Stranger in the Lake(4)

He pulls back on the throttle, slowing the boat to a crawl. “What’s wrong? Did you forget something?”

I shake my head. An hour ago, I left the house with exactly two items, the boat keys and my cell phone, both of which are here with me now. The keys dangle from the ignition, and I tucked my cell in the cubby by my seat, along with the Curtis Cottage drawings.

“You know how I’ve been feeling kinda out of sorts?” I don’t have to tick off my symptoms—the bouts of nausea, the bone-tiredness I can’t seem to shake. Paul brought me chicken soup from the market in town, covered me with blankets whenever I’d nap on the couch.

“You had the flu.”

“That’s what I thought, too. But who has the flu for three whole weeks?”

I stare at him hard, waiting for the realization to hit, but Paul’s face is a complete blank. I can’t tell if it’s because he doesn’t understand where I’m going with this, or if he’s trying to contain his panic—or worse, suspicion. Will he accuse me of flicking my pills into the toilet, of forgetting to take them on purpose? His mother certainly will.

I look away. “Anyway, it wasn’t the flu.”

He reaches up and kills the engine. All around us, the air goes quiet the way it can only here, in the middle of a lake cradled between mountains and trees. A strange kind of muffled silence punctuated by the far-off cry of a hawk.

Paul swivels on his seat to face me, his voice laced with worry. “What is it? Are you sick?”

“No.” My answer is swift, and I make sure to look him in the eyes. Paul’s already lost one wife. Of course his mind would go there. I probably should have led with my good health. “No, I’m fine. Better than fine. Healthy as can be.”

My heart is pounding now, but that’s to be expected. I think of the matching pink lines on the sticks, wrapped in toilet paper and buried at the bottom of the wastebasket. The instructions said one line may come out lighter than the other, but any hint of a second line meant I was pregnant. All three times I pulled a new one from the wrapper and peed on it just in case the ones before it were defective, the lines were so pink they were almost purple.

I see the second the quarter drops. Paul huffs out a breath, and the twin lines between his eyebrows smooth out. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” He sounds stunned, not angry. In fact, he kind of sounds the opposite, happy and hopeful—but maybe that’s just me.

Still. I bite down on a smile. “That depends. What do you think I’m saying?”

“Charlotte McCreedy Keller, don’t play games with me. My brittle old heart can’t take it.” He stands, reaching for me with icy hands, pulling me out of my chair. “Are you going to make me the happiest man on the planet? Are you going to make me a father?” He wraps his hands around my biceps and gives them a little jiggle. His eyes are gleaming, his smile stretched clear to his sideburns. “Are you?”

After a second or two, I nod.

Paul whoops, and a flock of swallows bursts from a bush on the shore, birds and batting wings swirling in the air. Suddenly I’m in the air, too, my legs wrapped around Paul’s waist, his hands firm on my backside. He twirls me around in the tiny space between the seats, and I laugh, from relief and at Paul’s reaction—a stunned but unapologetic joy.

“You’re pretty strong for an old man.”

“I’m not an old man. I am the man. My swimmers are badass. They are fierce.” I laugh, and he puts me down. “How do you feel? Any other symptoms?”

“A little tired still, and kinda pukey in the mornings. Once I eat something, I’m usually fine.”

“This is...this is amazing. I can’t wait to tell everybody. Let’s go home and make some calls.”

“Paul, can we just...I don’t know...keep this quiet for a little while longer? At least until I see the doctor and she gives us the green light. I want to know everything’s okay before we go telling the whole world.”

Worry flits across his brow. “What, you think this baby might not stick?”

“No, but it’s still so early. I want to see this baby with my own two eyes and be sure. Let’s just wait until after the first ultrasound, okay?”

“Okay, but so you know, I have a good feeling about this little guy. He’s going to be fine.”

I lift a brow. “Little guy?”

“Well, yeah. An adorable baby Keller to carry on the name.” He presses a hand over my lower stomach and smiles. “Paul Junior.”

Now, that his mother would approve of, a carbon copy of her precious son. I think back to Diana’s reaction when we told her we were getting married, the fake smile that tried to crack open her cheeks when Chet walked me down the aisle. I am not what she pictured for Paul—I’m too young, too unpolished, too poor and crass. She thinks that sometime very soon, her son will snap to his senses.

But a baby... A baby changes everything.

“What if it’s a Paulette?”

Paul makes a face. “God, no. I can’t saddle my daughter with a name like Paulette. She’ll grow up and go on Dr. Phil, talking about how we ruined her life. She’ll never speak to us again.”

Neglect, alcoholism, a felon father and a mother who had no business ever pushing out kids—now, those are some things to bellyache about on national television. This baby will have everything Chet and I didn’t: a real house with real walls to keep out of the cold, a fridge filled with food, clothes that don’t come from a church basement bin. Two parents who stick around, who don’t disappear for days at a time or get carted off to jail.