All three of her friends already had plans for the evening. Which was just as well, since Jamie wasn’t all that keen to go out anyway. It was the kind of night for watching reruns on television with a box of crackers in her lap and a six-pack of diet soda at her side.

* * *

Rich had a great time Saturday night. They’d played cards into the early hours of the morning and thoroughly enjoyed themselves. There’d been whole stretches of time when he didn’t think of Jamie at all. Five- and ten-minute blocks of time.

Things would’ve gone well if it hadn’t been for Jason. His brother seemed to like walking close to the edge, Rich thought with annoyance.

“So how’s the marriage of inconvenience working out?” Jason had asked on the drive home. He made it sound like a joke, but Rich wasn’t in a laughing mood.

Rather than go into any of the details, Rich gave an unintelligible reply.

“What’s that?” Jason pressed.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I know.”

“Just drop it, Jason.” Rich was serious and he made sure his brother knew it. He didn’t want to discuss his relationship with Jamie. What she’d said the night before about their marriage being the worst mistake of her life was beginning to have the ring of truth to it.

“So,” Jason added after a few minutes, “marriage isn’t exactly a bed of roses, is it?”

“I never claimed it would be.”

“Is she pregnant yet?”

“Pregnant?” Rich repeated the word as though he’d never heard it before. “Pregnant,” he said again, his voice dropping. Vividly he recalled their conversation Friday morning and how excited he’d been when he learned her temperature had been slightly elevated. They’d spoken every morning for several days running, discussing the chances of pregnancy. It was the reason they were married! Only, they’d planned to conceive the child by nontraditional means….

* * *

Twenty-four hours following his conversation with his brother, Rich continued to mull over the possibility of a pregnancy.

He hadn’t heard from Jamie all day Sunday, either. He’d decided he probably wouldn’t. That woman was so stubborn. Fine, he’d wait her out. If she didn’t contact him, it was her loss.

He changed his mind Monday afternoon. It was either call her or resign from his engineering job. He’d made one mistake after another all day. Every time the phone rang, he felt as though an electrical shock had gone through him and nearly leaped off his chair. Although he strove to sound cool and collected, he couldn’t keep his heart from speeding like a race-car engine.

* * *

Obviously Rich would have to be the one to call. It felt like blackmail, which did little to improve his mood. He stood and closed the door to his office.

He walked all the way around his desk twice, then sat heavily in his chair and picked up the phone.

The bank’s receptionist answered almost immediately.

“Is Jamie… Warren available?” He stopped himself from asking for Jamie Manning just in time.

“I’ll transfer your call,” the woman said, cutting him off. The phone rang three times, frustrating Rich even more.

“This is Jamie Warren’s office. How may I help you?”

“Ah…” Rich had expected Jamie would answer. “Is Jamie available?”

“No, I’m sorry, she’s home sick today. May I help you?”

“Ah…” Jamie was home sick? She’d seemed in perfect health Friday night. Perhaps she was ill. Too ill to call him.

“Sir? May I help you?” the woman repeated

“No…no, thanks. I’ll phone later.”

But first he was going to find out exactly what was wrong with Jamie.

Eight

Jamie felt wretched. Not only had she spent the most miserable weekend of her life, but late Sunday afternoon she’d come down with a ferocious case of the flu.

Monday morning she’d phoned in sick. For most of the day she’d stayed in bed, trying to convince herself that it was a twenty-four-hour virus and she’d be fine by Tuesday morning.

Her head throbbed, her muscles ached and she was sure she had a fever. If she wasn’t so sick, she’d get out of bed to take her temperature. The only times she’d risked leaving the comfort of her warm cocoon had been to make trips to the bathroom.

The phone at her bedside rang and she reached for it blindly, nearly toppling a glass of liquid flu medication left from the night before.

“Hello,” she croaked. It was probably some salesman hoping to sell her a cemetery plot. The timing couldn’t be better.

“Jamie?”

“Rich?” Naturally he’d phone her now, when her defenses were down and she was too weak to react. She’d waited three painful days to hear from him. Nightmare days.

Now that he’d called, Jamie experienced absolutely no emotion. Certainly not relief. Or anger, although she’d spent most of Sunday furious with him, and so hurt it was all she could do not to simply give in to self-pity.

“I phoned the bank and they told me you were home sick,” he explained, as though he needed a reason to call her.

“I’ve got the flu.”

A slight hesitation followed. “You’re sure? Have you been to the doctor?”

“I’m too sick for that.” She found his concern laughable. He’d walked out on her. Ignored her. Hurt her. And now he was upset because she hadn’t seen a doctor over a twenty-four-hour flu bug?

Once again Rich hesitated. “I think you should make an appointment with Dr. Fullerton.”

