The reporters cursed themselves for not being there. Though they were still returning regularly in search of crumbs of information, no one was keeping all-night vigil.  So of course, they all missed being there when the intruder struck. Still, they had a field day with the story. The would-be killer was a member of The Church of Repentance—Connor’s church. Though not acting under Connor’s direct orders, he’d certainly been inspired by Connor’s fiery rhetoric. And Connor said nothing to repudiate Todd’s actions when the press sought him out for comments.

It was clear to Marie that she couldn’t live a normal life in Flamingo Cove. She would have to move. Even if Todd was kept permanently locked up, and even if Connor himself made no move to finish what Todd had started, that wouldn’t be the end of it. Some other religious fanatic would come along, be it a member of The Church of Repentance or a freelance loony, and try to succeed at what Todd had attempted.

Too, the others weren’t leaving her alone, either—the ones who wished only good for her and Josh, but who insisted on venerating him as the Second Coming. The prayer groups still gathered near her house, exercising their right to free speech by praying loudly for the health and well-being of Josh, or praying to him to help them from their troubles and travails.

Even trips to the supermarket were problematic. Just the day before, while Marie was standing in the checkout line, a woman had pushed through, not to cut in with her groceries but to drop to her knees and make the sign of the cross before Josh while she kissed her rosary, then held it out to touch Josh with it as if that would make it truly holy. And it wasn’t just an isolated case. No amount of entreaties for privacy, no amount of pleas that Josh was an ordinary baby seemed to carry any weight.

Just the day before, when Marie was at the library, Josh had sneezed a tiny sneeze; one of the librarians had said, “Bless yourself.” It didn’t bode well for his chances of growing up like a normal child. And that was what Marie desperately wanted—a normal childhood for her son and a normal motherhood for herself.

In Flamingo Cove, clearly, they couldn’t have that. In fact, she doubted they could have it anywhere, as well known as they were. But she began to craft a plan, a plan that related to her earlier comment about the witness protection program. Although she couldn’t really get into the program, maybe she could still change her name, alter her appearance, take the money from the sale of the business, and move to another town. Maybe even a big city, where it would be easier to get lost in the dense humanity. Move, change her name, and start over.

Gary was paying her well for the business—far beyond what it was worth. He’d always wanted it passionately, beyond what was reasonable for a marginal business. She was sure it was a grudge matter because she’d won the business in the divorce settlement, after he’d poured so much of himself into establishing it. It had been a point of sore contention in court. Well, if he wanted it that badly, fine! Let him pay for it—through the nose.

They shook hands on the deal and signed the papers in her office. She was still shaky as she gripped the pen. A week had passed since the attack, but her nerves were nearly as raw as the night it happened. Every footstep behind her made her whirl around in fear. Every knock at the door made her cringe. Every unfamiliar voice made her quake.

She didn’t feel safe at home, and she didn’t feel safe at work. Not for the first time, she seriously considered hiring an armed guard, but she couldn’t live that way for the rest of her life. Elinor offered for Marie and Josh to move in with her “till things die down.” Marie didn’t fancy moving back in with her mother at age thirty-four; though, and besides, they couldn’t be together every minute; an assassin would just wait till some time when Elinor was off doing her own thing. Last, though it was far from the least consideration, Elinor’s invitation was “till things die down,” but Marie wasn’t sure things ever would.

Clearly, her only choice was to move—move and change her identity.

She felt guilty over spiriting Cole’s son away from him, but she didn’t see any alternative.

It was Pastor Hemmings who helped her put her plan into action. He had a friend who was ex-F.B.I., who was knowledgeable about false identities. He couldn’t issue her fake documents or give her any official help—he wasn’t even with the Bureau any longer—but he had a lot of good information about the nuts and bolts of starting a new life. He laid out a plan for her and helped her put it into action. Now that the sale of the business was going through, she would have the money to effect the plan.

Marie had a momentary pang of guilt as she accepted the check from Gary, knowing what she was going to do with the money. Leaving her mother and her best friend behind—would she ever see either of them again, or would her future relationship with each of the women be reduced to a series of furtive phone calls? She envisioned herself talking to Elinor and Sheila weekly from a different payphone, always worrying that, even so, someone would trace the source of the calls and find out at least the city in which she’d relocated.

