Chapter 11 Amelia
AMELIA
I feel guilty whenever I look at Orla. The woman who was so vital, so full of energy when I first arrived, appears to be fading away in front of my eyes since her grandson’s passing. While everything in my life is growing sunnier by the day.
As much as I care about Declan, it feels wrong that we should find happiness when she can’t find a way out of her grief.
There’s also the little matter of me hooking up with Ruairi in New York that I can’t keep sweeping to the back of my mind forever.
Some nights, I wake up in Declan’s bed in a blind panic, panting and sweating because I can feel the lie choking me in my sleep.
But in daylight, when Declan is being loving and attentive, and I’m reminded of what he has already lost…
I know that I’ll hate myself if I bring it all crashing down around him.
I don’t know what to do.
I’ve never lived with a secret before. I don’t know how serial liars and cheaters can sleep at night. Do they simply block it out of their minds, or do they eventually become so blasé about their lies that they start to believe them?
The first time that Declan holds me in his arms and says, “I love you, Amelia,” the words bubble up inside my chest, trying to beat their way out of me.
I see nothing but honesty in his blue-gray eyes.
Honesty, adoration, and the kind of love that audiences cry over in the movies.
How can I destroy that for the sake of unburdening my own guilt?
Because that’s all I would be doing. I’d be off-loading my secret so that I can sleep easier at night, knowing that no good will come from it.
So, I bottle it up inside and tell no one.
Not even Carol.
Especially not Carol.
My friend would never let me forget that sleeping with the father of a guy I shared a night of bed-shaking passion with is never going to work. For so many reasons.
Instead, I avoid speaking to her and my mom. And the more I dodge their calls, the bigger the secret grows inside my chest, and the harder it becomes to even think about telling anyone. It’s like a carousel ride that never ends, and I keep getting dizzier while the operator looks the other way.
But when Declan flies to the States to attend a business meeting with Eoghan, I decide that I can do something about Orla.
I find her in a lawn chair on the decking, with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders to keep her warm while she stares out at the grounds.
“Orla?” I perch on the edge of the seat next to her. “I’d like your help with something please.”
She drags her eyes away from the weak, watery sky and the leaf-strewn gardens to peer at me through her spectacles. “What is it, Amelia?”
She has stopped calling me child, I’ve noticed. I’d put it down to me settling into the job and getting to know her better. But the way she looks at me now, as if she’d forgotten I was still there, makes me question if she has seen me with Declan and knows how we feel about each other.
“I don’t know where to start with looking into my heritage, and I thought you might be able to point me in the right direction.”
Her expression doesn’t falter. “Is this not something that you can do online?”
I’m prepared for this question. “It is, but the more information I have to begin with, the easier it will be.”
A shudder seems to pass through her. I wish that she would come inside the house, but I don’t want her to think that I’m mollycoddling her either. It’s a difficult line to walk between pity and caring.
“And your mother won’t help you?”
I shrug. “I think she would prefer it if I didn’t dig too deep.”
“I’m sure she has her reasons.” She pauses, weighing up her options, then, “I don’t know how much help I’ll be, but I’ll try.”
I smile. It’s a start.
We spend the next couple of hours at the kitchen table together, poring over websites on my tablet. A casserole is cooking in the Aga, and the kitchen is warm and cozy, so warm that I find my eyes growing heavy.
When Orla says, “I think we’ve narrowed it down to the final couple of Morran families,” I jolt awake.
Blinking back sleep, I mumble, “I’m so sorry, I don’t feel so good.”
Orla places a cool hand on my forehead. “You’re hot. Do you have a fever?”
“No, I’m fine.” But inexplicably, tears spill from my eyes, and when I try to reach for the box of tissues, I’m light-headed. “Tired…” Even to my own ears, I sound drunk.
“I’m going to call the doctor.” Orla is already on her feet, making me feel soft as pillows when I see how quickly she moves.
“No, please don’t. I don’t want to cause you any trouble. I might just go and lie down for a little while.”
I make it onto my feet, but the room sways out from under me, and the world goes black.
When I open my eyes, I’m on the couch in the conservatory, a blanket thrown over me, and a man I’ve never met before is kneeling on the floor beside me.
“My name is Dr. Flynn. How are you feeling, Amelia?” He has kind eyes, freckles across his forehead, and silver hair sprouting from his nostrils. His accent is thicker than Declan’s, and loneliness washes through me.
