Mixed Blessings. Cathy Marie Hake

were dark brown pools of concern. “Ms. Cadant,” he said quietly, “that was a bad scare, but it’s over. You and the boy are safe.”

      She shook her head. Safe? Oh, no. Peter Hallock simply didn’t know the truth—and her truth jeopardized all they both held dear. With a stilted gait, Marie accompanied him down a herringbone brick path to a bench that couldn’t be seen from the road. It rested in the shelter of a long, tall hedge and faced a small, circular patch of bright, multicolored spring flowers.

      “See? Nice and quiet.” Peter’s voice took on a coaxing tone. “We can talk here.”

      A verdant lawn dotted with croquet wickets stretched almost fifty yards between that area and the house. Marie looked back over her shoulder and felt a small flash of relief that the cops hadn’t left. Peter Hallock led her over to a wrought-iron bench. She sank onto it and automatically turned to the side, away from Peter, in a vain effort to keep little Ricky as her very own for even a few more precious seconds.

      Peter sat down right beside her and stayed silent—as if he expected her to explain everything. Though she tried to gather her wits, Marie knew no matter how much she’d prayed, she wasn’t ready for this moment. Firmly, yet gently, Peter managed to wrap an arm about her shoulders and turn her around. He tenderly ran his long fingers through Ricky’s hair. “Hey, tiger.”

      “Mommy!”

      “He’s a mama’s boy?”

      Marie nodded. She gratefully accepted the snowy handkerchief Peter produced from the inside chest pocket of his stylish, charcoal suit coat and still kept hold of Ricky. She mopped her boy’s sweet little cheeks, then nestled the child’s face in the crook of her neck and rested her cheek on his crown. Giving Peter a stricken look, she took several choppy breaths. I can’t do this. I can’t tell him. She’d come this far, but her courage failed her. “We won’t ever bother you again.”

      The way he stared at her for many long seconds and carefully scanned each of her features heightened her anxiety. She felt a small flash of relief that she’d tucked Ricky in so closely. Mr. Hallock wouldn’t be able to see his features well at all. Maybe she could still slip away from him.

      Seconds ticked by. Each heartbeat hurt more than the last. The man beside her had razor-cut mahogany hair that glinted in the sun, just like Ricky’s did. His eyes were the color of dark chocolate—just like Ricky’s. His look of intense concentration, the shape of his nose…just like Ricky’s. Though everything within her railed against it, Marie couldn’t deny the truth. This is Ricky’s fath—

      He shattered the fragile stillness. “How old is he, Marie?”

      She nervously licked her lips. In a thin voice, she offered, “Three.” She patted her son’s back and murmured his name over and over again in a mournful chant as his tears tapered off into the hiccups.

      “So you named him Ricky. What’s his birth date?”

      She didn’t want to tell him. Now that the time arrived, it was too hard, too miserable. Marie gnawed on her trembling lower lip. God, he’s not going to let me slip away. I’m going to have to go through with it. Please give me strength….

      He jostled her a little and persisted, “Marie, when’s Ricky’s birthday? Tell me.”

      “April Fool’s Day.”

      Peter closed his eyes for a second, then opened them again. In a slowly exhaled breath, he asked for confirmation, “Did I hear you tell the cop he was born at Melway General?”

      Marie nodded. She held her little boy and began rocking to and fro, as much to comfort herself as to soothe him. She desperately needed comforting. Steeling herself with a deep breath, Marie forged into the dark waves of doubt. “I started to have seizures during the labor, so they did an emergency cesarean. I didn’t get to hold him for the first three days. My grandmother had red hair, so I didn’t think anything was wrong.” She studied Peter’s mahogany hair and fell silent.

      “What happened?”

      Still remembering the hazy days surrounding the birth, she murmured a rambling, “I had severe toxemia…sedated me…said I had a seizure, but I don’t recall it…woke up in the intensive care unit…”

      He nodded sagely as he absorbed her explanation, then asked, “How did you decide Ricky isn’t yours?”

      Her arms spasmed around her son. “He is mine! Ricky is mine! I’ve loved him and—”

      Peter gently pressed two fingers to her lips to quiet her and interrupted, “I meant biologically unrelated, Marie.” He gave her an apologetic smile, then broke contact.

      She tried to settle down. “The last week has been horrible. I’m sorry I’m so snappish.”

      “It’s understandable. Tell me what happened last week.”

      “The day-care center where I work had medical students come do physicals on the children. They did lab work and head-to-toe checkups. When I got Ricky’s results, I thought they’d made a mistake. A kid can’t have AB-negative blood when both parents have O positive.”

      “I’m AB negative,” he whispered hoarsely.

      She closed her eyes, as if it would make the problem disappear. Trying to ignore Peter’s revelation, she whispered, “I made them test Ricky again. I had them test me, too. When it came back conclusively that he couldn’t…”

      He seemed to know she wouldn’t finish the sentence. Those words were too painful to say aloud. Swirling his big hand on Ricky’s back, he asked, “How did you find me?”

      “I know I’ve been a pest, but I couldn’t help it. The hospital—I didn’t go to them because I don’t trust them. It seemed wrong, letting them control this when they’d already messed it up so badly.”

      “So you did all of the legwork, yourself? You didn’t hire anyone to help you?”

      “I went to the county registrar’s office and checked in the Hall of Records. It’s a small community hospital, so there weren’t all that many birth records to wade through. Only four boys were born during that time. One was a stillbirth, so that left three, and I knew the boy who weighed in at over ten pounds couldn’t have been switched with a seven-pounder, so that left me with you.”

      “You don’t have any real proof yet.” He sounded like she had a few short days ago—anxious to deny the truth. Desperate.

      “I wouldn’t have come if I wasn’t sure, Mr. Hallock. The doctor guaranteed me Ricky isn’t—that biologically, he can’t be…” She sucked in a deep breath. “The only time I’ve been separated from him was during the hospital stay. There’s no other possibility.”

      “What does your husband say about all of this?”

      She averted her face as a wave of grief washed over her. Her heart contracted as she watched the flowers in the patch flutter in the breeze, just as she’d watched the ones in the bouquets flutter at Jack’s graveside. Their scent suddenly grew just as cloying, too.

      “You’re wearing a wedding ring,” he prompted tentatively.

      “Jack was a police officer. He got shot and killed in the line of duty almost two years ago.” She heard the sharply indrawn breath Peter took and didn’t dare look at him for fear she’d start weeping all over again.

      “I’m so sorry, Marie. I’m sorry they pulled guns just now, too. That must’ve brought up painful memories.” He paused, and she slowly nodded confirmation. Birdsong filled the silence—so out of place in the midst of a catastrophe. “Do you have any other children?”

      Turning back to face him, Marie steeled herself with a gulp of air. “The only other child I have is in your house.”

      An agonized roar tore from his chest as he bolted to his feet and paced away a few steps. He turned back again. His mouth opened and closed several times, as if he were