And all because an assortment of zanies, publicity-hounds, religious nuts, zealots, and others with their own agendas were bent on proving that her sweet little son was something special. Well, he was something special, all right—to her, as his mother. Period. End of sentence.

Why couldn’t everyone else accept that?

As she trudged toward the car with Josh on her left shoulder, the diaper bag slung over her right shoulder, and the check securely in her pocket, she wondered how she was going to convert that much money to traveller’s checks without arousing suspicion. Well, tomorrow she’d be gone anyhow.

But wasn’t there still some hope she could stay in this town she was so comfortable in, near her mom and not far from her dad, close by her best friend and able to avail herself of the rest of her support network? A part of Marie hesitated. She really didn’t want to leave. Wasn’t there any other solution? Was she being a coward by fleeing?

She paused uncertainly at the mailbox. In her hand were the letters she was sending out, letters telling her mom, Sheila, Cole, Joanna, and a few other people that she was dropping out of sight. It wasn’t too late to abort the plan. Marie froze, uncertain and afraid.

Then a dumpling-shaped woman in her fifties approached at a quick trot from the north, headed for the mailbox. But she had no letters in her hand. “Oh, the Savior,” she cooed, sinking to her knees on the rough sidewalk and crossing herself. “Bless me, son of God, and help me.”

Just then Reverend Argyle rounded the corner. “Marie!” he effused, beaming at her. “Have you given more thought to joining our church yet? You want to get your son into the church as early as possible. We’d be pleased to have you as a member. A committee is going to call on you tomorrow. Please hear them out and listen to what they have to say.”

“If I could have just a shred of his blanket . . . anything,” the dumpling-shaped woman interrupted. “A relic to take home.” Then she unexpectedly slipped one of Josh’s socks off—of course, he had no shoes on—and clutched it to her like a treasure. Quickly rising to her feet, she scurryied off down the sidewalk.

“Forgive me, Reverend Argyle, but I have a lot to do,” Marie said, rapidly thrusting the letters into the mailbox and turning quickly away.

Sheila sat on the edge of the bed, waiting. Marie, in the bathroom, called out anxiously, “I can’t pee. I’m too nervous.”

“Wait another hour. Try again,” Sheila sensibly suggested.

“I’ve waited three days already. I bought the damn test kit Wednesday. But I couldn’t do it when Cole was around, and then I was in a hurry, and then Cole was around again, and then I was too nervous to do it—I just wasn’t ready to know—and then Cole was around again, and then I had to pee too badly to stop and take the test kit out of my pocketbook, and now . . . well, I’m so nervous I can’t relax and let go.”

“So wait,” Sheila repeated sensibly. “Try again in a little while.”

“But I want to knooooooow!” Marie wailed. I want to know nooooow! Besides, Cole will be home soon.”

Sheila wisely refrained from further suggestions. For an eternity of moments, there was silence from the bathroom. Then a groan of despair. Then more silence. Then a hesitant trickle, a splash, silence again, and then a squeak, a gasp, and an unfettered whoop of elation. “I am! I am!” Marie screamed at the top of her lungs. “I’m pregnant!”

There was the sound of flushing, of water running in the sink, and then Marie reappeared, raced over to Sheila, and threw her arms around her best friend, hugging her ecstatically as she rejoiced at her good fortune. “I’m so glad for you, honey,” Sheila said warmly, hugging Marie tightly and stroking her shoulder. “How are you going to tell Cole . . . and when?”

Marie’s gulp was audible. “I—I haven’t decided yet,” she answered, sagging palpably in Sheila’s arms as the thought of telling her husband brought her joy down a few notches. She was aware, by now, that Cole talked a better game than he played. Whenever she’d spoken to him about their having a baby, he’d been all for it, agreeing with her that it would complete their family circle. But whenever she’d spoken of having a baby now, he always had some reason why the timing wasn’t right. She was busy at work; he was too busy; their finances weren’t solid enough. And if it wasn’t one of those, he had some other reason.

“He just doesn’t want to share you with anyone—even his own child,” Sheila interpreted it. Marie couldn’t find a better explanation herself.

So it was with great trepidation that she debated how best to break the news to her husband. “You don’t have to tell him tonight,” Sheila pointed out.