I never thought I would miss him this much, after such a short space of time, but the house feels empty without him. My chest feels even emptier, and I’ve been sleeping in the guest room, with the comforter pulled over my head to keep me warm.
“Better.” It’s a lie. My mouth feels dry, my head is pounding, and the room is still swimming around me. “What happened? Did I pass out?”
“Yes, Orla called me because she was worried about you.” He smiles. “She was right to be concerned.”
I peer around the conservatory, but there’s no sign of Orla. “Did she move me?”
I don’t want to think about her struggling to lift my weight. All the energy and vitality she had when I arrived has been used up by grief. She could’ve hurt herself.
“Don’t worry, she had some help. How long have you been feeling nauseous, Amelia?”
Shit. How does he know about that?
“A few weeks. It’s nothing.”
He nods sagely, and I wonder if it’s a kind of universal language that they teach in medical school. “When was your last period?”
Wow. It’s an intrusive question, and my immediate reaction is to stand up and get as far away from this stranger as possible. But my legs are shaking, and my brain cells are still trying to figure out which way is up, and I’m not getting very far unaided.
“I-I can’t remember.”
“Are they regular?”
“Yes.”
He folds his hands on his lap, and holds my gaze, his expression neutral. “Do you think that you might be pregnant?”
The instant he says the word out loud I know that it’s true. I’ve avoided thinking about it because if I don’t acknowledge it, I can convince myself that the problem will go away. The problem being—who is the father?
The condom split when I had sex with Ruairi.
Declan hasn’t used protection because I never asked him to. I’m on birth control.
Only, with the excitement of my trip to Ireland, it was easy to forget that I had mild food poisoning a couple days before I met Ruairi. It must’ve interfered with the pills. And now… I’m pregnant with a baby that could potentially have been conceived by either of them.
He must sense my internal battle, because he asks gently, “Have you experienced any other symptoms?”
“My breasts have been a little tender and swollen.”
What the fuck am I going to do?
Declan won’t want to start over with a baby, especially when he finds out that it might be his son’s child.
Because how can I go through with this, with the secret that keeps on growing legs?
Eventually, I’ll be a gibbering mess of lies and guilt.
And when the baby is born, I’ll spend the rest of my life praying that no one notices my ultimate deception.
“Do you feel as if you might’ve missed a period?” he asks.
Only one? I haven’t had a period since I arrived in Ireland six weeks ago.
“Ye-es. You won’t tell Orla, will you?”
The smile is back. “Anything we discuss will be treated with strict confidentiality, Amelia. But as your employers, Orla and Declan have a right to know.”
Because Declan might be the father…
I wish I knew for certain. This would be so much easier if I could simply tell him and then discuss like two regular adults how best to handle the situation.
But my life right now couldn’t get any fucking further from normal.
Neither could Declan’s. The universe must be laughing its head off at its own sick, twisted sense of humor every time it looks down on us from above.
What else can we throw at them? Oh, I know, how about a baby?
“What happens now?” I ask, like the doctor has all the answers.
“I’d like you to do a pregnancy test—you can pick one up from the chemist in the next village.” When I don’t respond, he presses, “Will that be a problem?”
“Declan isn’t here, and I don’t… I’m not sure if I can borrow a car.”
“I’ll speak to Orla. She can arrange for the driver to take you into the village tomorrow.
” He says this without batting an eyelid, like everyone in Ireland has a chauffeur at their disposal.
“I’ll give you an appointment to come and see me at the clinic the following day, and if the test is positive, I’ll refer you for an ultrasound scan to confirm the due date. ”
Hot tears sting my eyes. Hormones. This cannot be happening to me.
“I’ve known Declan for almost forty years,” he continues, rising to his feet and peering down at me on the couch. “He’ll do all that he can to help you.”
Does that include accepting the baby as his own when it might be his dead son’s?
The tears are threatening to morph into hysterical laughter, and I cover my mouth with one hand to contain it. This isn’t the kind of situation a girl should laugh about in front of her boss’s friendly doctor.
“Would you like me to prescribe you something for the nausea?” The concern in his voice squeezes fresh tears from my eyes.
“No, it isn’t that bad.” If you can prescribe something for guilty secrets on the other hand…