For the Babies' Sakes (Expecting) (Harlequin Presents, No. 2280) by Sara Wood Page A

‘Eventually.’
    â€˜I see,’ he bit.
    She sensed his tension. Of course he wouldn’t like that. Men were very proprietorial about their ex-wives—she knew that from the heart-to-hearts she’d had in the office with women. And men. Also, she reasoned, he’d hate the idea of their child having a step-father who’d have more influence than him.
    â€˜I know it’s an awful situation,’ she said, her voice softening with sympathy. ‘But we can’t pretend our lives will be the same.’
    With all her heart she wished he hadn’t taken that irrevocable step and responded to Celine’s advances. If only he’d thought of the consequences.
    â€˜I’m aware of that. Give me a minute. I’m thinking,’ he muttered, waving an impatient hand at her for silence.
    She shrugged and left him to it. The very fact that they maintained a distance between them, instead of holding hands or wrapping friendly arms around one another, made her feel extraordinarily sad.
    She was thirty, Dan four years older. For the past sixteen years they’d been friends, lovers, companions and soul mates. Now it was as if those years had never been.It seemed particularly cruel that a twist of fate had split them apart at such a special moment in their lives.
    But she must accept what had happened and make something of her life. She wasn’t the first woman in this situation and wouldn’t be the last.
    The responsibility of a child was huge, but she’d shoulder it. Decisively she drew herself more upright and, because Dan made no attempt to talk, she began to take notice of her surroundings.
    The thatched cottages which lined the quiet lane had been built from flint some two hundred or so years ago, and their small gardens were—like Dr Taylor’s—a riot of colour and sound as bees hummed busily in the bright summer flowers, frantic to gather pollen before the rain came again.
    Delicious scents filled the air, swallows stretched their scimitar wings in an increasingly blue sky and a warm peace seemed to enfold the entire community.
    â€˜Morning!’
    Surprised, Helen and Dan hastily found smiles for the complete stranger who’d greeted them, and they offered in return a quick ‘hello’.
    They were in the heart of the village. Beyond the duck pond on the traditional village green, a short, squat Saxon church sat on a small rise and Helen felt its ancient serenity reach out to her, offering peace, sanctuary and permanence.
    For centuries, through war and plague, local and national disasters, the church had been there, solid and reassuring. It must have witnessed thousands of christenings, weddings and funerals. Comforted by the small church’s survival, she decided she would make it her church, and that her baby would be christened there. She would survive this, somehow.
    â€˜There’s a bench over there,’ Dan said quietly. ‘Let’s sit down and talk.’
    â€œâ€˜In memory of Dot Taylor,’” she said, reading from the small plate attached to the back of the bench. “‘So that others may enjoy the same pleasure she had in feeding the ducks and watching a small and perfect world go by.’” She gave a faint smile. Would that be the doctor’s mother? ‘That’s lovely, Dan,’ she said softly.
    But he seemed unmoved by the sentiments. Tight-jawed, he was checking the seat, brushing it with his hand before they sat down. And even the comic arrival of a gang of noisy mallard ducks didn’t crack the scowl on his face.
    Helen clung to the little glimpse of a happier future that she’d stumbled upon. There would be a contentment of sorts. She and her baby would walk here, buy odd items at the little shop-cum-post-office, feed the ducks, say hello to strangers.
    It occurred to her that all this time she’d been hurtling blindly off to work, she hadn’t appreciated the balm to her