The Baby Tree (Christian Romance) Page 2

  Shannon smiled.

  “But no set-ups,” Olivia insisted. “They’re always awkward, embarrassing and terrible.”

  “I met Dan on a set-up,” Shannon volunteered.

  Olivia laughed. “Then you must be the exception to the rule.”

  That evening after dinner she regretted the conversation and hoped that Shannon wouldn’t follow up on it. She didn’t really want a flesh and blood man in her life; she much preferred fictional ones. She glanced through her DVD collection. How did she feel today? Was she bright and clever like Elizabeth Bennet, unflinchingly honest like Jane Eyre, or good-intentioned like Margaret Hale?

  She selected the DVD based on Elizabeth Gaskell’s Victorian novel North and South. “Hello, Thornton,” she said and clicked her remote control, forwarding through the opening scenes until he appeared. Tall, dark and broodingly handsome.

  Just what she wanted.

  As the familiar soundtrack filled the room, she sat down at her quilting frame. Watson, her fat orange calico, joined her. He liked watching as she stitched and sometimes chased after spools of thread that she dropped. Olivia glanced up at the television screen briefly, then back at her needle and thread. She’d seen this British mini-series so many times, all she needed was the soundtrack to relive the story in her mind.

  As she worked, she quickly slipped into the steady, soothing rhythm of her needle plying in and out of the crisp cotton fabric. She glanced up at the screen now and then, to watch favorite scenes and to admire the beauty of the period costumes. She enjoyed the old-fashioned manners, the beautiful dialogue, and the intense, breath-taking romance.

  It was her escape, her alternate reality.

  Life was good.

  CHAPTER TWO

  JUNE

  “All customer service representatives are currently busy. Your call will be answered by the next available customer service representative. Please hold.”

  Michael glanced at the clock on his computer monitor. He'd been on hold eleven minutes now. But he could work while he waited. He pulled up the schematic of the combination CPU flash memory chip his team was designing. He stared at the complicated pattern of lines, circles and rectangles. He clicked and dropped a few gates, making the connections reroute themselves.

  “Customer Service. Can I help you?”

  Michael was distracted. “Yes. Yes,” he said quickly, returning to the telephone. “I'm calling about a claim that was denied.”

  “Your account number please?”

  Michael gave her his number and waited for the service rep to access his file. “Your insurance coverage was canceled as of February 10th.”

  The day was indelibly etched in his memory. “Yes, but my family was still covered in January when the expense was incurred.” He gave her the date of the doctor appointment and waited for her to respond.

  “Here's the problem,” she said after a few minutes. “Your doctor submitted duplicate charges.”

  Michael had heard this before. “Please check the patient names,” he said calmly. “It's not a problem of duplicate claims, but of duplicate children. I have quintuplets and they all got their shots on the same day.”

  “I'll bet that was an adventure.” The customer service rep sounded amused. “Let me put a flag on your file so we don't have any more mix-ups . . .”

  Michael waited while the woman entered the corrected information. After a few more minutes she said, “Have your doctor submit the claims again, and this time it should go through.”

  Michael had dealt with enough doctors’ offices and insurance companies to doubt the validity of that statement, but there was no point in arguing. Arguing just made the bureaucratic wheels turn slower, or stop altogether. He glanced back at his watch. Thirty-two minutes wasted.

  “Mike, are you coming?”

  Michael looked up to see Brent, another of the engineers who was designing the chip with him, standing in the opening of his cubicle. “Is it time for the project meeting already?”

  #

  JULY

  Olivia yawned and turned off the television. Bingley hadn’t proposed to Jane yet, but she found herself dozing off and on, only hearing half of Jane Austen’s brilliant dialogue mixed with strange dreams of her and John. It was time to sleep in her own bed instead of zonking out on the couch. She glanced at the kitchen clock. Nearly two a.m. Not good. She had to get up by 6:30 for work. She should have gone to sleep hours ago, but the day before was the anniversary of the accident, and she’d been thinking about John.

