The Only Solution

  The Only Solution

  Leigh Michaels

  http://www.leighmichaels.com

  Copyright 2013 Leigh Michaels

  First published 1994

  Cover illustration copyright 2013 Michael W. Lemberger

  Wedding rings courtesy of Rhynas Jewelers, Ottumwa, Iowa

  This is a work of fiction. Characters and events portrayed in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Wendy Miller adores the baby girl her dying friend left in her care, but when she loses her job, she has no choice but to call on Rory's family for help. What she doesn’t count on is that Mack Burgess wants to raise his niece.

  Mack’s wealthy and powerful, and he could take Rory away from her in an instant. But Rory’s attached to Wendy – so Mack’s solution is to propose that they build a family for the baby’s sake.

  In order to keep her baby, can Wendy actually marry the man she's come to love – even though he doesn't love her?

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  About the author

  Other books by Leigh Michaels

  CHAPTER ONE

  Moments after the first tiny whimper, Wendy was already on her feet and reaching for her lightweight terry robe. She hadn’t been asleep, of course – how could anyone sleep after the sort of day she’d had? – but her limbs felt heavy nevertheless, and she blinked irritably at the night light in the baby’s room. Dim though it was, it seemed to assault her tired eyes like a lighthouse beacon.

  Rory’s whimpers had rapidly escalated into wails, but when she saw Wendy in the doorway, she began to wave her arms and babble, eager baby noises which almost made sense.

  “I thought you were going to start sleeping through the night,” Wendy said as she lowered the crib rail and picked up the child. She flicked a fingertip gently against Rory’s soft cheek. “I gave you definite instructions about that just yesterday, didn’t I?”

  Rory giggled and put her fist in her mouth. Wendy laughed, cuddled her close, and carried her to the tiny kitchenette to get a bottle.

  Rory’s fist didn’t satisfy her appetite for long, and before her bottle was warmed she was starting to wail again.

  Wendy popped the nipple into Rory’s mouth and settled into the rocking chair in the small living room. The baby nestled in her arms, sucking contentedly, and Wendy put her head down on the padded back of the chair and stared at the small Christmas tree in the corner. She hadn’t bothered to plug in the lights, but as the air stirred, strands of tinsel turned silently and gleamed in the dim glow which spilled in from the kitchen.

  How many nights had they sat there like this, sharing warmth and nourishment, comfort and hope? Rory was almost five months old now. She had been just six weeks when Marissa put her completely into Wendy’s care.

  “It seems like forever,” Wendy said.

  She heard the despairing note in her own voice, and looked down at the baby with a sudden urge to explain that she didn’t mean “forever” in a negative sense. She meant that it seemed Rory had always been part of her life, and the thought of giving up this precious child was enough to twist her heart like a soggy dishrag.

  To tell the truth, Wendy could hardly remember what her life had been like before Rory came into it. It hadn’t been bad, of course – she loved her job and she had her friends and plenty of interesting things to do – but she hadn’t realized how much everything changed when there was a child involved. Everything was so much more important, now that Rory was intertwined into her future.

  Giving up this child would be like tearing the center from her life. It would be every bit as self-destructive as driving her car off a cliff.

  And yet, what other choice did she have? She had gone over and over the options. In the last two days, she hadn’t thought of anything else. The problem was, there really was only one thing she could do – the one thing which would rip Wendy apart, but which would be best for Rory.

  On the coffee table by the rocking chair lay the pink slip she’d gotten in inter-office mail two days ago. It was not literally pink, of course; it was a letter, on ordinary company stationery, briefly informing her that in two weeks her services would no longer be required.

  For an instant, anger boiled up in her. Five years she’d worked for that company, and her boss hadn’t even had the decency to break the news personally.

  Rory stopped eating and grunted in protest at being held too tightly. Wendy took a deep breath and forced herself to relax. She really had nothing to complain of; the lack of notice hadn’t been personal. Nearly every other employee had gotten the same news, in exactly the same way. There had been no warning – just a rumor here and there in the last few months that the company wasn’t doing well, but nothing more definite. Not till two days ago, and then there had been only the curt announcement that the bankruptcy papers had been filed and the business would be liquidated, and therefore the employees would be dismissed.

  Two weeks before Christmas, Wendy thought bitterly. What a way to celebrate the holidays!

  The timing wasn’t quite as heartbreaking for her as for some others, of course. Wendy hadn’t gone overboard on her Christmas shopping, so January’s bills would be no worse than usual. Rory was too tiny to know the difference, and she would rather play with spoons and boxes than toys, anyway. But in some other homes around Phoenix tonight, things were different.

  Still, knowing that others had it even worse didn’t ease Wendy’s own problems.

