Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

T heir warm Arizona days settled into an oddly comfortable routine. Alexandra spent mornings in her favorite spot—the window seat overlooking their backyard garden—while Spreag read to her from his old favorites. His voice, rich with Highland burr, made even the driest texts sound like poetry. She only had to turn the pages.

"The Complete Guide to Arizona Native Plants?" She'd raised an eyebrow when he began to read from a book she'd left open on a shelf.

He settled into his usual spot beside her. "Did ye know the saguaro cactus can live to be two hundred years old?"

"That's nothing compared to you." She smiled, trying to keep her Cheerios from coming back up. "You're over three hundred."

"Cheeky thing." His eyes sparkled. "I dinnae look a day over two hundred fifty."

These moments were her favorite, when she could almost forget he wasn't real. The morning sickness helped distract her from reality, and when it got bad, it was Spreag who distracted her from the morning sickness. Sometimes the nausea lasted all day, and sometimes it waited until evening to strike. But Spreag never left her side, murmuring encouragement and singing slow Gaelic lullabies.

"What does that mean?" she asked one morning, head resting against cool porcelain.

"Just sweet nothings," he said. "The kind my mam used to say when we were peely wally."

"Tell me about her?"

He settled cross-legged on the floor beside her. "She was tiny, like a wee bird. But fierce as a Highland storm when riled. She'd have loved ye, Alexandra. And she'd have been over the moon about the babe."

The mention of their child brought fresh tears, but happy ones. "What should we call the baby? I mean, if it's a girl? If it's a boy, he'll be Spreag."

He nodded and turned away, moved by emotion. When he turned back, he was smiling. "And if it's a lass?"

"I've been thinking about it. I want to name her Huntly."

"Huntly?" He was surprised but obviously pleased. "A charming name to be sure." Then he bit his lip and turned away again. She wondered why.

"What's going on?" Then it dawned on her. " You know what it is!"

He closed his eyes. "Ye'll want to be surprised, sure."

"What are you talking about? Surprise me now! What does it matter when?"

He tilted his head. "I'll think on it."

The doorbell rang.

"Speakin' of surprises, that'll be yer anonymous well-wisher." He pointed his thumb at the hallway. "Shall I try to catch them in the act?"

She waved him off. "No need. They'll leave whatever it is on the porch and go, like they always do."

Sure enough, when she felt steady enough to check, she found a fresh loaf of bread wrapped in a dishtowel. It was still warm and the smell made her stomach growl.

"No note." Spreag peered over her shoulder. "They should leave a note so ye dinnae suspect an enemy might be tryin' to poison ye."

She snorted. "I don't have enemies. Besides, we know who it is."

"Do we now?"

"Has to be the neighbor." She glanced at the Tenbury's house, then carried the bread inside. "The professors would have left cards. They're too competitive not to take credit."

"Ye mean fire-headed Fraser?" There was something in his tone she couldn't quite read. "The sheep farmer?"

"Don't start."

"Start what?" He tried to look innocent and failed. "He's a kind man, that's all. And he can obviously cook."

She shot him a look that made him swallow whatever he might have said next.

Each day that passed brought another mysterious delivery, though the Scottish farmer wasn't trying to keep his identity a secret. Once he even left a basket of tangerines--at the same time a lot of them disappeared from the tree in Mr. Tenbury's front yard. The best by far was the full Scottish breakfast that appeared on a plastic tray the same morning that the smell of bacon practically poured out the windows of the rental.

"He's given himself away now." Spreag watched her nibble. "Who else would ken to make ye tattie scones?"

"Just anyone who knew you." She licked butter from her fingers. "But we already know it's him . You've probably been spying on him this whole time."

"Would I do that?"

"In a heartbeat."

"Poor choice of phrase, that."

She rolled her eyes and went to the knife drawer, pulled out a blade, and held it up like a threat. "I don't want to hear his name out of your mouth, got it?"

He bit his lips and backed away, hands in the air, as if she could do him any harm.

But she knew exactly what he was doing. He was trying to play matchmaker, find her a new husband--so he could leave her. She just had to hold out another couple of weeks and Callum Fraser would be headed back to Scotland for Christmas, and there wouldn't be anyone left to match her with.

Her phone rang. Dr. Gary Carlton popped up on her screen, but the head of Philosophy was the last person she wanted to have a conversation with. He'd called every day for the past week, so word was out she was back. That meant some of the little gifts left on her doorstep could have been from someone other than the guy winning his own British Baking Show next door.

"Ye can't avoid them forever," Spreag said gently one evening as she deleted another voicemail. "They mean well. And you still need friends."

"I know." She curled deeper into the couch and changed the channel to his favorite--the History Channel. "I just can't handle their pity right now. Or their questions."

He ignored the ruse to distract him. "Tell them about the babe. They'll be so excited they'll forget to pity ye."

"Maybe. Or they'll just pity me more. The poor pregnant widow."

"Alexandra." He turned to face her fully. "Ye are many things, my love, but pitiful isnae one of them."

The next morning, she woke to find another basket on the porch—this one filled with crystallized ginger and peppermint tea. Perfect for morning sickness.

"I think you're influencing him somehow," she accused Spreag over tea.

"Who?"

"Callum. These gifts are too perfect. How else would he know exactly what I need?"

Spreag's laughter filled the kitchen. "Ye think I'm whispering in his ear while he sleeps? How could he hear me?"

She couldn't help but laugh too.

"More like it has somethin' to do with ye leavin' the bathroom windae open, and he likely wakes each mornin' to the sound of yer retchin'."

"Oh. Dang."

"Besides," he added with a wink, "if I could influence the living, I'd have that architecture professor's car towed from your spot."

The mention of work sobered her. She couldn't put it off much longer. With a sigh, she picked up her phone and dialed Gary. Whatever she told him would be passed around so one phone call should do nicely.

"Alexandra! Thank God. We've been so worried."

"I'm fine, really. Just..." She took a deep breath. "Morning sickness has been rough."

Silence. Then, "Morning... Oh! Oh my dear! Are you...?"

"Yes. About eight weeks is all." She managed a small smile at the joy in her colleague's voice. "It's Spreag's, of course."

"That's wonderful news!" Papers rustled in the background. "No wonder you've been keeping to yourself. How are you feeling? Do you need anything? Should I bring over some soup?"

"No. Actually, I have a neighbor cooking for me. I really don't need a thing...except time. If you could just let the others know."

"Of course, dear. Whatever you need."

After hanging up, Alexandra felt lighter somehow.

It looked like she wasn’t the only one.

"A fine first step, love."