Claire smiled, “Good, that’s how it was intended.”
“Yes -- is the answer to your question. However, I’ve come to realize some people are not meant to be parents. There are better people to raise children.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Some people have made too many poor choices to subject a child to their views.”
Claire asked earnestly, “So you think a person’s past would influence their ability to parent?”
“Of course, how could it not? Some people do not deserve to influence a child. Take Mr. Rawlings for example. He is the way he is in part due to the environment in which he was raised.”
“What were his parents like?”
“You need to ask him that question. I believe he could have done much better.”
Claire pondered Catherine’s words and asked, “What about his grandparents?”
Catherine’s expression softened. “In that category, Mr. Rawlings did do much better.” Catherine pulled herself from her memories. “Ms.” – she smiled, “Claire, dinner will be ready soon. Are you better – from your dream? You need to get ready for the Simmons’ celebration.”
Truthfully, Claire could scarcely concentrate on Catherine’s words. She had too many thoughts going through her mind. Tony’s parents were not good examples. Would that make him a bad father? If Catherine believed a person’s past could make them undeserving of children, what about Tony’s past sins? Claire thought about the transgressions she knew to be true: his stalking obsession of her, removing Simon from her life early on, (although that turned out well for Simon’s career) and then Simon’s death. Somehow Claire still believed Tony was involved. Also her kidnapping, his treatment of her when she first arrived, his controlling domineering side, how he set her up for attempted murder, and the demise of John’s career; did it matter that he was now attempting redemption? What about the reason she was with him now? What about his recent blackmailing?
“Thank you, Catherine, for giving me some answers.”
Catherine nodded.
Claire continued her voice distant as her mind wrestled with these new thoughts, “I will get ready and be down for dinner.”
This evening was more formal than the last, but not as formal as the wedding. As she readied for the festivities, Claire’s nausea returned. Sitting on the edge of the large whirlpool tub wrapped in the pink cashmere robe, she fought the onset, as perspiration drenched her recently painted face. She heard the knock on the door of the suite, but she couldn’t form the words to bid entrance. Claire knew she should be ready and downstairs, but her body wouldn’t let her move.
His voice came from the other side of the bathroom door. Slowly she heard the turning of the knob. Whatever his expression and tone had been before, distress now prevailed. Tony fell to his knees before a shivering ashened Claire, “What is the matter with you? Are you sick? I will get you the best doctors...”
She heard his voice but their long ago lunch was no longer content to remain within her stomach. The problem was they’d eaten hours before. Claire ran to the lavatory enclosed within a small attached room and submitted mostly to dry heaves as her petite body convulsed. This wasn’t how she had wanted to tell him, if she were to tell him at all.
When her body finally calmed, Claire stood, attempted poise, and reentered the main part of the bathroom. She walked to the sink, rinsed her mouth, and turned toward Tony. She hadn’t noticed before how handsomely he was dressed, quite the contrast to her current condition. Her hair was still done, but her cosmetics needed repair. And although quite expensive, her robe was hardly celebration attire. Looking to his worried face, she finally found her voice, “Tony, I’m not sick.”
He gently reached for her shoulders. “What do you mean? You’re obviously ill. I’ll call Brent. They’ll understand.”
“No, I want to go. I will be better soon. It doesn’t usually hit this hard in the afternoon. I think I’m just stressed.”
“What doesn’t hit..?” For an extremely intelligent man, he was slow at fitting the pieces of this puzzle together. His eyes widened and he released her shoulders. Suddenly his concerned tone morphed, now more slow and harsh, “What doesn’t hit?”
“The nausea.” Claire wasn’t feeling the positive aura one would hope in such a conversation.
“Brought on by what?”
Hell, her make-up needed touch up anyway. She felt the tears pool and blinked, allowing them to descend her cheeks. “I’m seven weeks pregnant, almost eight.” Claire could see the wheels turning in his head. “Yes, Tony, we are going to have a baby.”
His expression momentarily appeared blank. There was no manipulation, no hidden agenda, only shock. Did Claire ever remember seeing Tony speechless? If she did, she couldn’t recall. Finally she saw his emotions swirl through his ever darkening eyes. He asked, “How did this happen?”
She looked at him incredulously, “That is a great question, since I have no recall of letting you back into my condominium, but nonetheless, the timing works perfectly.”
He slowly turned circles, pacing as he could within the confines of the bathroom, “What are we going to do about ...” he motioned toward her midsection, “...this?”
Indignantly, she stood straighter. “I don’t know what we are going to do. I’m going to have a baby, with or without you.”