“Dr. Fullerton?” she echoed. Rich wasn’t making sense. “Why would I see a gynecologist?”

“Because what you have might not be the flu,” he returned, his words sounding as though they were spoken from between clenched teeth.

Maybe she was being obtuse, but she didn’t understand what he was saying. “Trust me, it’s the flu. I’ve got all the symptoms.”

“Didn’t it dawn on you that it might be something else?” His voice rose with impatience.

“No. Should it?”

“Yes!”

It hit Jamie like a bolt of lightning. Rich thought she might be pregnant! If it wasn’t so ludicrous she’d cry. He actually seemed worried.

“It’s too soon to tell,” she said in her most formal voice, as if she were relaying the bank’s decision regarding a loan application. “But it’s unlikely.”

“Your temperature was elevated, remember?”

“Not that much. Don’t worry, you’re safe.”

His angry sigh told her that either he was exasperated or furious—Jamie didn’t know which.

When would she learn? Time after time she’d foolishly handed her heart to a man, and the outcome was always the same. Within a few months her heart would be broken, shattered, and she’d be limping away. Some women were meant to find love, but apparently she wasn’t one of them. Some women were destined to have forty or fifty years of contented marital bliss. She’d be lucky if her marriage lasted two months.

“Do you need anything?” Rich asked.

“No.” She made her reply as clipped as she could. If he really cared, he wouldn’t have left her on Saturday morning. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“Then why weren’t you at work?”

“Because I’ve got the flu,” she said again.

“Then you aren’t perfectly fine, are you?”

How like a man to argue about semantics. “Other than the flu, I’m feeling wonderful.” She tried to sound as if she’d practically be running the bank single-handed if it weren’t for this virus. There certainly wasn’t any problem in her life—other than an almost-husband who had no regard for her feelings.

“We need to talk,” Rich suggested after an awkward moment. The silence between them was strained—as strained as their marriage.

“I …think that might be a good idea.”

“When?”

“Uh…” Jamie stalled for a few seconds. She didn’t want to see him anytime soon, considering the pitiful way she was feeling. If she looked remotely as dreadful as she felt, Rich would drag her bodily into Dr. Fullerton’s office.

“Wednesday night?” Rich said impatiently.

“Wednesday…sure.” By then she should be well on the road to recovery.

“The Cookie Jar?”

The restaurant was one they’d frequented in high school. A little hole-in-the-wall diner with a polished linoleum floor and an old-time jukebox in the corner. Jamie hadn’t thought about the place in years. “I didn’t know they were still in business.”

“I happened to be driving down Forty-third recently and I saw it. It brought back a lot of old memories. If you’d rather meet somewhere else…”

“No, The Cookie Jar sounds like fun. I’ll meet you there at…how about seven? Right after dinner.”

“Fine. Seven. I’ll buy you a chocolate sundae for dessert.”

Despite everything she’d been through in the last three days—the anxiety, the disappointment and the pain—Jamie found herself smiling. A few words from Rich had wiped it all away. “I’d like that.”

He chuckled. “Somehow I knew you would.”

* * *

A moment later, Jamie replaced the receiver and nestled back on her pillows. She’d been thoroughly chilled earlier and had piled on every blanket in the house. Suddenly she was feeling much better. Good enough to climb out of bed and make herself something to eat.

* * *

Wednesday, Rich arrived at The Cookie Jar an hour early, figuring he might as well have dinner there. He slipped into the booth with its tattered red vinyl upholstery and reached for the menu, tucked between the napkin holder and the sugar container. The menu offered four or five varieties of hamburger, in addition to sandwiches and a wide range of ice-cream desserts. He noted the picture of the chocolate sundae, the ice cream swimming in a pool of chocolate, smothered in whipped cream and crowned with a bright red cherry. Jamie’s favorite.

He’d made light of discovering The Cookie Jar, claiming he happened to be driving down Forty-third when he caught sight of it. That was a lie.

He’d almost gone crazy when he hadn’t heard from her by Sunday evening and he’d gone out for a drive in an effort to collect his thoughts. Going past their old high school and the nearby restaurant had been no accident. He would’ve gone inside The Cookie Jar, but the restaurant had been closed. He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d suggested they meet there. Nostalgia? A chance to remember simpler times? To relive the beginning of their friendship?

An impossibly young waitress arrived with a glass of water and a small pad, ready to take his order. Rich asked for a cheeseburger, a strawberry milkshake and an order of fries. He glanced around at the other customers, but the high school crowd had gone home and the few people there were older.

He strolled over to check out the jukebox, thinking it might be fun to hear some of the songs he’d loved in his teens. He was surprised to find he didn’t recognize a single tune. Not even one. He fingered a few quarters in his pocket, but after a couple of minutes he decided not to bother and returned to the booth.