You're My Baby. Laura Abbot

      He smiled ruefully. “So maybe a baby’ll help, huh?”

      She looked thoughtful. “Maybe,” she said quietly, removing her hand from his leg.

      Why had he gone and said a fool thing like that? As if he had any claim to the baby beyond next September. He couldn’t start thinking of the child as his in any way except name.

      “Here we are,” he said, pulling to a stop in front of the rambling brick home. On the porch was a white deacon’s bench illuminated by an antique lamppost. He turned off the ignition and sought her eyes, which reflected the same uncertainty he was feeling.

      Neither of them moved. Finally she drew a deep breath and jabbed him on the shoulder. “Show time!”

      “Is this where I say, ‘Break a leg’?”

      “This is where,” she answered just before he left the car to come around and escort her up the walkway.

      After greeting them, Jim ushered them into the inviting family room, displaying many of the primitive American pieces he and Connie collected. When Jim had first filled the interim headmaster position, before accepting the job permanently, the faculty had been stunned to find out he and Connie had known each other in their distant past. It hadn’t taken long for them to renew their friendship, culminating in a marriage much approved by Connie’s mother, daughter and the entire Keystone community.

      Jim settled in a wing chair, and Grant and Pam sat together on the sofa. “I gather there’s some urgency to the matter you want to discuss,” Jim began.

      Grant found his voice—and Pam’s hand. “There is.”

      Pam looked around. “Connie needs to hear this, too.”

      “I’ll get her.” Jim stepped down the hall and summoned Connie, who took a seat in the antique rocker by the hearth.

      “Pam, Grant? You’re sure this isn’t confidential?” she asked uncertainly.

      “We’re sure. In fact, we imagine everyone at school will know in a matter of days,” Pam said.

      “Well, don’t keep us in suspense.” Connie eyed Pam curiously, as if unsure whether concern or elation was the expected response.

      Grant seized the initiative. “Although this may come as a shock, yesterday, happily, Pam and I were married.”

      Connie’s eyes widened in bafflement. “Wait. I’m having trouble taking this in.”

      “It’s true.” Pam cast Grant an adoring look—a convincing, adoring look.

      Jim glanced from one to the other. “Married?”

      Connie studied Pam as if searching for a key to the mystery, before facing her husband. “That’s what they said.”

      “It’s understandable,” Grant managed, “that our news is a surprise.”

      “You can say that again, but surprise or not,” Connie said over her shoulder as she moved toward the kitchen, “this definitely calls for champagne. And then—” she paused for emphasis “—we want to hear the whole story.”

      She returned bearing a tray of filled champagne flutes, which she distributed, then indicated they should all stand up. With a bemused smile, she raised her glass. “To our friends Pam and Grant. May their love grow with each day they spend together and may their home be filled with joy and peace.”

      “Hear, hear,” Jim said, as the four touched their glasses and drank.