The Fourth Child Read online

  C.J. Carmichael - The Fourth Child

  MOMENT OF TRUTH…

  Claire Ridgeway has everything—a handsome, hardworking husband of twelve years, a beautiful home in the suburbs, three delightful children she can raise without having to worry about money.

  Until one morning.

  Claire's life shatters when Kirk tells her he's in love with someone else.

  Her first reaction is to kick him out of the house. But he wants to try counseling. She's not sure she can forgive him. Still, she has three young daughters to think of, plus the child due in seven months—Kirk's child, their fourth.

  The child he doesn't even know she's carrying.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Looks like I'll be working late again tonight." The lie came so easily Kirk Ridgeway almost believed it himself. Hands joined behind his head for support, he leaned back in his padded leather chair and stared at a painting on the wall. He was using the speakerphone, so he had no need to hold the receiver in his hand.

  "I see." The woman's faint voice echoed against the office walls. "How late?"

  Kirk checked his watch. It was six o'clock Wednesday. From the open door to his office he'd been watching people leave for the past hour. Soon, the brokerage firm would be all but deserted…

  "Hard to say." Into the resulting silence, he added, "Tell the kids I love them, and don't bother waiting up."

  He leaned forward to disconnect the line and reassured himself he hadn't lied. After all, he'd promised to review that new biotech prospectus to see if any of his clients might be interested in investing. Eager to assuage his conscience, he slipped on his reading glasses and reached for the thick booklet. He flipped the pages, past the cover page describing the offering and the warning to investors about the speculative nature of the venture, to the description of the business. His gaze paused at the first black heading; his mind stalled.

  What was keeping her? He was sure he'd seen all the brokers who worked at his end of the building leave. His assistant had gone over an hour ago. Already the place had the hollow, muted atmosphere he associated with afterhours and weekends.

  And Janice.

  His eyes shifted from the prospectus, back to the painting on the wall opposite him. An abstract he'd bought recently, it evoked passionate emotions, reminding him of how he felt when he was with her.

  What the hell are you doing, man? The warning voice came from inside his own head, but Kirk didn't want to listen. His chest was tight, his breathing shallow. This was getting crazy. Six months earlier he would have said he and Janice were just friends. Their relationship had started with the occasional innocent lunch—Janice had been very upset after her divorce.

  Occasional lunches became more frequent; open meetings evolved into secret rendezvous. At what point had he known he was falling in love? Kirk still wasn't sure. But he did know the time had come to do something about it. Last week at dinner, Janice had told him she wanted more. He couldn't pretend not to understand what she meant.

  "Hi, there."

  The sound of her voice had him sitting taller in his chair, his tension, the accompanying sliver of guilt, lessening at the sight of her. Her thin, elegant silhouette was framed seductively in the pale light from the doorway. With a warm smile she entered his office and closed, then locked, the door behind her.

  "About time you got here," he said.

  She was wearing a form-fitting black suit, skirt short, heels high. Her silk blouse was buttoned low. Lower, he was certain, than when he'd seen her at the coffee station earlier that afternoon.

  "I thought the day would never end." She leaned back against the door, her svelte figure on perfect display.

  The rules of the game were about to change, Kirk sensed, and he was filled with an ambiguous swirl of emotions. Excitement, longing, guilt and self-doubt. What was he doing? Was this really what he wanted? Could he stop if he chose to?

  He stood, moved toward her, then hesitated. "I feel as if I've been waiting forever…"

  "I know." Her lips shimmered with fresh red lipstick, and now he was close enough to smell her perfume. It was a warm, musky scent he found both exciting and disturbing, like that hew painting on his wall.

  "Have you considered what we talked about last time?" she asked.

  "Oh, yeah." He brought the back of his hand to her hair and brushed it from her shoulder. Since last week's dinner, he'd thought of precious little else than her desire to make love with him.

  "What about here, Kirk? What about now? The place is deserted. I've locked the door."

