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Then she’d gone home to an apartment emptied of anything of value and a note containing an apology from her father folded on the kitchen counter. When she had checked her bank account she’d found every penny she had carefully saved was gone. Then she had missed her period, and by that point it had been too late for Plan B. She hadn’t even had enough money for an abortion, if she had decided to go that route, anyway. Then she had been fired, and suddenly the most important thing in the world was that her husband seemed to be the kind of person who fixed problems.
Their marriage had been a problem, and he was going to fix that. Now her pregnancy was the problem, and his magical fix had smoothed away the practical, immediate problems of that, too. She didn’t want to have to rely on him, but she couldn’t predict what help she would need after the baby was born—or what he would be willing to provide.
Once the activity of cleaning up after dinner was done, they were left with nothing to do but face each other and feel awkward. At least, Vivian felt awkward. She had the sense that Karl could have a fox eating out his stomach under his shirt and his face wouldn’t reveal any pain. How drunk had he been to indulge himself in a feeling as human as lust? What else had been going on in his life that he’d allowed himself to get that drunk?
“Well—” she clapped her hands together “—I’m beat.” She was no such thing. Wired and punchy would be a more accurate description of how she felt right now. “Do you have a book I could read before I fall asleep?”
“I thought you said you were beat.”
She opened her mouth to respond but he’d already left the kitchen. He returned with Mr. Midshipman Hornblower, as well as Gerard Manley Hopkins: The Major Works and a military history of World War I.
“A selection,” he said, holding them out to her. Not a muscle had changed in his bland expression, but Vivian was pretty sure he was amused with himself for his offerings.
“Thank you.” She’d hoped for a mystery or thriller, but lying in bed with one of these books would help her fall right to sleep. “I’m sure I’ll learn something.”
* * *
KARL WOKE EARLY the next morning to a dark, silent apartment. Not even the ridiculous bird was making any noise. He pulled his boxers on and went into the kitchen to make coffee. When he didn’t hear any noise in his guest bedroom after the coffee grinder whirled, he cracked the door open to check on his guest. She was lying on her side, facing the door, the Keegan book on World War I flopped over her hand. The down comforter covered any rise and fall of her chest and he was about to check her pulse when she snorted and twitched before settling down again. Vivian wasn’t dead, and she hadn’t run off.
It looked like she’d made it halfway through the book before finally falling asleep. Despite its appearance, the Keegan book was unlikely to bore someone to sleep. He eased the door shut and went to get himself a cup of coffee. In the kitchen, he found a travel mug for Vivian to keep her coffee warm and poured her a cup, as well. Last night, before bed, he’d read a little about pregnancy—he was glad he’d had decaf in the freezer—and he remembered how grateful she’d been when he brought her coffee that one time in their Vegas hotel room. But when he went back into the guest bedroom to put the coffee on the nightstand, she still didn’t stir.
When he had awoken in the hotel room a month ago to find himself married, he’d assumed her deathlike sleep had been due to alcohol. She hadn’t seemed hungover—God knew he’d been too bleary-eyed and angry to notice if she had been—but she’d slept until he’d yelled her name and shaken her awake. This morning she seemed on course to do much the same. The bird stirred in its cage behind a cover, but Karl ignored it. Even if the bird was awake, he had no idea what to do with it unless it also wanted a cup of coffee.
It. The bird had a name. Luck, only not luck. Whatever was Chinese for luck. He still didn’t know if the bird was male or female.
And the bird was probably easier than a baby. Not that he hadn’t planned on having children. He had. One day. He’d just expected a little warning and time to read every baby book the Harold Washington Library had on its shelves before hearing the words, “I’m pregnant.”