“Yes -- is the answer to your question. However, I’ve come to realize some people are not meant to be parents. There are better people to raise children.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Some people have made too many poor choices to subject a child to their views.”
Claire asked earnestly, “So you think a person’s past would influence their ability to parent?”
“Of course, how could it not? Some people do not deserve to influence a child. Take Mr. Rawlings for example. He is the way he is in part due to the environment in which he was raised.”
“What were his parents like?”
“You need to ask him that question. I believe he could have done much better.”
Claire pondered Catherine’s words and asked, “What about his grandparents?”
Catherine’s expression softened. “In that category, Mr. Rawlings did do much better.” Catherine pulled herself from her memories. “Ms.” – she smiled, “Claire, dinner will be ready soon. Are you better – from your dream? You need to get ready for the Simmons’ celebration.”
Truthfully, Claire could scarcely concentrate on Catherine’s words. She had too many thoughts going through her mind. Tony’s parents were not good examples. Would that make him a bad father? If Catherine believed a person’s past could make them undeserving of children, what about Tony’s past sins? Claire thought about the transgressions she knew to be true: his stalking obsession of her, removing Simon from her life early on, (although that turned out well for Simon’s career) and then Simon’s death. Somehow Claire still believed Tony was involved. Also her kidnapping, his treatment of her when she first arrived, his controlling domineering side, how he set her up for attempted murder, and the demise of John’s career; did it matter that he was now attempting redemption? What about the reason she was with him now? What about his recent blackmailing?
“Thank you, Catherine, for giving me some answers.”
Catherine nodded.
Claire continued her voice distant as her mind wrestled with these new thoughts, “I will get ready and be down for dinner.”
This evening was more formal than the last, but not as formal as the wedding. As she readied for the festivities, Claire’s nausea returned. Sitting on the edge of the large whirlpool tub wrapped in the pink cashmere robe, she fought the onset, as perspiration drenched her recently painted face. She heard the knock on the door of the suite, but she couldn’t form the words to bid entrance. Claire knew she should be ready and downstairs, but her body wouldn’t let her move.
His voice came from the other side of the bathroom door. Slowly she heard the turning of the knob. Whatever his expression and tone had been before, distress now prevailed. Tony fell to his knees before a shivering ashened Claire, “What is the matter with you? Are you sick? I will get you the best doctors...”
She heard his voice but their long ago lunch was no longer content to remain within her stomach. The problem was they’d eaten hours before. Claire ran to the lavatory enclosed within a small attached room and submitted mostly to dry heaves as her petite body convulsed. This wasn’t how she had wanted to tell him, if she were to tell him at all.
When her body finally calmed, Claire stood, attempted poise, and reentered the main part of the bathroom. She walked to the sink, rinsed her mouth, and turned toward Tony. She hadn’t noticed before how handsomely he was dressed, quite the contrast to her current condition. Her hair was still done, but her cosmetics needed repair. And although quite expensive, her robe was hardly celebration attire. Looking to his worried face, she finally found her voice, “Tony, I’m not sick.”
He gently reached for her shoulders. “What do you mean? You’re obviously ill. I’ll call Brent. They’ll understand.”
“No, I want to go. I will be better soon. It doesn’t usually hit this hard in the afternoon. I think I’m just stressed.”
“What doesn’t hit..?” For an extremely intelligent man, he was slow at fitting the pieces of this puzzle together. His eyes widened and he released her shoulders. Suddenly his concerned tone morphed, now more slow and harsh, “What doesn’t hit?”
“The nausea.” Claire wasn’t feeling the positive aura one would hope in such a conversation.
“Brought on by what?”
Hell, her make-up needed touch up anyway. She felt the tears pool and blinked, allowing them to descend her cheeks. “I’m seven weeks pregnant, almost eight.” Claire could see the wheels turning in his head. “Yes, Tony, we are going to have a baby.”
His expression momentarily appeared blank. There was no manipulation, no hidden agenda, only shock. Did Claire ever remember seeing Tony speechless? If she did, she couldn’t recall. Finally she saw his emotions swirl through his ever darkening eyes. He asked, “How did this happen?”
She looked at him incredulously, “That is a great question, since I have no recall of letting you back into my condominium, but nonetheless, the timing works perfectly.”
He slowly turned circles, pacing as he could within the confines of the bathroom, “What are we going to do about ...” he motioned toward her midsection, “...this?”
Indignantly, she stood straighter. “I don’t know what we are going to do. I’m going to have a baby, with or without you.”