  He groaned. God, he couldn't believe it. She was offering him his ultimate fantasy. How many nights had he lain awake thinking of something just like this? Now he swallowed, his gaze automatically settling on the hint of cleavage between the parted layers of silky blouse.

  "Doesn't that sound nice?" she asked, her voice an enticing whisper. She unbuttoned her jacket, let it fall from her shoulders.

  Kirk pressed fingers to his forehead, where he felt a hot, sticky film of sweat. How had they come to this point? His chest pushed against his light wool jacket as he filled his lungs with air. He couldn't think about what could happen right here, right now, if only he gave the answer she was looking for.

  "Kirk?" Her jacket lay on the floor, and it was obvious she had no bra under her flimsy white blouse. He felt his pulse pounding in his throat, and someplace lower, too. An aching, desperate throbbing that made it hard to think of anything else. God, how he ached to—

  "Don't you want me, Kirk?" she asked. "Why haven't you kissed me yet?"

  "If I kiss you, this time I won't be able to stop there."

  "But that's okay," Janice said, leaning in toward him. "That's what I've been trying to tell you."

  Kirk put his hands out to her shoulders. Partly to stop her from coming closer, partly to feel the warm softness of her flesh. His gaze dipped to the outline of her nipples, the hard hubs clearly visible beneath the thin film of silk, then returned to the fullness of her lips.

  Oh, God, I'm a fool. Why not just kiss her? Isn't it what we both want?

  But of course it wasn't that simple. He took another deep breath and straightened his shoulders. With closed eyes, he thought of a different woman, two rings, a spoken vow.

  "Let's go out for dinner, Janice. We need to talk."

  CHAPTER TWO

  "Mom-m-m-m!" the wail traveled down the stairs to the kitchen, where Claire Ridgeway had just picked up the phone to make an important call. She'd been waiting for office hours, which began at eight. Now she replaced the receiver and decided she'd been overly optimistic thinking she'd have five minutes to herself before the kids caught the bus for school.

  Instead, she jogged up the stairs for about the tenth time that morning. Her eldest daughter, Andie, was standing in the middle of her room, dressed in a T-shirt and panties.

  "I don't have any clean jeans."

  Claire scanned the room and spotted one pair under the bed and another peeking out from a pile of stuffed animals.

  "No clean jeans? I wonder why." She checked the hamper in her daughter's closet. "There aren't any in the laundry… What a puzzle."

  "Mom-m-m-m." Andie put her hands on her slim hips, obviously not amused. "What am I supposed to wear?"

  "How about that pretty skirt your grandma sent you from Florida?"

  Claire pressed her lips together to stop from laughing at the look of disdain her daughter gave her. Andie hadn't worn a skirt to school in years. Giggles from the bathroom distracted Claire from the jeans dilemma, and she opened the door to find her six-year-old daughter, Jenna, piling a blob of mousse onto her baby-fine hair as middle sister, Daisy, watched.

  "I think you're supposed to comb it in or something," Daisy sugg
ested.

  "Oh, it's sticky." Jenna touched the dollop of mousse with one finger and it shivered like jelly.

  "You're supposed to put it on when your hair is wet," Claire said. "And not nearly so much." She pulled a tissue out of the box that rested on the back of the toilet and scooped up most of the mousse.

  "Now, brush your hair. The bus will be here in ten minutes."

  Every morning it seemed impossible that all three girls would make it to the street corner on time, yet somehow it happened. This morning was no exception. Claire dropped kisses on clean cheeks and passed out lunch bags from the front door.

  "Don't forget I'm playing at Alex's house after school," Daisy said.

  "Okay. I'll pick you up at five."

  Andie was the last out the door. She slipped past Claire wearing rumpled jeans with grass stains at the knees. A flash of yellow signaled the approaching bus. Claire had no time to object to Andie's attire—something her daughter had definitely counted on.

  "I think I'm going to have to introduce you to the washing machine after school," Claire threatened.

