The Baby Swap Miracle (18 page)

‘Come in, the door’s not locked,’ she said, and he went in, pausing in the doorway.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you were asleep. The builders have gone, and I’ve put the kettle on. I wondered where you were.’

‘Worrying about me again, Sam?’ She shook her head and gave him a smile that twisted something inside him. ‘You don’t need to.’

Oh, I do, he thought, but he didn’t say so. Instead he said, ‘Do you want to do this another time?’

She shook her head again and got to her feet. ‘No. Let’s do it now. In fact—while we’re ordering stuff, why don’t we have a look for things for the nursery in the house? It would make sense, and you never know, I might want the odd night off.’

Her smile was gentle this time, and he realised she was holding out an olive branch. Desperate for a way forward, at a loss to achieve it alone, he took it.

‘Sounds good to me. Shall we?’

Daisy came running up to Emelia as they left the cottage, and she bent to stroke her and caught a look on Sam’s face—a look that puzzled her.

‘Faithless hound,’ he said, and she frowned.

‘Are you jealous?’ she asked, and he chuckled, feeling some of the tension leaving him.

‘I might be. She’s supposed to be my dog, but she just adores you. I don’t know if I want to share her.’

She stopped walking and looked at him seriously. ‘We’re going to have to share the baby,’ she said, and he felt the tension coming back and tightening his chest.

‘It’s not the same, Emelia. I don’t care if Daisy loves you. I could easily love you if things were different. But the baby—it’s not so much a timeshare as each of us having an opportunity to give something to him. It’s different.’

He could easily love her? She smiled, her brow smoothing. ‘Yes, it is. We’ll get there, Sam. We have to.’

He nodded, and pushed open the kitchen door. The room was full of steam. ‘I think the kettle’s boiled,’ he said wryly, and made the tea. There were biscuits on the table on a tray, and a cake, and he put the teapot there with the mugs and milk jug.

‘Are you trying to fatten me up?’ she murmured, and he chuckled.

‘Don’t think I need to. I think nature’s got her own way of doing that.’

She tilted her head and gave him a funny look. ‘Do you think I’m fat?’

He thought of her body, sleek and smooth, the firm swell of her pregnancy extraordinarily beautiful. Mother Earth.

‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I don’t think you’re fat. I think you’re perfect.’

Their eyes clashed, and he felt his throat tighten with emotion.

‘Right, you bring the laptop, I’ll bring the tray,’ he said hastily. ‘Daisy, come on.’

They sat under the arbour, Sam trawling comparison websites and checking out all sorts of equipment she hadn’t even thought of getting, and she ate cake and drank tea and let him play.

He was getting into it, she thought, but wondered if he was latching on to this with such enthusiasm because it was something he could safely get involved in. Maybe that was all she needed to do—let him do the things he could, and not fret for the things he couldn’t. She didn’t need a man in her life. She’d been planning to bring this baby up alone, with the support of relatives. This, in a way, was exactly the same—except, of course, the relationship was closer, massively complicated by its accidental nature and further complicated by her own emotional involvement.

‘Finished your tea?’

She nodded.

‘Come and see the nursery.’

They went in through the French doors, and up to the newly finished suite of rooms which overlooked the rose garden. She hadn’t been in here since the day he’d shown her around, and it had changed hugely.

‘It’s lovely,’ she said approvingly, looking round his new bedroom. ‘Oh, Sam, you’ve done a fabulous job. I love the colour.’

‘I wanted something soft that reflected the rose garden,’ he said, ‘but not pink. I thought the creams and blues would pick up the lavender.’

They did, the gentle blue grey and cream restful and calm, and she loved it.

Her eyes were drawn to the beautiful old mahogany half-tester bed, huge and solid and inviting. It was the bed in which he’d made love to her just a few days ago, moved into here now, and it seemed like a lifetime since that night. She dragged her eyes away.

‘So what have you done in the nursery?’

He gave a wry smile. ‘Blue. Sorry.’

‘I’m sure Max won’t mind blue,’ she teased.

He gave a short laugh and led her through a doorway into a small room that must have been at one time the dressing room for the master bedroom.

‘So, what do you think?’ he asked.

