Baby by Design

“We finished any and all business when he moved to Paris.”

“He may be moving back, but don’t tell him I told you. Your father said the Paris operation isn’t as productive as Glenn had hoped. But never mind that. Wouldn’t it be lovely, darling, for you and Stuart to reconcile after all these years?”

Lovely? Comical, really. Here she sat with her hand on her belly which may or may not contain a speck of Tony’s child, and the only man she ever loved wanted to call her while he was in town for two weeks.

Stu. Trish huffed a breath and returned to staring out the window, gazing at a pure white sand trap. Stu had been perfect for her. He was handsome, warm, and ambitious with an adorable propensity for making lists. In fact, she owed their breakup to the wisdom found in such a list, one that outlined the positives and negatives of a transcontinental relationship. Over a bottle of Cabernet, they listed the good and the bad, and when the bad hung below the good, they called the relationship off. Just like that. How did one argue in the face of sound rationale? She missed that kind of straightforward thinking.

“Stu’s back,” Trish mumbled.

“Yes, dear. That’s what I said.”

But what would Trish say to him? Why yes, Stu, I’d love to have dinner with you, maybe rekindle the flame. By the way, how do you feel about the possibility of raising another man’s child? I might be pregnant.

Trish coughed on stomach acid until she choked.

“Darling, drink something.”

Trish had the urge to drain her mother’s wine, but the maybe baby in her belly made her reach for water instead. After a long drink cooled her throat, she nodded. “Mother, there’s a slight problem with Stu calling me.”

Dolores wrinkled her brows and leaned in. “Do tell.”

Trish winced. “I’m sort of seeing Tony Corcarelli.”

Dolores's eyes widened and her lips curled. “You don’t say.”

Oh, Trish said it, whether she wanted to or not, because what choice did she have? As long as there was a chance she was carrying Tony’s baby, she had to act the part.

* * *

Tony was avoiding Angie. It was easier that way.

He saw the fire in her eyes at Trish’s house, and he knew her anger wouldn’t die. He had that effect on her, ever since he turned down their father’s offer to run the carpentry business, resulting in his father’s insistence that Angie buy out Tony’s half. Fifty-fifty split, the feeble man had said. And who would argue with a guy who was dying? Angie sure didn’t. She accepted the offer to take the company reins, and she bought out Tony two weeks after their father died. Tony was stupid enough to think that was the end of it.

He stared at Trish’s sketches sprawled on his kitchen counter until his vision blurred. It wasn’t so much that he hated carpentry. It was more that he hated being tied down to one thing. No sense of responsibility, Angie called it. He shrugged. Maybe she was right about that, too. After all, look what he’d done. He tried to get her best friend pregnant. Where was the responsibility in that?

His vision cleared, and the longer he looked at the drawings, the more his mind whirled with ideas for Trish’s table. Brainstorming was better than dwelling on his tanking relationship with his sister. It was also better than wondering if one time with Trish was enough. The way he’d dreamed about her last night, he knew the answer to that question. It wasn’t. He’d do it again in a heartbeat, because there was something about the way the woman made love, rougher than he expected, like all that prim and proper professionalism was desperate for a break. Of course, what she was really desperate for was a baby. Was one time enough for that?

In a blink, his thoughts became convoluted again.

With a growl, Tony shoved the drawings across the countertop and watched them float to the floor. What if she was pregnant? He thought all he wanted was bragging rights to a wish-list topping gift for Nonna, but he’d also get a kid. His kid. His and Trish’s kid. He looked around 400 square feet of apartment and couldn’t find room for a crib. Unless he sold the pinball machine, downsized the flat screen…or moved.

The money from the buyout sat there like a thorn in his heart, because if he spent too much, he worried he’d somehow make things worse with Angie. She already assumed he’d blown the majority on loose women and tattoos. Yeah, he’d had a few of both, but not enough to drain the account.

Still, the idea of moving, of altering his life that dramatically frustrated him, and he pounded a fist against the countertop. His willingness to take a risk got him into a hell of a mess this time.

When the intercom buzzed, Tony thought to ignore it, but then curiosity got the better of him. With Ma helping Nonna, and Nonna preferring to stay home, daytime visitors were far and few between. And if it was Angie, which Tony doubted, he needed to grow up and face her.

“Yo,” Tony called into the yellowed box beside the front door.

“Tone, it’s me. Lemme up,” Vin said.

Tony obliged, waiting with the door ajar for Vin to make the two-flight trek. When he saw the black of his head bob above the bannister, Tony smiled. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Invites.” Vin held out an envelope. “It’s kinda late in the game to mail them, so I’m hand delivering.”

“Invites to what?” Tony asked as he opened the envelope and removed the black cardstock.

“An Evening with the Italian Tenors. Nice, huh?” Vin gestured to the professionally printed invitation.

Tony stared at the silver lettering. “Cripes. A little fancy, don’t you think?”

“The guys sing in tuxedos. I booked Hillman Center. What did you expect? Construction paper?”

“An email.”

Vin rolled his eyes and flicked a finger at the invitation. “It’s Tony and guest, but bring somebody classy. This is a big deal.”

Tony took a turn at rolling his eyes. Vin thought everything he did was a big deal, which made it extra fun to mess with him. “Somebody classy, right, like Monica from Princess and the Pole. She wears sequins.”

“She also wears Lucite stilettos. No.”

“I was kidding.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not. This is a classy night for a classy lady. Nonna deserves it.”

Yes she did, and Vin didn’t have to worry, because Tony wasn’t bringing a date that would embarrass him. “I’ll be bringing Trish DeVign.”

Vin’s eyes bugged. “Playing with fire, aren’tcha, man?”

“I don’t want to hear it from you, Vin. Angie’s already said her peace, and believe me, that’s enough.”

“So why are you pushing it?”

Tony shrugged. “I like her.”

Which was true. He’d always liked Trish, but now there was even more to like about her, like the way she dug her fingernails into his neck, all needy and hard and… He shook off the wayward thoughts, and focused on the real reason he was doing this. Puttana wasn’t a name he wanted associated with Trish.

“I still think you’re digging your own grave.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“We shall see. Just do me a favor and don’t let the shit hit the fan during this concert. I want it drama free. Make sure Ange knows, too.”

Oh, that would go over well. Ange, Vin doesn’t want you causing trouble with me and Trish at the concert. He could almost hear her maniacal laughter.

Vin smacked Tony’s arm and then jogged down the steps. When Tony heard the main door clang, he knew there was no reason to be standing in the hall, but hell, he couldn’t move, couldn’t face what came next. He needed to ask Trish to Vin’s shindig, parade her around his family like she was his girl, in front of Angie and Vin, Nonna, and Ma.

What had he gotten himself into?

* * *

Trish stared at her figure in the full-length mirror, which was not a favorite pastime. When she looked too long, she saw all the things she didn’t like about her body, all the things that separated her from her flawless, ballerina-built adopted mother, things like freckles splattering her chest, a higher-than-normal waistline, broad