  "Gotta go, Mom. I'm late."

  Claire blew a kiss after her, that last phrase catching in her mind. I'm late.

  Now she could make her phone call at last.

  Claire's fingers trembled as she dialed the number, and the trembling only got worse when she was put on hold.

  "No, I can't wait," she muttered at the recorded music, which was probably intended to be soothing. "My life, my family's life, is at stake here."

  Whitney Houston didn't seem to care. She kept singing for another two stanzas, only to be cut off in the middle of a final, piercing high note.

  "We have your results, Ms. Ridgeway."

  Claire listened, said goodbye, hung up the receiver. For a second she just stood there, then she reached for the family calendar that hung on the wall by the phone.

  "Have the girls left for school?"

  Claire started. The calendar pages slipped from her hand.

  "Kirk. I thought you'd left already." Her husband was dressed for the office in his suit and tie, but a glance at the clock on the microwave confirmed he was about an hour late. Claire frowned. Kirk never slept in. In all their twelve years of marriage, she'd never seen him tardy for work.

  Automatically, she moved to the cupboard where they kept the mugs. "Would you like coffee and a muffin for the ride?"

  Kirk usually got his own breakfast and was out of the house by seven-thirty for his forty-five-minute commute to downtown Toronto. He left just about the time the rest of them were getting up.

  "No."

  His voice sounded dry. He cleared his throat and said again, "No, thanks."

  She'd found the aluminum mug he normally took with him in the car. "Not even coffee? I have some made."

  "That's okay."

  She put the mug back and eyed her husband. He was as immaculately dressed as always, freshly shaven, the curls in his dark blond hair neatly combed down, so why did he look different?

  "Are you sick?"

  He sighed and sat on a stool by the counter of the island they'd installed when they'd remodeled their kitchen three years ago.

  Something warned her this was serious, and Claire put a hand to her stomach, which was suddenly flipping like the pancakes she'd made for the girls that morning.

  "What's wrong?" Could he have lost his job? He'd seemed distracted lately; that was for sure. But he was the highest-grossing broker at the office…

  Or had he guessed? She took a deep breath, ready to defend herself.

  "There's something I've been meaning to talk to you about," Kirk said. "And I didn't want the girls around."

  "Oh?" He must have figured it out. All the usual signs were there. Not that he'd appeared to notice any of them. When was the last time they'd made love?. Weeks ago, she was sure.

  "I'm afraid I don't know where to start." Kirk was talking to her but not looking at her. And his voice was dry, as if he were nervous.

  Claire was suddenly quite certain that her husband hadn't guessed. That he was talking about something completely unrelated to her morning telephone call.

  "What's the problem, Kirk?"

  He still wouldn't look at her. "I know I haven't been around much these past few months…"

  No, he hadn't. Work—it was always work with Kirk. And frankly, she was getting sick of it. These days she felt as though she was raising their three daughters virtually on her own.

  "I guess that hasn't been fair to you, and I'm sorry about that," he continued. "But I'm sure you'll agree that we can't always predict what life has in store for us…"

  What in the world was he driving at? Afraid to interrupt, Claire leaned back against the counter, her anxiety escalating.

  "What I'm trying to say is that sometimes new situations arise. Circumstances can change…"

  Anxiety became dread. Claire gripped the counter behind her; whatever Kirk was trying to say, it had to be awful.

  Finally, their eyes connected, the contact quick and sharp, like the plunging of a dagger.

  "The thing is, Claire, I've fallen in love with someone else." the motor from the refrigerator suddenly kicked in—the only sound in the now-still room. Claire stared at the polished hardwood floor and followed the pattern of the wood grain as it circled round and round in ever-narrowing, concentric ovals.

  Air. It was gone; she couldn't breathe. Pain stabbed into her abdomen with shocking intensity.

  Someone else.

  Could she have heard right? Must have. Kirk's expression as he gazed at the kitchen counter was miserable. Her mind scurried to make sense of the bombshell.

