âIâm going to have a baby, Michael.â
âWhat did you say?â
She lay there, gazing up at him, the oddest expression on her face. âIâm going to have a baby.â
âYou... are.â He couldnât, for the moment, think of anything more intelligent to say.
Still wearing that odd expression, Susan nodded.
âWho is he? The babyâs father.â
âI donât know yet.â
Whirling, he faced her. Thereâd been more than one man? âWell, when are you going to find out?â
âIâm not sure.â She paused. âYouâre angry, arenât you?â
âOkay, yeah, Iâm angry. Iâm angry as hell at the irresponsibility of whatever man did this to you.â
She frowned. âDid what to me?â
Michael swore, out of all patience. âGot you pregnant, of course.â
Susan laughed. Shocking him. âIn the first place, Michael, a man canât get me pregnant all by himself. And in the second, Iâm not pregnantâyet. And in the third place, I havenât slept with anyone but you in my entire life.â
Dear Reader,
Iâm delighted to bring you this BY THE YEAR 2000 story. Though Iâm still in my thirties and have a thirteen-year-old daughter, I relate so much to Susan and her dilemma. A womanâs independence is a precious thingâsomething not easily won or sustained, yet essential to her becoming the person she was meant to be. The trick, of course, is to find the independence and then learn how to be interdependent without losing anything. Because just as never finding independence is only half living, living only with independence is not experiencing life to the fullest, either. Like many women, I teeter on this line often as I struggle to be a mother, a wife, a friend, a writer.
But Susan showed me how itâs done. I believe in her. And, like Susan, I believe we can have it all if weâre determined enough, work hard enoughâand remember not to take ourselves so seriously all the time.
I wish every one of you a new century of happy lives and happy relationship.
Tara Taylor Quinn
P.S. I love to hear from readers. You can reach me at P.O.
Box 15065, Scottsdale, Arizona 85267-5065 or on-line at http://www.inficad.com/~ttquinn.
For Deanna Reames and David Reames.
A woman couldnât ask for better in-laws.
CHAPTER ONE
WILL YOU have my baby?
No. Susan Kennedy shook her head, her layered shoulder-length hair tickling her neck and cheeks. That wasnât quite the line she wanted.
Can I have your baby?
Nope. She dusted the buttons on the telephone with one long slim finger. Misleading. Her ability to have a baby wasnât in question.
So how about May I have your baby?
She toyed with that one, actually dialed Chicagoâs area code before disconnecting this time. Her goal wasnât to ask his permission but to request his participation in the most monumental event of her life. At the same time she had to make it clearâabundantly, in-your-face clearâthat she was asking nothing from him.
Other than the initial ten-minute participation. Grinning, Susan amended that last thought. There was no way any physical shenanigans between her and Michael would take less than an hour. They did sex very well.
Which probably meant she was asking for more like two hours of his time. Michael always claimed Susan had a way of making everything seem easier than it really was. Shorter than it was. Less expensive than it was. When sheâd budgeted one thousand dollars for their trip to the Poconos, heâd counted on two.
Damn thing was, sheâd somehow managed to run through every dime of the two-thousand dollars, just as heâd predicted. And Michael, being Michael, had never said a word.
Stupid, smug man.
Stupid enough to father her child? In spite of the fact that theyâd been divorced almost as long as theyâd been married?
He had to. Period. No other option was acceptable.
So how did she convince him of that?
How about Would you lend me a sperm? That didnât sound like too much to ask. And âlendâ seemed so harmless, so...not-permanent.
But she wasnât planning on giving it back.
All the more reason to call him today. Because âlendâ wasnât what she wanted at all. She wanted him to give it to her, willingly and for keeps, and as Michael always gave her wonderful gifts for her birthday...
January 21. Her birthday. She glanced at the office around her, the plaques on her walls, the windows overlooking the icy Ohio River, Cincinnati, Ohio and Louisville, Kentucky all at once. Sinking into the soft leather of the high-backed maroon chair, she sighed and hung up the phone. Gloomy suddenly, she reached down to pet the red setter snoring on the floor at her feet. She couldnât believe she was actually thirty-nine years old. For a person whoâd always loved birthdays, she was doing a damn good imitation of hating this one.