“Then I’m only postponing the inevitable. I’m going to have to tell him eventually. Should I wait till I look like I swallowed a watermelon? Try to hide it and then tell him, ‘Oh, honey, guess what—I’m pregnant. And by the way, I’m in labor’?”

“Wait till a right moment presents itself. Till he’s in a good mood. Till something comes up in your conversation that offers a good opportunity. Wait till he’s talking about his business and then say, ‘Now you’ll have an heir to pass it on to.’”

Rattled at the prospect of telling Cole—who was due home soon from yet another fishing outing with a client—Marie got up and began to pace the bedroom.  On her eighth round-trip, she stopped abruptly at the TV, clicking it on in the hope it would distract her. It was 5:15; the news would be on. She turned to Channel 11.

Once again, religion was in the news, in a manner of speaking, though this time it was merely an item on the weekend calendar of events. Community Affairs reporter Melanie Karten noted that Flamingo Cove Lutheran Church—Pastor Hemmings’ church—was sponsoring a Share the Harvest event on Sunday afternoon. Local residents were encouraged to bring either canned goods or produce from their gardens or farms to share with the community’s less fortunate.

Marie made a mental note to see what she could spare from her garden. Especially in this time of joy and promise, when her dreams were about to be fulfilled, she felt an obligation to help others with less to be thankful for.

When Cole got home, he noticed that Marie seemed nervous. Sheila had left by then, so Marie had no one to talk to but Cole, which made it harder not to tell him. She vacillated between talking volubly in her ever-increasing nervousness and giving one-word answers in fear of blurting out the news before “the right time.”

“What on earth is with you tonight?” Cole asked for the second time. “What’s got you all a-twitter like this?”

“Well, I stopped in the drugstore the other day . . . .” Marie started.

“And that damned clerk started flirting with you again,” Cole continued for her. “And now you’re nervous about it. Don’t worry. I understand completely. I’ll talk to him for you.”

“It’s not that at all!” Marie yelped. “The clerk has not flirted with me again, I wouldn’t be nervous if he had, and I could take care of it myself—would prefer to—if such a thing happened. Which it has not.”

“Well then . . . what?” Cole asked. “What’s the problem?”

“Well . . . it’s not a problem. Unless you make it one. I’m very happy, actually.” Had been very happy, she realized. Now she was more nervous and concerned than anything else. How was Cole going to react?  His wrong turn in the conversation, jumping to conclusions about the drugstore clerk, had derailed her train of thought and momentarily muddled her.

Now she stopped to rethink her plan. He’d always said he wanted a baby. If she could believe him, this should be so easy, so joyous. But actions speak louder than words. His evasions of sex on the nights he knew she was fertile had spoken volumes. That fact was making it harder, now, to break the news to him. How to put a positive spin on the news? Finally she decided to use his own words against him.

“What would make you and me both very happy?” she asked.

“Your cutting back your open hours at the office so we could spend more time alone together.”

This wasn’t going well at all.

“What did you say you were looking forward to?”

“You’ve got tickets for next year’s SuperBowl?”

Not at all well.

“Think less globally, more personally.”

“You’re making meat loaf for dinner?”

“On a grander scale . . . oh, I give up. Remember all the times you’ve said how wonderful it would be to have a baby? For there to be three of us to love each other? You’d have an heir to your business, a junior partner, eventually.” Unless he or she prefers to help run my business, she thought. “Can you see yourself going to Career Day in school, Parents’ Night, the class play—and, someday, graduation? Can you see yourself showing off your little girl—or your boy—to the other dads at the beach, at the zoo, at the playground? Can you see —”

“I can see it all someday. I certainly don’t want to try yet, though. My business is good but not great. You’re working long hours—you certainly can’t take time off for a baby. And it would take so much away from our time together. Let’s not try yet.”

“We don’t have to try.” She paused a minute, plunged onward. “I already am pregnant. The drugstore—I was trying to tell you—I bought a pregnancy test kit. It’s positive. I’m pregnant!”

As she said the words, elation flooded her, surging through her veins. It pumped through her heart, awakening every ion of excitement lying dormant in her body, and caused them all to go on full alert. A hot tide of pleasure rolled through her, curling her toes as she pictured herself rocking her own baby, holding her own son or daughter, mothering her own little one.