  In love with someone else? It couldn't be. This was Kirk. Her Kirk. They'd tucked in their children together last night, then shared the same bed.

  A spasm of bitterness tightened her rib cage; her stomach cramped; bile rose in her throat.

  She was going to be sick. But she couldn't; she had to stand here and face this. How could it have happened? The answer was painfully obvious. Kirk always worked long hours, and lately they'd been even longer than usual. Had there been other signs she'd missed? They'd been making love less frequently. And saying / love you even less.

  There'd been a time, not that long ago, when they'd both spoken the endearment almost daily. Now she couldn't recall the last time she'd heard him say it to her, not the girls.

  "Who is she?" Claire was amazed at how calm she sounded. In movies—because that was where stuff like this usually happened—didn't the woman start ranting and raving at this point? But she had no strength for that. Standing, choking out a few words were hard enough.

  "Janice. From work."

  Claire knew the name. Knew the woman. "We had her to dinner last fall."

  "Yes." Kirk glanced at her, then returned his gaze to the counter.

  No. She couldn't bear this. It was too awful. It was too impossible. Janice was a brokerage assistant, almost ten years younger than Claire. A fine-boned, slender young woman, with large, light brown eyes and a wide, generous smile.

  "Didn't she just separate from her husband?" Claire remembered her own last-minute panic when Kirk had told her to set one less place on the table. There'd been eight of them invited from the office, until Janice's husband had canceled unexpectedly.

  "They're divorced now. She went through a rough period when they decided to split. I guess that's when it all got going between us. She needed someone to talk to, and I was handy. We began going out for lunch every now and then, and…"

  Claire turned her back and started unloading the dishwasher. She had to do something or she'd crumple to the floor or, worse yet, pound Kirk's chest.

  Kirk was easy to talk to. Or so she remembered from the days when he'd been around enough for her to have the opportunity.

  "So that's where you've been these past few months when you said you were working late." She let the salad plates drop with a clatter hi the cupboard.

  "Usually, I was workin
g." He paused before admitting, "Sometimes we went out to dinner."

  Dinner. Claire imagined candlelight and clean linens, wine and beautifully prepared entries. While she ate at home at the kitchen table, alone with their three children.

  With a violent tug, she opened the cutlery drawer and tossed in knives, forks, spoons, paying no regard to which little compartment they belonged in.

  "It's not what you think," Kirk said. "We haven't been sleeping together."

  She slammed the drawer. "How honorable."

  "God, Claire. I was hoping we could talk rationally about this—"

  "Rationally?" Claire gripped the handle of a stainless-steel knife, watching as the blood drained from her fingers. "We're not talking stock markets or investment portfolios here. You've just told me you're in love with someone else. What the hell do you expect from me?"

  Kirk stood, his hands clenched by his side. "I know it's a shock. All I'm saying is we need to talk."

  "It sounds like we needed to talk before you started those cozy little lunches with…Janice." To spit out the name took effort.

  "Maybe."

  She heard him pull in a deep breath.

  "What about the kids?"

  Claire straightened and glared at him. "Yes, what about the kids, Kirk? Did you ever mink of them when you were having your lovely romantic evenings?"

  God. Her husband was in love with another woman. This man she'd thought was her partner, her lover, her friend was really a stranger. For months he'd been lying, sneaking around behind her back…

  Claire's memory flashed to their wedding day, to her vibrant happiness. To Kirk's loving hand around her, steadying her as they stood in front of the church full of people. To her, that day had been perfect, despite the rain, the mix-up about flowers, her father's rambling speech. She and Kirk had been in love. They truly had.

  And now he'd fallen in love with someone else. Their marriage had ended after just twelve years. The ramifications crashed through her mind. She was going to be on her own, raising three children. Would she have to go back to work? Put the girls in after-school care? Then in seven months…

  Oh, God. What was she going to do?

  "I didn't plan it, Claire."

  As if that made any difference.