She looked around the empty, freshly decorated room and her eyes filled. He’d started painting a frieze. Not like Brian’s smudged, stencilled little train, but a row of alphabet letters with animals climbing through them—an anteater, a bear, a ginger cat, a black Labrador like Daisy, an elephant—all exquisitely hand drawn and painted in soft pastel shades for his baby. She turned to him, swallowing down the lump in her throat. ‘You’re going to struggle with the X,’ she said, and he smiled wryly.

‘Yes. I thought of that the other day. The only X I could think of was extinct. I think he’ll be a bit young for the issues of deforestation and global warming.’ He shrugged. ‘Oh, well, it was just an idea, I probably won’t get round to finishing it,’ he said dismissively, and then took a deep breath and looked around. ‘So—equipment. What do we need?’

They were building bridges.

Slowly, day by day, as the birth approached and the equipment they’d ordered appeared, they prepared the two houses for the baby’s arrival.

He missed a couple of the classes because he was away in London attending business meetings, but he asked her about them and she found a book on pregnancy and childbirth lying on the coffee table in the sitting room a few days later, open at a relevant page.

Interesting, but not surprising. He’d researched old roses
when she’d told him a little about the ones in the garden, and it seemed he tackled everything in his life in the same way.

She spent a few days in her own garden, when there were just two weeks to go, doing a little tidying. It was hard, though. The ground was just too far away, and she was glad when in the middle of the week Sam said he’d come and cut the grass for her, because she was beginning to realise that it was all too much for her at this stage in her pregnancy.

She’d wanted it tidy, though, before the baby was born, and now it was, but she was paying the price. Her back had been aching ferociously all day, and even lying down hadn’t eased it.

So while he cut the grass, she went into the baby’s room and looked around. Just checking, for the umpteenth time, that everything was ready. Her mother would be sleeping in there because the baby would be in with her at first, of course, but the bed was made, the room was squeaky-clean and she should really shut the door on it and stop fussing.

She leant over to tug a minuscule crease out of the quilt cover, and her back started to ache again. Damn. She’d been overdoing it, she realised, but there was no way she’d admit it to Sam.

She opened the back door and leant against the frame to ease the ache. ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’ she asked, and he nodded.

‘That would be good. I’ll just finish this. Two minutes.’

She left him in the garden and went back to the kitchen, leaning on the worktop and breathing slowly and deeply. That was better. Focus on something else. Distraction. It would be good practice for labour—

‘Ahhh!’

She sagged against the units, her eyes flying open and her lips parted, taking little panting breaths and trying to find that safe place they’d talked about in class.

It was nowhere to be seen, and she felt a tide of panic sweep over her. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this! Her mother wasn’t coming until the weekend, and it was only Wednesday! She couldn’t be in labour—

Another wave hit her, and she slumped forward, crossing her arms on the worktop and resting her head on them, trying to find the zone. Ride the wave—think about something else. Anything else! Think about the fridge. What’s in the fridge that’ll go bad while I’m in hospital? And where’s my bag? Half-packed. ‘Oh, rats!’

It wasn’t helping. She was supposed to be thinking about lying on a palm beach, her skin fanned by soft, warm breezes, her feet washed by the slow lap of the sea…

Better. Better because it was easing off. She straightened up, stared at her watch and checked the time, then she felt the tightening again. Three minutes. Three minutes? Already?

But she’d had backache all day…

‘Stupid, stupid woman.’

‘Who’s a stupid woman?’

‘I am,’ she gritted, and dropped her head forward again onto her arms.

She was in labour.

Sam felt the blood drain from his head and leave him cold with fear. She couldn’t be in labour! Her mother wasn’t due for another three days, and that meant he’d have to help her.

If she’d have him. He laid a hand on her back, the heel of his hand rubbing firmly over her sacrum where she’d been pressing her fingers.

She groaned softly, and he stopped.

‘Don’t stop!’ she ordered, so he started again, slow, rhythmic circles, and gradually he felt her relax.

‘OK,’ she said, straightening. ‘I need to ring the midwife and talk to her. I think I need to go in.’

‘Already?’

She looked up at him, her soft green eyes shadowed with uncertainty. ‘They’re every three minutes.’