  She had a savings account, but she’d invaded that a few months ago when Rory outgrew her bassinet and needed a crib and a multitude of other supplies. She’d never dreamed babies could be so expensive. Infant formula cost the earth – the price per case had shocked her even before she was faced with the loss of a paycheck. Diapers weren’t cheap either. Then there was child care – she’d still need someone to look after Rory on a regular basis, or she wouldn’t be able to interview for other jobs.

  What was left of her savings wouldn’t last long, and the severance pay she’d been offered was a pittance at best. Besides, she was afraid to count on it – because of the bankruptcy, it might not materialize at all.

  Rory placidly sucked on her bottle. Her tiny hand was curled trustingly around Wendy’s little finger. The baby had Marissa’s eyes, clear and blue as a summer sky, with the same dark ring around the iris which Marissa had always said meant she had second sight.

  Though the clairvoyance the young woman had claimed hadn’t been worth much in the end, Wendy thought, or she’d have sensed that car coming in time to get out of its way. Or at least she’d have seen the future clearly enough to write a will.

  Rory finished the bottle with a gulp. Wendy patted her back to bring up the last bubble, then changed her diaper and put her back in bed. She hovered beside the crib for a while and watched the baby in the dim light and remembered the day she had stood beside another bed...

  Marissa’s pretty face had escaped damage in the collision, and so it was possible to pretend that she was going to be all right. But Wendy knew from the ceaseless bustle of medical personnel, from the hissing and buzzing of the machinery, that the reality was all too grim, and not far off.

  They hadn’t really e
xpected her to regain consciousness at all, but somehow Marissa had pulled herself away from the gathering darkness and clutched Wendy’s hand. In a whisper, her tone fierce even though her voice was so faint Wendy could hardly hear, Marissa said, “Take care of my baby, Wendy. Don’t let my parents get their hands on her. They’ll ruin her, too. Promise!”

  Wendy had tried not to wince at the bruising pressure of Marissa’s grasp, and she said, “I promise.” Then the grip had relaxed, and Marissa was gone.

  With shaking hands, Wendy straightened Rory’s blanket and braced herself for what she must do tomorrow. She could no longer take care of Rory in the way Marissa would have wanted. So she would break her promise to Rory’s mother, and she would break her own heart.

  There simply wasn’t any other choice.

  *****

  Wendy hadn’t said anything yet about the company’s closing to the young woman who took care of Rory during the day. The wound was too new, too raw, to talk about in public, and Carrie had been busy with other parents whenever Wendy came. But the following morning when Wendy carried the baby into Carrie’s house, it was obvious that she had heard the news.

  “My husband said I had to tell you I can’t work on credit,” she said softly. She didn’t meet Wendy’s eyes; she was concentrating on unbuttoning Rory’s sweater. “I told him you wouldn’t expect me to, but he said I had to make it clear.” She looked up anxiously. “Will you still be bringing her?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll tell you as soon as I can.” Wendy kissed the baby’s cheek and handed over the bag which held the day’s supplies, and hurried out into the rain before Carrie could ask any more questions.

  Back in her car, Wendy put her head down against the steering wheel for a moment. Why hadn’t she told the truth? She wouldn’t be bringing Rory much longer, because Rory would be six states away.

  She hadn’t said it because the longer she could delay putting it into words, the longer she could pretend that she wasn’t going to make that telephone call. That she wasn’t going to give Rory up at all.

  But – difficult though it was to reconcile her conscience – she was going to break her promise. Marissa would understand, she told herself. Marissa would probably want her to do exactly that. Wendy couldn’t care for Rory now, not the way the baby should be cared for. No mother would want her child to live in poverty when something better was available.

  And as for the rest of it, about how Marissa’s parents would ruin Rory? Wendy swallowed hard.

  She’d never met the Burgesses. They hadn’t even come themselves to go through Marissa’s belongings after her death; an attorney had handled the details. The only things she knew about Marissa’s family was what the young woman had said in anger and – at the last – in pain. Marissa was young and a bit self-centered, without the understanding that maturity might have brought. Perhaps, without even realizing it, she had exaggerated. In any case, Wendy would have to take the chance.

  She was a few minutes late to work. Not that it mattered much now, she supposed. The projects which had been so important and so timely a few days ago were as dry and worthless as last year’s news. She’d been working on next season’s catalog, and there wasn’t much sense in writing descriptions aimed at selling valves and gauges that would never be manufactured, was there?

  But her colleagues in the marketing department were not standing in groups around the coffee pot and the water machine, analyzing their predicament, as she had expected. If anything, the atmosphere was more harried than usual. In the rows of small cubicles, heads were bent over drawing boards and desks. They were all updating their resumes, Wendy concluded.

  Her boss came out of his glass-walled office and crossed to her cubicle. “You’re late,” he accused.

  Stress and anger and worry and lack of sleep all stirred together made a potent explosive, and Wendy spoke before she thought. “So fire me.”

  He frowned. “Don’t be impudent.”

  Wendy bit her tongue. Under the circumstances, she needed the best reference Jed Landers could give her. “Sorry, Jed. It’s the shock, that’s all. What’s going on?”