“Are you sure?” Cole asked inanely.

“I’m sure . . . and I’m thrilled. Aren’t you?”

“Well . . . no. Don’t you think we should have discussed this together? This isn’t a decision to make on your own.”

“And this isn’t a proper reaction. You’re taking all the joy out of it. And we did discuss it. Many times. You always said—”

“I know. I know.” Cole sighed the sigh of the put-upon. “But we weren’t talking about having a baby right now. We were talking about having a baby sometime. A theoretical baby. Not a baby here and now.”

“Oh, so you only want me to have a theoretical baby. Not a real one!” Her voice was shrill, loud. She heard herself and was appalled. She didn’t like fighting under any circumstances. She certainly didn’t want to be fighting now. This wasn’t going at all the way she’d planned.

“I didn’t say Never. Just not now.” Cole’s tone of voice suggested that Marie wasn’t being very reasonable.

“Well, you never specified a time when you said you wanted a baby.” That was only partly true—he’d never verbalized a time, yet his reactions had made it quite plain he wasn’t ready now . . . if he ever would be. And that was the problem—would he ever be ready?

They’d been married five years already. Five years of no baby—despite using no precautions. Five years of not actually trying, but not trying not to . . . with no results. This on top of her earlier miscarriage, during her marriage to Gary. Time had been nipping at her heels. “You never said, ‘Not now.’”

“I didn’t think you’d make a unilateral decision!”

“I didn’t!” She was absolutely screeching. Horrified, she listened to herself as if she were hearing another person, someone who clearly was out of control, someone Marie had no way of reining in. “If you don’t like it, I’ll take my baby and live elsewhere. Or you can move out! I’m not letting you ruin this for me. I’m going to have a happy pregnancy!” she sobbed, dashing out of the room.

Chapter Three

As Marie drove home, she pondered the question of who would run the business if she stayed home to raise a child. Her fantasies featured her in a very retro maternal mode—stay-at-home mom, full-time caregiver. For a moment she toyed with calling Gary to ask what he’d offer her after all. Wouldn’t that be a hoot—Gary as Cole’s landlord! Colton Erlig would never put up with it, of course—he’d demand to run the business himself. “What’s yours is mine; what’s mine is yours.”

Marie wasn’t so sure. Office Central was an asset she had brought into the marriage, and she’d never thought of it as community property. If ever . . . well, just if anything went so wrong that this marriage, like its predecessor, landed in divorce court, she wanted a clear claim on a means to support herself—and any future children.

If only for this reason, she wouldn’t put Cole in charge of Office Central. His consulting business didn’t really keep him full-time busy; she supposed he could manage to run the office too—certainly as long as Joanna continued to work there. (But would Joanna be agreeable to staying on if Cole were her boss? Her civility to him was a thin veneer; Marie was sure some less kindly feelings lurked close below the surface.)

Arriving home, Marie pulled into the two-car garage and went right out the garage’s back door to her garden. She would make that chicken dish Cole was partial to, and eggplant, his favorite veggie. She searched among the eggplants in her garden, found a large, ripe one, and carried it triumphantly into the house. When Cole arrived home minutes later, she was already cooking, the portable TV turned on to the five o’clock news.

Her ebullient good spirits had returned as she contemplated the possibility that, tomorrow at this time, a new life might already be growing inside her. Cole came in the door, and she kissed him Hello as if they hadn’t been more or less together all day—and as if they hadn’t had their difficult moments during that day. Marie was determined that all would be well between them—especially tonight.

“Did you check the messages yet?” Cole asked after bending to kiss his 5’6” wife on the neck. Her curly, ash-blonde, moderately short hair tickled his nose, and he had to fight to stifle a sneeze.

Marie put down the chicken she was cutting and turned to face her husband. “Not yet,” she said. “Dinner’s going to take a while, and I wanted to get it started.  Check if you want.”

Cole’s nose took note of what she was cooking. His eyes followed, to confirm. A sublimely pleased smile took a short-term lease on his face. “Mmm,” he said. “What did I do to deserve this feast?”

“Nothing . . . yet,” Marie teased.

“Is this some occasion?”

“Sort of.” Her eyes glinted with overflowing happiness.

“It’s not our anniversary,” he mused.

“Nothing like that,” she said, undertones of joy showing in the laughter that welled beneath her words.

