“I took a CPR course after my dad’s heart attack.”
I’d taken a CPR course for babysitters back when Lily was born, but I hadn’t instantaneously gone into rescue mode like Zack. I’d stood there like a lump of lard, trying to comprehend what wasgoing on, while Zack had quickly checked her pulse and respiration. “How many heart attacks did your father have?”
“One.”
“Did he make it?”
I notice his hands clench the steering wheel. They’re nice hands, large and strong and slightly tanned. “No.”
The air leaves my chest in a sudden exhale. Zack pulls away from the curb, turns into a neighbor’s driveway, backs up, and then steers his car directly behind the ambulance. As the ambulance moves away from the curb, Zack follows it.
“Dad might have survived,” Zack says, “if someone with him had known how to do CPR.”
“Were you there?”
“No. I was in New Orleans, and he was on a golf course in Ohio. But I wanted to learn what to do so I wouldn’t ever be a helpless bystander like his golf buddy. Not knowing how to save my dad’s life pretty much ruined the rest of his.” He puts on his flashers and speeds up to close the distance behind the ambulance.
“How long ago did this happen?”
“Four years this June.”
“I’m sorry.”
He nods, wordlessly accepting my condolences.
I watch him turn the black leather steering wheel to follow the ambulance around a corner. The car lurches to the right, and my pounding heart lurches with it.
I suddenly notice something that I normally would have looked for right away, if I hadn’t been thrown for such a loop when Zack first showed up at the door.
On the fourth finger of his left hand gleams a simple gold band.
Lily’s father—who is also the father of the six-week-old embryo growing in my womb—is married.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Quinn
“FAMILY OF MARGARETMoore,” calls a middle-aged man in blue scrubs and a surgical cap.
I put down my phone and jump to my feet, and Zack rises, too. We’ve been in the hospital’s surgery waiting room for the last hour and a half, but it feels like twice as long.
I’ve spent most of that time avoiding him. I can barely mentally grasp the fact that he’s Lily’s bio dad, much less the father of my unborn baby. It just feels like too much, trying to deal with his unexpected appearance and Miss Margaret’s health crisis all at the same time. Instead of trying to make conversation, I’ve paced the hallway and talked on the phone.
I called Alicia’s mother, explained Margaret’s emergency, and made arrangements for her to keep Lily until I can get free. I called the moving company and canceled the pack-up and moving appointment. I called Margaret’s minister. I tried to call Annie and Sarah from my single parents group, but ended up leaving voice mails when neither picked up. I called the Realtor who was supposed to come by the house to sign a listing agreement with Margaret. Last of all, I called my assistant, Terri. I told her about Margaret, and then found myself spilling the whole story about Zack—including the fact that I’m pregnant with his child.
Terri is good in a crisis. After Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans, she and her husband rescued people from attics and rooftops in their recreational motorboat. In one case, she’d coaxed an elderly woman into coming out her attic window and climbing into the boat. Hopefully she can talk me down, too.
“I can’t even allow myself to really think about what his presence might mean to my life right now,” I tell her.
“You’ll figure all that out later,” she says. “Right now you’re doing what needs to be done.”
I draw in a deep breath. Terri’s advice is reassuringly similar to what I read inReparentingYour Inner Childjust that morning:When you’re overwhelmed, just do the next thing that must be done. I take it as a sign I’m on the right track.
“What can I do to help?” Terri asks.
“You liked that last applicant for the part-time manager position, didn’t you? I think her name is April.”
“Yes,” Terri says. “She seems perfect.”
