you call him?’ she repeated, albeit with deference.
Eaton didn’t reply. Rather, he sat back in his tall leather chair and looked at the books that surrounded him, floor to ceiling, shelf upon shelf. Like his neighbors, these books were his friends. The books he had authored himself sat together on a side shelf, clearly visible, though in no way singled out. While Eaton was proud of each one, they wouldn’t have existed without those that had come before.
One generation led to the next. Wasn’t that the theme of One Man’s Line? Early reviews were calling it ‘eminently readable,’ ‘engrossing,’ ‘an American saga,’ and while Eaton wouldn’t have used the word ‘saga’ – too commercial – he agreed with the gist. Ancestral charts appeared at various points in the book, growing more elaborate with the years. They were impressive and exact.
‘Eaton?’
‘No. I haven’t called.’
‘Don’t you think you should? He’s your son. Your approval means the world to him.’
‘If that were true,’ Eaton remarked, ‘he wouldn’t have married the woman he did.’
‘But did you see how pale and tired he looked? Yes, I know he was up all night, but he didn’t plan for this to happen. They had no indication that her father was African American, and maybe he isn’t. Maybe it came through the grandmother’s side. Call him, Eaton.’
‘I’ll see,’ Eaton said dismissively.
But she was dogged, stronger now. ‘I know what that means, it means you won’t, but this is about a child, Eaton. She’s a living, breathing human being, and she has at least some of our genes.’
‘Does she?’
‘Yes, she does.’
‘You’re too soft.’
‘Maybe, but I love my son. I don’t wish him hurt, not by her and not by you.’
‘Dorothy, he basically told me to jump off a cliff.’
‘He did not.’
‘He did. It was right there in his eyes. You weren’t close enough. You couldn’t see.’
‘He was upset. Goodness, if we were upset seeing that child, after all the months looking forward to it and now fearing that something’s amiss and not knowing what to think, imagine what he’s feeling.’
‘What about us? We were looking forward to this baby. Every single one of our friends knew how much. So. Tell me who called.’
Dorothy brightened. ‘Alfred called. And Sylvia. And Porter and Dusty – they were on two extensions, talking at the same time, so I could hardly hear.
‘How much do they know?’
Her brightness faded. ‘Only that it’s a girl. And Bradley. Bradley called.’
Eaton’s head buzzed. ‘And how did Brad know? Robert.’ He let out a breath. ‘Does that boy know the meaning of discretion?’
‘Oh, Eaton,’ Dorothy said with resignation. ‘If not from Robert, Brad would have heard it from someone else. This won’t remain a secret for long.’
Eaton knew that and was annoyed. ‘What did Hugh expect marrying her? I said this back then, and I say it again now – she may well have married him for his money.’
‘Oh, I don’t think—’
‘Of course you don’t. You don’t want to admit Hugh made a mistake and, besides, she knit you the afghan you wanted, which you interpret as a sign of affection, though it may not be at all. The thing about marrying someone so different is that you never know what drives them.’
‘If it’s only about money, why does she work? She could be lunching with friends, or spending the day at the spa, for God’s sake. If it’s only about money, why does she make the effort she does?’
Eaton snorted. ‘Effort? Please. What she does isn’t work. She drives from house to house visiting people who are either lazy or lack taste, and then she trots off to the Design Center, likely as an excuse to buy things for her own house. She certainly doesn’t work like Hugh does.’
‘But she earns money. And she isn’t the only wife who works. Look at Rebecca Boyd. Look at Amanda Parker.’
‘Look at Andrew Smith’s daughter and the Harding girls,’ Eaton countered. ‘They don’t work. Dana could be doing things to help Hugh in his career. She could be doing charity work. She could make important contacts for him through that.’
‘But he represents criminals.’
Eaton sighed. ‘No, Dorothy,’ he explained with the patience of one accustomed to dealing with ill-informed students, ‘he represents people who are accused of being criminals. Jack Hoffmeister is the president of a bank. He was accused of fraud by one of his vice-presidents, after he fired the man for incompetence, but the accusation was entirely false, as Hugh proved. He earned a good fee and several referrals from that one, and whose contact was Jack? Yours. You met him through the Friends Committee at the hospital. Hugh’s wife should be involved with groups like that. I’ve told him that dozens of times, but he doesn’t seem to hear.’
‘What has happened now is different. You need to talk with him.’
But Eaton wasn’t groveling. ‘If he wants me to talk to him, an apology is in order. I have my pride.’
‘I know that, dear. It explains his.’
Eaton was unsettled. ‘Are you taking his side?’
‘There are no sides. This is our son.’
He pointed a finger at her. ‘You’ll stand behind me in this, Dorothy. You’ll stand behind me in this.’
Hugh headed home to shower and change, but his cell phone kept ringing as he drove, friends calling to congratulate him, promising to be over soon to visit, and if it wasn’t the phone, it was his BlackBerry.
Can’t wait to see the baby!
Looking forward to seeing the baby.
When can we see the baby?
Everyone wanted to see her, and that should have been a tribute to Dana and him, proof that their friends cared. Hugh should have been ecstatic.
He didn’t know why he wasn’t – why there was a rock in his gut when he thought about the baby. He kept hearing Dana’s disappointment in his reaction, and he didn’t know what to do. Their love had come so easily. They had married within eight months of first meeting, and had never looked back. And he wasn’t doing it now. It sounded, though, like she was.
Is there a racial limit to your love?
There was not, and he resented her asking. He had no prejudice. She had only to look at his work for proof of that.
Is there a racial limit to your love?
The question came again, louder now and sounding like a dare. Had he been playing devil’s advocate, he might have said she was creating a diversion or, worse, a cover-up.
Hugh didn’t want to believe that. He didn’t believe she had been unfaithful. She loved him too much to cause him that kind of pain – and it would be excruciatingly painful, if it were true.
But there was the baby, with her beautiful brown skin, and no explanation for its source. Didn’t he have a right to ask questions? Didn’t it make perfectly good sense to choose one of a dozen other birth announcements that didn’t have a picture on the front?
He