Since she wasn’t irked at him for forgetting the occasion, whatever it was, Cole decided it must be one of those things only women kept track of—the anniversary of their first date, or the first time they’d slept together, or the day he’d proposed . . . whatever it was, he didn’t have to worry about it.

His fingers trailed down her arm. She thought he was still trying to figure out what the occasion was.

“It doesn’t matter if you don’t know,” she said, “as long—”

“—as we celebrate it together!” Cole finished for her. He gave a low chuckle. “You know, that’s the true test of a couple’s closeness. If one of them can finish sentences for the other like that, it proves how well suited they are to each other and how much they belong together.”

Marie had been going to say, “as long as I know what to do about it,” but she refrained from correcting either of his assumptions—about what she’d been going to say or about how well he knew her. As Cole turned to go shower off the day’s dirt and disappointments, Marie’s eyes surveyed her husband’s form.

And there was lots of form to survey, but other than his ample girth, Colton Erlig really was a handsome fellow. His chestnut hair had undertones of auburn; his trim, short beard gave him an air of distinction; and if he wasn’t movie-star handsome, he certainly was quirkily good looking. Though it was too bad about his heft, at least he carried it well, being portly rather than potbellied.

Whistling his way to the bedroom, Cole showered while Marie continued to cook. Typical of south Florida, the house was one story, sprawling rather than tall. Marie could hear Cole whistling even as he showered, and at one point, when the water pipes were briefly “singing,” Marie was ready to swear Cole was whistling in harmony with them.

With Cole out of the room and the chicken in the oven, Marie was free to give more of her attention to the newscast. Cutting the eggplant was a fairly mechanical operation, so she finally paid heed to the news of the day. Van Jordan, the Channel 11 anchor, had an undeniably mellifluous voice. Marie had never found blond men attractive, but she couldn’t dispute the pull of his tones. The news, however, was fairly routine. Slow news day, Marie thought, and she tuned out his melodic voice to concentrate on her plans for the evening.

With the eggplant keeping company with the chicken in the oven, and some wild rice ready to be put up to cook when it was time, Marie thought she’d take a bath. But she realized Cole was still in the shower, so she headed for the living room and the answering machine instead.

“Sweetie? Want to plan on doing something fun this weekend?” The voice was that of Sheila O’Shaughnessy Weiss, Marie’s best friend. “I don’t suppose I can tempt you and Cole into coming to Sunrise with us on Sunday, though I’d sure like to . . . but how about lunch on Saturday?”

The Sunrise Congregation was a nondenominational church with a somewhat interfaith membership. A few other Jews, mostly those married to Christians, attended services there. “You know you’d fit right in,” Sheila had often said wheedlingly to Marie.

She said it again, now, when Marie called Sheila back. “But you know how I feel about religion,” Marie reminded her. “If God made the world, then we’re in an appropriate place to worship Him wherever in His world we are. And if God is everywhere, then surely He’s just as much in my kitchen, my car, my office, or City Hall as He is at Sunrise or any other temple or church or mosque.

“I don’t feel I have to mouth a prescribed, pre-written, predetermined prayer to properly worship Him. I talk to God all the time. But I say what I feel. I say what I have to say to Him. Don’t you think God would rather that I just talk to Him and say what I feel, whether it’s ‘Please’ or ‘Thank you’ or ‘Those flowers You created are beautiful,’ instead of my reciting some dry prayers out of a book?”

“But don’t you feel good gathering with your neighbors to praise God in unison? Doesn’t lifting your voice in prayer and singing the hymns make you feel good inside?” Sheila argued half-heartedly.

“God never founded a church or temple,” Marie countered. “God did create the world, though, so aren’t we in His church whenever we walk among any of His creations? And then, wouldn’t that be a good place to pray—anywhere?  Anywhere we are on God’s earth when we have something to say to Him about something on this earth He made or did?”

“I give up,” Sheila sighed.

“For now,” Marie corrected her. “You’ll be at me again.”

“You know it,” Sheila laughed. “Meanwhile, what about lunch Saturday?”

“Sure,” Marie agreed. “Name the time and place.”

“Gina’s Garden at noon?”

