rare—and very bad—humor.
“Is he in jail again?” Tess blurted out before she could stop herself.
It made for a less-than-welcoming greeting, she knew, but that was the first thought that went through her head when she saw Will. Oh, all right, the second thought that went through her head when she saw him. The first thought had been what it always was—that he looked really, really yummy.
His blue eyes were complemented by a blue chambray work shirt that was nearly the same color, and by blue jeans that were lovingly faded and torn at one knee. His overly long, black hair had been ruffled by the late-evening breeze, and the swiftly setting sun lit silver and orange fires ablaze amid the highlights. A day’s growth of dark beard shadowed the lower half of his face and throat. Anyone else might find him menacing or intimidating. Tess just found him adorable.
But the last time she’d seen Will alone at her front door this way, it was because he’d come to tell her that Finn had been arrested for throwing a chair through the front window at Slater Dugan’s Irish Pub. That actually would have been one of Finn’s lesser offenses, if it hadn’t been for the fact that Dennis Matheny had been sitting in the chair when it went through the window. But Dennis had asked for it—he’d called Violet Demarest the Whore of Babylon, right to Finn’s face. Hey, Dennis was lucky Finn hadn’t fulfilled his childhood fantasy of becoming an astronaut by sending him straight into orbit.
At hearing Tess’s question, Will, who had been looking very uncomfortable when she’d opened the door, now looked very confused. Well, he still looked very uncomfortable—which was pretty much how he always looked whenever he saw Tess, doubtless because he knew what a raging crush she’d had on him since she was ten years old—but he looked confused, too.
“Is who in jail?” he asked.
“Finn,” she clarified. She still couldn’t shake the notion that her big brother had done something stupid in response to very real allegations about her very nonexistent pregnancy. “What’s he done?” she asked further. “He hasn’t hurt anybody, has he? Dugan’s Pub is still standing, isn’t it?”
Will narrowed his eyes in even deeper confusion. “Finn’s fine,” he said. “I mean, I guess he is. He was fine when I saw him this afternoon. Pretty much,” he qualified mysteriously.
In spite of the mystery, Tess breathed a sigh of relief. Good. Maybe Finn hadn’t heard, after all. Actually, come to think about it, none of her brothers seemed to have heard about her rumored condition, because none of them had contacted her. Of course, Sean was out of town, and Rory was in deep research mode these days. Connor would just naturally ignore anything he heard through the grapevine, but Cullen usually bought in to talk. And Finn…
Well, Finn always knew what was going on in Marigold. So if Finn hadn’t heard, then maybe things weren’t as bad as Tess thought. And if Finn hadn’t heard, then Will probably hadn’t, either, in which case she was worrying for nothing. Except for the fact that the man she’d had a raging crush on since she was ten years old was at her front door, and she was standing there in her jammies, yammering incoherently at him.
Oh, but hey, other than that…
“Um, then…what are you doing here?” she asked him.
He went back to looking merely uncomfortable and didn’t meet her gaze. But then that was hardly surprising. Will Darrow hadn’t met her gaze squarely since…
Well, Tess couldn’t really remember the last time he’d met her gaze squarely. Certainly not in the four years that had passed since she’d returned to Marigold after graduating with her master’s in education from Indiana University. Her mother and father had thrown her a graduation party the month before they’d moved down to Florida, and Will, of course, had attended. At one point Tess and Will had ended up alone in the kitchen of this very house, and she—after having a little too much of her mother’s infamous Pink Parisian Punch—had breathlessly blurted out something about how she’d always had such a raging crush on Will.
She had been mortified after doing it, of course, but she’d figured Will would just laugh off the comment and go back to the party and totally forget about it in five minutes’ time, because he’d never taken her seriously. But Will hadn’t done any of those things.
Except, evidently, take her seriously.
Because, much to her amazement, he’d blushed like a schoolboy, had stammered something unintelligible and had bolted for the back door. He’d fled the party completely and hadn’t returned, and ever since then he hadn’t been able to be around Tess without seeming—without being—extremely uneasy.
