The Swap(55)

What were we going to do about it?





50


jamie


We eased down the long gravel drive toward Freya and Max’s home. My stomach was in knots, the smallest bump in the path making me nauseous. I wanted to tell Brian to turn around, tell him we needed to go home to discuss and strategize. But we were here now, and there would be no turning back. We needed answers. If we had somehow gotten this wrong, if the baby was Max’s, they would never forgive us. But if we had gotten it right . . .

I was anxious, terrified, but I felt something else . . . a glimmer of hope. This baby might be my husband’s child. Was there a way that Freya and I could both be mothers? I know it sounds weird and “out there” but we lived on an island with a progressive, highly alternative culture. Low’s family was the perfect example. They shared their children and their partners with ease and aplomb. Everyone was loving and happy and devoted. Except Low . . . but I wasn’t sure her misery could be blamed on her family’s makeup.

And Freya wasn’t jealous or possessive. She’d let me sleep with her husband without a second thought. Perhaps she would let me mother her child, too? Joint custody would take the pressure off her. She’d have time to exercise, to pamper herself, to travel. She and Max could work on their marriage and his self-hatred issues without the demands of a baby. Over time, they might find that they preferred the child live with us full-time. They could visit. They could take it to Disneyland. But Brian and I would be its real parents. I would be its mother.

But if Freya had wanted us to be a part of the baby’s life, why had she lied to us? Why had she hidden her child’s paternity?

Brian stopped the car behind the white Range Rover and turned to face me. “Who could have sent you that e-mail?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe someone with a grudge against Max and Freya?”

“But why did they send it to you? It has to be someone who knows I slept with Freya. It has to be someone who’s concerned about the baby.”

I swallowed. There was only one person I could think of who didn’t want them to have that child.

“Could it be Max?” I said.

“Could it be Freya?” Brian suggested.

We both sat there, mulling the possibilities. Max had never seemed excited about the baby. Freya could have gotten cold feet. They were the only ones who knew the infant’s true paternity.

“What about Low?” Brian suggested.

“No,” I said instantly. “She’s an odd kid, but she wouldn’t do something like this. And besides, she doesn’t know what we did that night. Freya wouldn’t tell a teenager that we had a couples’ swap. That would be sick.”

Brian nodded slowly, then he unbuckled his seat belt.

“There’s only one way to get to find out.”





51


When Freya opened the door, she looked pleasantly surprised to see me. But I watched her pretty face as she clocked my agitation, my husband’s tense presence at my side. The delight on her features quickly evaporated, replaced by darkness and dread. This was clearly not a social call.

“Hey,” she said flatly.

“Hi,” I replied, my voice strangled.

Brian said, “We need to talk to you and Max.”

She hesitated, and for a moment, I feared she’d slam the door in our faces. But she stepped back and ushered us inside.

“Jamie and Brian are here,” she called, her lack of enthusiasm evident in her tone. She sounded resigned, like she’d expected us to show up on her doorstep demanding answers. And maybe she had?

Max walked into the room then, wearing faded jeans and a clinging T-shirt that showed off his physique. But I felt no pitter-patter of attraction, no blush of remembrance. We were here on business. A child’s future hung on this encounter.

“What’s up?” he said, matching his wife’s cool but accepting presentation.

Brian spoke directly to Max. “We just got an anonymous e-mail with a link to your paternity case. The one where you stated—in court—that you’re sterile.”

Max’s handsome face turned into a scowl. “Who sent you that?”

“Someone who thought we should know that the baby”—Brian gestured toward Freya’s bump—“isn’t yours.”

I turned to Freya then. “Is it Brian’s child?” My words wobbled with emotion. And cautious optimism.

But Freya ignored me and turned to Brian. “Max lied in court. That slut was trying to get money out of him. It seemed the easiest solution.”

“The paternity test proved it wasn’t Max’s baby,” Brian countered.

“Yeah, because he didn’t sleep with her,” Freya snapped back. “Not because he’s sterile.”

My husband turned to Max. “So you never had complications from mumps? You lied about all of it?”

“I had mumps,” Max stated. “And I had complications. But I’m not sterile. I just have lower-than-average fertility.”

“We have sex every day,” Freya said. “Sometimes twice.” She looked at Brian with a disdain. “We still have a higher chance of conception than one lame night with you.”

I was simultaneously relieved and insulted that Freya considered my husband a lousy lay. But that was irrelevant right now. “There’s an easy way to solve this,” I said. “You can take a paternity test.”