  John, who’d been more of a Bingley than a Darcy: blonde, quick to smile, kind, happily in love with her.

  Maybe Pride and Prejudice hadn’t been a good idea.

  As she shuffled to her room, she glanced at the neighbor’s house. Through her window, she could see Mr. Claiborne pacing back and forth in his den, carrying one of the babies.

  One of these days he would discover that the decorative curtains on his sliding patio doors provided little privacy, and he would replace them. But until then, sometimes at night, she would get silent glimpses of his life. The lights in his den illuminated the room almost as clearly as a television screen. The curtains softened the focus, but did not block the view.

  She often saw him walking late at night, carrying a child -- sometimes two. Like her, he didn’t seem to be getting enough sleep, but at least he had a good excuse. He was taking care of his family, doing what had to be done. Building a future. Living his life.

  Unlike her.

  Olivia closed her blinds.

  She wasn’t stupid. She knew she was self-medicating by watching too much media -- whether that was television, her DVDs or YouTube -- and she’d been doing it off and on for years. Although it wasn’t as destructive as other addictions like pills or alcohol, it still wasn’t wise.

  She tried to justify it by working on her sewing projects or cleaning house while she watched, but if she were honest, most of the time, she just sat there. Plugged in. Zoned out.

  Olivia frowned.

  Logically, she knew that she should focus on real people rather than fiction. But fiction was so satisfying with its linear story arcs and happy endings. Real life was so messy and unpredictable.

  If she didn’t believe in a just and loving God, she would have given up years ago.

  She thought of John and wondered if he was able to look down on her from heaven.

  If he could, he’d be disappointed in her. He never would have wanted her to become a hermit, still grieving over him.

  Shannon was right. She needed to start living again.

  I’m sorry, Lord, Olivia thought, sending a silent prayer heavenward. Please help me to do what’s right. To help other people and cut back on the movies. She yawned. And please help me survive work tomorrow. Oh, and please bless Mr. Claiborne, too, and his babies. Amen.

  #

  Michael carried Grant to the front door. He peered through the peephole. A man with pruning sheers in his hand stood on the doorway. Michael opened the door. “Yes?”

  “Cute kid.” The man smiled at Grant, then said, “I'm with Dallas Tree Service. We're pruning the trees next door. Do you have any trees you want trimmed?”

  Grant, a champion spitter, suddenly burped and sprayed lunch -- baby formula and pureed sweet potatoes -- all over Michael's polo shirt. The tree service man took a cautious step backwards to get out of the line of fire. “Not today,” Michael said and started to close the door.

  “The lady next door is worried about the big sycamore in your backyard,” the man went on. “There are a few dead branches and they really need --”

  “Not today.” Michael shut the door. He carried Grant into the kitchen, where he rinsed him off and dabbed at his own shirt with a damp cloth. He wrinkled his nose at the smell, and ended up taking his shirt off and tossing it along with the cleaning cloth and Grant's romper into the washing machine. If it weren't for Miss Kate and Alexis' sensibilities, he'd have the babies wear nothing but diapers and he would run ar
ound the house in his underwear. At least during the summer months. It would certainly cut down on the laundry.

  As he dressed Grant again, he glanced out the bedroom window, where he could see through the fence to his neighbor Olivia's driveway. She was there, talking to the tree service man, pointing at one of her trees, then over at his tree, a large sycamore that shaded most of his backyard and some of her driveway.

  Maybe his trees did need to be pruned, but it wasn't high on his list of priorities. Michael tried to keep up with the yard work, but he wasn't a fanatic like his neighbor. In the evenings and on weekends, he often saw Olivia on her hands and knees pulling up weeds or going around the sidewalks with an ancient edger. The week before she had planted pansies in her window boxes.

  Whenever Olivia saw him, she smiled and nodded briefly in greeting, but fortunately she never came closer or tried to initiate a conversation.