Me and my big mouth, she thought now, not for the first time. Had it not been for her imprudent revelation about the raging crush thing, she might still be able to harbor it in secret, and Will would be less hesitant to be around her. As it was, whenever they had family gatherings—and family gatherings always naturally included Will—he managed to stay in one room while she was in another. Or, if they were forced to be in the same room, he made it a point to keep them on opposite sides at all times. Tess was almost never close enough to him to actually touch him.
But she was now.
Because now he stood just over the threshold, scarcely two feet away. Now, had she a mind to, she could reach right out—and up—to cup his cheek with her palm. Now, had she a mind to, she could push herself to tiptoe and brush her lips over his. Now, had she a mind to, she could hurl herself shamelessly into his arms and wrestle him to the ground and have her way with him.
But of course, she’d never have a mind to do that. Not while he was in the immediate vicinity, at any rate.
“I’m here,” he said, reminding her that she had asked him a question that required an answer, “because I promised your brother I’d come over and talk to you.”
“Why doesn’t he come over and talk to me himself?” she asked, thinking it a very good question. Unless…
Will closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again, and, as always, Tess marveled at how blue they were. “He was afraid if he came over to talk to you himself, he wouldn’t do any talking. He’d just do a lot of exploding.”
Uh-oh. That didn’t sound good. That sounded like… “He’s heard about my condition, huh?”
Will went a little gray at the question. “Yeah. He’s heard about you being pregnant.”
It took Tess a moment to realize how badly she had misspoken, then, “No!” she shouted, more loudly than she had intended. “That’s not what I meant. I’m not pregnant.”
Will gaped at her. “Tess, you just admitted it. And everybody knows about it, so you might as well stop denying it.”
She shook her head vehemently. “I did not admit it. I just misspoke. I’m not pregnant. I’m not.”
Will, however, didn’t look anywhere near convinced. Then again, why should he? she thought. The Marigold grapevine had spoken. The announcement might as well have been engraved on stone tablets and presented by a burning bush.
“Tess, you don’t have to keep denying it. Nobody thinks any worse of you,” he told her. “Everybody just wants to help. That’s why I’m here, too.”
“You’re here to keep my brother from sending my couch through my living room window,” she corrected him.
He shrugged conspicuously. “Yeah, well…that, too.”
“It’s not true, Will,” she said, even though she could see quite plainly that the denial would be pointless. “I’m not pregnant. I’ve had the flu. I would never… I couldn’t possibly… There’s no way I’d…” She gave up when she realized she wasn’t finishing a single thought.
Will, however, continued to gaze at her with what she could only liken to pity. “Finn knows, too,” he said again, unnecessarily. “He was in a state the other day, when he found out, let me tell you. I managed to convince him to give it a few days before he spoke to you, to cool off. Then I convinced him to let me come over and do the talking instead.”
“Why?” she asked warily.
“Because he hasn’t cooled off,” Will said simply. “Sean still doesn’t know, because he’s still in Indianapolis, and I don’t think Rory’s heard, because he’s been holed up at the library all week, and you know how he gets when he’s in Deep Thought—he doesn’t hear anything anybody says. But Connor and Cullen are looking to kick some butt. It’s not an easy thing, keeping your brothers at bay, Tess. They made me promise to report back as soon as I talk to you. But they realize they can’t be reasonable about this right now. So they’re letting me mediate.”
“Even Connor believes it?” Tess asked incredulously. “But he never believes anything he hears on the grapevine. He’s the last great skeptic.”
“Hey, the evidence speaks for itself.”
Evidence? Tess wondered. What evidence? Just what was everyone saying about her behind her back?
“I’ve had the flu, Will,” she insisted. “That’s all there is to it.”
Will inhaled a deep breath and released it slowly, but he still didn’t look convinced of her…nonmaternity. What he did look, she thought, was, well…really, really yummy.
“You’ve had the flu,” he echoed dubiously.
She nodded.
He hesitated a telling moment before pointing out, “You’ve never been sick a day in your life. You’ll forgive me if I—along with everyone else in Marigold—have a little trouble believing that you suddenly contracted the flu. Especially since it isn’t even the time of year for it. Nobody else in town has the flu, Tess. Just you. Kinda suspicious, I say.”