Hell.

‘I’ll get the car,’ he said, and ran.

Her waters broke on the way in, but luckily Sam had had the foresight to scoop up some towels on his way, so she didn’t have to feel guilty about his upholstery.

Just as well. She didn’t have the energy or reserves for guilt. Her world had narrowed right down, her focus absolute. As if he understood, Sam said nothing, just drove her to the hospital, took her in and left her in the care of a midwife and went to park the car. Within a very few minutes, they’d examined her and she was settled in a side room.

‘You shouldn’t be too long now, you’re almost there,’ the midwife told her.

Almost there, but no sign of him, she thought with a flutter of nerves, and she needed him.

But he wouldn’t be with her. He’d had umpteen opportunities to offer, if for any reason her mother hadn’t been able to make it, and he hadn’t. He didn’t want to be there for the birth.

Sam arrived back as she had another contraction, and she rolled to her side with a tiny noise of distress.

He swallowed. He had no idea how he was going to do this, but he couldn’t leave her. He went round to
her side, crouched down and watched her face as she concentrated.

Incredible. He could almost feel the power of her thoughts, the tight focus, and his admiration for her soared.

She opened her eyes, let out a long, slow breath and smiled at him. ‘You’re back.’

And she sounded pleased. Hugely pleased—relieved, in fact. Nearly as relieved as him, because there was no way he was leaving her.

‘Is there anything I can get you? Ice chips? A cold flannel?’

‘Ice would be lovely. And I might want to walk around.’

She didn’t. A few steps in and she sagged against the wall. He caught her, hooking his arms under hers and taking her weight, as he’d been taught in the class, and she panted lightly through it and then lifted her head as she straightened.

‘Maybe not,’ she said with a little smile, and he led her back to bed and went to find ice.

‘Sam, you don’t have to be here,’ she said after another hour or two. She wasn’t sure, she’d lost track of the time, but she was coping. Maybe it was because he was there, maybe it was because she was doing OK, but she was concerned about him. He hadn’t wanted to be there, and as he protested now, she shook her head.

‘Sam, I know you don’t want to be here,’ she told him gently. ‘You’re only being nice to me.’

‘When was I ever nice to you?’

She tried to smile, but another contraction was coming and she felt herself zeroing in on it. When it was over, she opened her eyes and found him just where she’d left him, his eyes on her, his concentration on her absolute.

‘OK now?’

She nodded. The midwife came and examined her, and Sam turned his back and stared out of the window, giving her privacy and yet still not leaving. He hadn’t left her side once except to get ice, and when the midwife went he fed her another ice chip and wiped her head with the cool compress.

‘What about Daisy?’ she asked, belatedly.

‘Daisy’s fine. She’s gone home with the builder.’

Emelia frowned. ‘Will she be all right?’

‘He’ll feed her—what do you think?’ he said drily, and she laughed.

‘OK.’ She glanced at the window and realised the sun was setting. It was late evening, and he hadn’t eaten. ‘Why don’t you go and get something to eat? I’m fine, really. This could go on for ages.’

They were moving her when he got back from his hasty sandwich and coffee, and his heart jammed in his throat. She was linked up to a monitor, and he could see the baby’s heartbeat. Or was it hers? He wasn’t sure.

The midwife kicked the brakes off the bed and looked at him.

‘We’re moving her to the delivery room but she might need a C-section. There’s a problem with the cord. Are you in or out?’ she asked.

Emelia’s face was glazed with perspiration, her eyes unfocused as she concentrated on her breathing. And then the monitor went off and she started to panic.

Her eyes sought his and clung, and he swallowed.

‘I’m in,’ he said, and stepped into the abyss.

He was glad he’d been to the classes.

He’d thought it would all be calm and slow and to do
with finding the zone, but the baby’s cord had got twisted round its neck and the only zone he could find was one filled with chaos.

People were everywhere, there was talk of Theatre, and the baby’s heartbeat was crashing with every contraction and taking an age to come back up again as they struggled to free the cord.

Emelia clung to him, his hand crushed agonisingly in her surprisingly fierce grip. She’d been gardening, of course, day after day, and her hands were strong. Very strong.