  Michael often saw her exercising in the early evenings when he came home from work. She race-walked around the neighborhood in that silly, stiff legged, hip wiggling stride with her arms bent at an angle and her light brown braid slapping her back as she walked. He had to admire her dedication. And her legs. She was only average height, about five foot four, but her legs were long and graceful, like a dancer’s. She usually wore black Spandex biker shorts and a baggy t-shirt. The t-shirt did nothing for her, but those shorts were another matter.

  More than once, Michael found himself parked in his driveway, with the engine still running, watching her until she turned the corner at the end of the street.

  Michael was sorry he had yelled at her and slammed the door in her face, but he wasn't sorry enough to make any further contact. As far as he was concerned, neighbors should respect each other's privacy and leave each other alone.

  Which was easier said than done, particularly with only a five-foot tall, spaced picket fence to separate his backyard from her driveway.

  One evening, Michael sat on his back patio, rocking Jeff to sleep in the darkness, when he heard a car drive up his neighbor's driveway and park behind her red Honda Civic.

  The flood lights above her back door illuminated the scene as if it were a stage. A young man wearing a suit and tie got out of the driver's side and walked around to the passenger side to open the door. Olivia, with her hair piled up on her head instead of in its usual braid, stood gracefully. Her silky blouse glittered in the evening light, and the filmy skirt she wore floated around her ankles. Michael was surprised by how narrow her waist looked. The young man was short, just about her height. He said something. Michael heard her respond, “. . . a lovely time, thank you.”

  She must be coming home from a date. Michael knew he shouldn't eavesdrop, but he was tempted. Besides, he rationalized, if he stood up now to go back into the house, he'd only draw attention to himself and make them self-conscious.

  He watched as they walked to her back door. Was Olivia going to invite him in for a cup of coffee? For breakfast? He watched the way she stood in front of the door while she opened it. Her mouth was set in a firm line. No invitation tonight, he guessed.

  The young man stood with one arm outstretched, his hand against the door frame.

  He wants to kiss her, Michael thought. And for good reason. She was pretty, and with her hair up, the line of her jaw and the area around her ear was particularly inviting. Her skin glowed like alabaster.

  The two of them talked for a few more minutes, with the young man leaning aggressively forward and Olivia retreating, stepping back until she was flat against the door with her hand on the doorknob behind her. She smiled briefly, said what sounded like good night, and with a sudden movement, slid inside her house and shut the door, locking the young man outside.

  Good for you. Don't kiss anyone out of social obligation.

  Michael watched as the irritated young man climbed into his car, slammed the door and drove away, tires squealing.

  She was better off without him. Any man who took his temper out while driving was no bargain.

  A few moments later, her back door opened with a squeak, surprising him. Olivia walked across her driveway to the fence that separated their properties. She held her long skirt up a few inches so she wouldn't trip over the hem. Her feet were bare. The moonlight filtered through the branches of his tree, dappling her with silvery light. She looked like an enchanted princess in a fairy tale.

  “Mr. Claiborne?” she asked. Although she spoke in a quiet voice, it carried well in the still night.

  She knew his name. How long had she known that he was sitting in the darkness, watching her? Embarrassed to be found out, his tone was harsh. “Yes?”

  “I know you're very busy, and I don't want to bother you, but I really want this tree trimmed.” She patted the peeling trunk of the sycamore tree.

  Michael didn't know what he had expected her to say, but he certainly hadn't expected such a prosaic comment from his wood nymph.

  “If you want,” she continued, “I'll make an appointment myself, and I'll even pay for it. I just don't want one of those branches putting a hole in my garage roof.” Her garage, like his, was detached from the house, and stood at the end of her driveway, near the back fence.

  She was an alarmist. The tree was perfectly healthy. Michael stood up slowly so he wouldn't disturb the sleeping child in his arms, and walked over to the fence. “I really don't think it's necessary,” he said quietly, but she wasn't paying attention to him.

  She looked at the baby. “Oh, how sweet,” she said in a whisper. “What's his name?”

  “Jeff.” As he spoke, Jeff opened his eyes and looked around.