“Then it was something I ate,” she insisted. She told herself she didn’t have to defend herself—to Will or anyone else. Despite that, she felt obligated to do so just the same.
“Tess, you have the stomach of an ox,” he pointed out.
And, oh, wasn’t that just the thing a woman wanted to hear from the man for whom she’d been carrying a torch for more than a dozen years. “An ox,” she echoed flatly.
He had the decency to look apologetic, even if he didn’t apologize per se. “You know what I meant. You’re a woman who can eat jalapen˜os straight from the jar without batting an eye. Though I wouldn’t recommend it now. Not in your condi—”
“Oh, Will,” she moaned. “Not you, too. Don’t tell me you believe it.”
“Well, what else am I supposed to believe?” he demanded, sounding as upset about the development as she was. “Everybody’s saying you’re pregnant. Even nuns, Tess. Who can argue with nuns?”
But all she could offer in response was another disappointed, “Oh, Will.”
He might not want to believe she was pregnant, but he did. Tess sighed fitfully and ran a restless hand through her bangs. Then, resigned to her fate, she tugged the door inward and stepped aside.
“You might as well come in,” she said. “I have a feeling it’s going to take a while to explain things to you and change your mind. Then you can report back to Finn and the boys after we’ve talked.”
Will was obviously hesitant about entering, though. Which was odd, because he’d probably been inside the Monahan house more times than he’d been in his own when he was a boy. There had been so many nights when Will and Finn had played so late, or studied so late, or talked so late, that Will just naturally spent the night. And although she would never, ever, confess such a thing to anybody, there had been nights when Tess had sneaked into the bedroom Finn shared with her second-oldest brother, Sean, just to watch Will Darrow sleep.
Now, as he cautiously crossed the threshold and entered the house, Tess couldn’t help recalling those nights, couldn’t help remembering how a younger Will had looked, sleeping shirtless and restless in a slice of silver moonlight.
He’d been slim, but solid, as a youth. As a man, he was still solid—way solid—but he had filled out, too. A lot. As he squeezed past Tess—careful not to let any part of his body come into contact with any part of hers—he towered over her by nearly a foot. He was twice as broad as she was, too, though that wasn’t really saying much. Tess had one of those fast metabolisms that left her looking far too willowy for her liking—or would have left her looking willowy, anyway, had she been taller than five foot two. As it was, to her way of thinking, she just looked scrawny.
“Abigail Torrance stopped by the garage the other night,” Will began without preamble as Tess closed the door behind him.
“Gee, what else is new?” she asked as she motioned him into the living room. She told herself she did not sound petulant as she continued, “Abigail stops by the garage just about every night. What succulent little morsel did she bring you to eat that night?” Besides Abigail Torrance, she then added uncharitably to herself.
“That’s not important,” Will said as he strode toward the sofa. “What is important is—”
He halted midstride and midsentence, his gaze fixed on the book that was lying faceup on the sofa cushion—the book titled How to Raise a Creative Child in Modern Times.
Oh, great, Tess thought. She knew exactly what he was thinking, so before he had a chance to say anything, she hastily explained, “It’s for school.”
“You’re reading how-to-raise-a-kid books for school?” he asked dubiously.
She nodded. “How-to-raise-a-kid books make great educational aides. A lot of teachers are reading that book. Teachers who aren’t pregnant,” she added pointedly.
Will clearly wasn’t swayed in his opinion. He hooked his hands on his hips— Tess tried not to drool at the way his shirt gaped open a bit over the dark hair beneath—and just got right to the matter at hand. “Talk has it that you were seen at a motel a while back with a man.”
Now this was news to Tess. And it frankly surprised her that the Marigold grapevine—enthusiastic though it might be—would perpetuate something so unfounded and malicious. Not that passing along the false notion that she was pregnant was particularly kind, but it had at least been grounded in some kind of odd reality—the impression that she had been suffering from morning sickness and had herself made a reference to her “condition.”
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