Marie agreed, hung up, and continued checking the machine. The next message was from her mother. Elinor Levy’s voice was strong, young, and vibrant. She sounded closer to thirty-seven than fifty-seven. “Honey? Gary called me today. Call me back when you have a chance.  Think about lunch Saturday, too.”

Marie sighed. Elinor would have loved for Marie to give up Office Central. Marie was sure she was in for a diatribe about why she should sell to Gary. Elinor wanted more for her daughter. More than running a marginally profitable business—she wanted her daughter to have a career. “Something where people really respect you,” she often said.

“What’s not respectable about running Office Central?” Marie wearily replied each time. They could have had the conversation in their sleep. Each knew her lines quite well.

Marie called Elinor back now. “Hi, Mom,” she said.

“Hi, honey,” Elinor answered with genuine warmth. If Marie wasn’t everything Elinor wanted her to be, at least the mother didn’t let that get in the way of loving her daughter.

“What’s up?”

“Claudia’s coming for a visit. I thought we’d get together and plan. I haven’t seen you for a week anyhow. What’re you doing for lunch Saturday?”

“Sheila. You want to do brunch on Sunday? Come over here and I’ll cook.”

“Come out to brunch. I’ll treat. We can have margaritas or bloodies or something. Meet me at the Burro Perezoso and we can have those wonderful Mexican eggs.”

“When is Claudia coming?”

“Three weeks. I’ll tell you all about it on Sunday. Is it a date?”

“How’s eleven?”

“Wonderful. Eleven at the Mexican place on Sunday.” They blew each other a kiss and hung up. Then Marie rushed back to the kitchen to put up the rice and check on the chicken and the eggplant. Cole was out of the shower, so Marie started a tub of bubbles running. The bubblebath wasn’t scented, so she poured a hefty dose of cologne into the tub too. Then she browsed through her closet and her dresser, selecting clothes for tomorrow and changing her mind several times over her choice of something slinky for that night. She finally settled on the scarlet gown with a diaphonous black cover-up that covered almost nothing.

Cole caught sight of her as she breezed into the kitchen after her bath, and he nearly assaulted her with intent to pleasure right then and there on the hallway floor. “Hold that thought—the chicken’s nearly ready,” Marie said.

As she sat down at the table, Cole’s lips slid along her freshly lipsticked mouth. “I made your favorite dish and you’re hungry for something else!” Marie mock-pouted. Cole laughed and dug in.

“Delicious!” he said, but he was having trouble concentrating on the goodies on the table when his wife’s goodies were on display so temptingly in front of him. Her pencil-eraser nipples jutted teasingly through the thin material as she sat cutting the chicken. Both her breasts jiggled when she cut vigorously—and it seemed to Cole that she must be cutting that hard on purpose, just to tease him. When she slipped the food into her mouth, wasn’t she deliberately removing the fork extra-slowly and sucking on the tines as they slipped through her tight lips? Wasn’t that sly smile on her face aimed at her fully aroused husband?

“I don’t need dessert . . . and leave the dishes,” Cole husked at Marie when they’d finished their dinner. “I’ll do them myself later.” He picked her up and, staggering only a little under her weight, he carried her into the bedroom.

They twined their arms around each other, rubbing their naked bodies eagerly together. The hairs on Cole’s chest and belly titillated Marie’s soft and silky skin. His hard maleness jutted out, prodding her belly, then slipping eagerly between her legs. Marie climbed astride Cole, ready to rise up, sink down, and capture him.

Cole caught the glint in her eyes again, and suddenly he had an inkling of what was behind it. He tried to count back. When had she last had her period? “Ohh, baby,” he groaned. “You know what I’d really love?” But when he told her, she balked. That kind of sex, good though it was, was not the way to start a baby growing.

But Cole was obstinate. It was that or nothing. And Marie, who hated arguing and chose her fights carefully, finally acceded and repositioned, lowering her face to his eager part.

Cole was obstinate, but Marie was sneaky. She timed it well, paying attention to the subtle and not-so-subtle signs. An instant before the crucial moment, she lifted her head, shifted, repositioned, lowered her body, and captured him where she wanted him. At the moment that counted, he was where she needed him to be. And he was too far gone, too needful to stop himself.

Marie massaged her taut belly, imagining she felt it swelling already with the child that might truly be growing inside it now.

(continued tomorrow)