  “Oh, you beautiful boy,” she crooned. For a second, Michael wondered what it would take to make her say the same to him. She looked up at him and smiled. “How old is he?”

  It was difficult in the shadowy light to see the color of her eyes, but they looked a dark blue. He had to think back and mentally count the months. “Eight months.”

  “And you have four more just like him?”

  “There are four boys, one girl. They are fraternal, not identical.”

  “How wonderful,” she breathed. She reached her hand over the fence so that Jeff could grab her finger. “He's got a strong grip.”

  “Ga ga da ba,” Jeff said in an attempt at conversation and smiled at her, displaying his solitary lower tooth.

  “Is that so?” Olivia teased, looking down at him.

  Michael was accustomed to being upstaged by his children, but tonight he didn't like it. “It's getting late,” he said brusquely, and turned Jeff inward so that he faced his chest. But Jeff refused to let go of Olivia's finger, so Michael had to gently pry his son's tiny fingers loose.

  In the process, they both stepped closer to each other, with just the wooden slats of the fence between them. She smelled like gardenias. Olivia's gaze flew up to Michael's. “Sorry,” she said with a hesitant smile. “But when you have such a beautiful child, it's very distracting.”

  As distracting as her smile? Michael found himself looking at her mouth, wondering how her lips would feel against his if he kissed her.

  Michael frowned. What was he thinking? Months of sleep deprivation were addling his brain. He didn't have the time or energy to pursue a romantic entanglement, and even if he did, he wouldn't pursue his next door neighbor. It wasn't wise. “Good night,” he said, and stepped back into the safety of the shadows.

  She stood with her hands on the fence, leaning toward him. “Do you want me to take care of the tree?”

  Persistence, thy name is Olivia. “No, I'll do it.”

  “Good night, then,” she called and walked back to her house.

  Michael watched her until she closed the back door and turned off the outdoor light. Jeff decided that if he was awake, he was hungry, too, and started fussing. He grabbed at Michael’s shirt and rubbed his face into Michael’s arm.

  Michael smiled at his son. “Do you want a bottle?”

  #

  That was interesting
, Olivia thought as she locked her back door and turned off the flood light. She'd finally met one of the quintuplets and actually had a civil, although brief, conversation with Mr. Claiborne. Mrs. Shuman would be green with envy. In the past few weeks, Mrs. Shuman had made friends with the day care provider, Miss Kate, but she had yet to speak to the man himself.

  Olivia pulled out the hairpins that secured the bun on top of her head and ran her fingers through her long light brown hair. She sighed. Why had she even bothered dressing up? Her date with Shannon’s cousin Greg had been a dud.

  He was nice enough, but there was nothing particularly interesting or compelling about him. No spark. Olivia wondered if she were expecting too much from a blind date. Too bad there wasn't a socially acceptable way to end a date after the food was ordered but before it arrived.

  And the worst part was the post mortem she’d have to endure tomorrow at work. How could she nicely tell her friend that she hadn’t liked her cousin?

  She never should have agreed to go in the first place.

  No more set ups, she vowed.

  She started unbuttoning her blouse on the way to her bedroom and spun around in a pirouette. At least the ballet was enjoyable. As long as she had remembered not to sit all the way back in her seat where Greg had put his arm.

  And he would have kissed her good night, if she'd given him half a chance. Ugh, what a thought. At the restaurant, he had bolted down his dinner, barely taking time to chew. She could just imagine what kind of a kisser he'd be.

  Crick wound himself around her legs. Olivia rubbed his gray head behind his ears. The cat purred loudly. She held him up so that her nose almost touched his. “Why can't I find a man like you, huh? Someone warm and snugly, devoted to me?”

  Someone like her neighbor Michael Claiborne?

  Olivia put that thought out of her mind. Michael Claiborne was an attractive man, with his deep gravelly voice and those intriguing icy blue eyes, but she knew herself well enough to know the main source of his attraction: those babies.

  Working with Shannon every day was making her baby hungry.