  “We need to plan a campaign to sell out the last of the inventory.”

  “Sort of a final clearance?” She frowned. “Doesn’t the bankruptcy receiver take care of that?”

  “You don’t want to work, Miller?”

  “I was just asking.” She hung her raincoat on a hook. Even if the assignment was meaningless, it would be better than doing nothing. Just putting in time for the next two weeks would drive her around the bend. “Jed? Is there going to be any company support for job-hunting? Any counseling or help in finding contacts?”

  “Not that I’ve heard about. If there is, I’ll let you know.” He put a stack of computer paper on the corner of her desk. “Here are the inventory records as of yesterday.”

  Wendy reached for the stack and a pencil. It was mid-afternoon before she managed even a lunch break, and then she merely toyed with a tuna-salad sandwich for a while before returning to her desk. The only advantage to the whole situation, she thought, was that no one asked what on earth was making her so blue. They all knew – or thought they did. Or else they were too absorbed in their own troubles even to notice hers.

  She finished her part of the sales campaign and took it into Jed’s office. He took it with a grunt, not even glancing at her. Wendy reminded herself that Jed, too, was going to be out of a job soon. At his age, and with a couple of kids in college... well, it was no wonder he was grumpy.

  Besides, it wasn’t really Jed’s moodiness that was bothering her. It was the telephone call she had to make.

  She went back to her cubicle, took a slip of paper out of her raincoat pocket, and spread it on the desk blotter. She had gotten the number last night from directory assistance, just as soon as she had made her decision. She couldn’t put it off any longer.

  But it might be too late to call, she thought, and looked hopefully at the clock. She had only a business number; the Burgess home telephone was unlisted. And since it was an hour later in Chicago than it was in Phoenix, Samuel Burgess might be gone. If he kept bankers’ hours...

  He wasn’t precisely a banker, though. Wendy wasn’t quite certain what he was. In fact, she had known Marissa for months, and they’d even shared the apartment for a while, before she’d had any information about the girl’s family. Not that it mattered, of course. In the circles they moved in, no one asked questions about origins or connections or ancestry.

  But once a month or so, Marissa got mail from a place called The Burgess Group – expensive linen envelopes with the return address engraved in sleek script and her name crisply typed. No computer labels and no cheap ink-jet print. The contents frequently made Marissa swear, and that was what finally sent Wendy’s curiosity into orbit and prompted her to ask if there was a family connection, since it wasn’t exactly a common name.

  “Just my father, damn it,” Marissa had said. “He likes to play with people’s lives as well as their money.” Then she stalked off.

  In the year Wendy had known her, Marissa had said little more about her family or her origins. But after the accident, when the hospital started asking about next-of-kin, Wendy had been able to point them in the right direction. It had made her feel a little less inadequate. And now that she had to do something about Rory, at least she knew where to look for the child’s grandfather.

  It would be better to contact Marissa’s father than her mother, she had reasoned. It was going to come as a shock to the Burgesses, months after their daughter’s death, to find that she had left a child they’d never heard about. But Samuel Burgess was a businessman, and Wendy was betting he’d be more level-headed about the whole thing than his wife could ever be.

  The Burgess Group even sounded expensive. The telephone didn’t ring, it seemed to purr, and Wendy guessed that the receptionist had had the benefit of musical training. “How may I direct your call?” she asked.

  Wendy took a
deep breath. “I’d like to speak to Samuel Burgess, please.” She waited for the inevitable questions – who she was, what she wanted – but the receptionist merely thanked her, and the purring started again.

  Of course, Wendy thought. There would be another layer or two of secretaries to screen her call; Samuel Burgess would not be likely to answer his own telephone.

  The purring stopped, and a masculine voice murmured in her ear. She hardly registered what he said, because the voice was so different from her expectations. It was deep and rich, and yet soft – and the effect was like being wrapped in a warm blanket and lifted off her feet.

  “Burgess,” he said again. There was a trace of impatience this time.

  Wendy dried her palm on her denim skirt and shifted the telephone to the other ear, almost dropping it in the process. “Hello? Mr. Burgess, my name is Wendy Miller. I’m calling about–”

  “Can you speak up?”

  “I’m calling about–” She wet her lips. “I have to talk to you about your granddaughter.”

  She had expected the instant of stunned silence, but she hadn’t anticipated the chuckle which followed. Like his speaking voice, his laugh was deep and rich and warm. “My granddaughter? I hardly think so, since I haven’t got one.”

  Wendy cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, but there’s no easy way to put this. She’s Marissa’s daughter.”

  “I think you’ve been misinformed.” All the warmth and charm had died out of his voice; what was left was steel-hard and icicle-cold. It made Wendy shiver.

  “I know that Marissa’s dead,” she said hastily. “But—”

  “And you’re trying to capitalize on the situation?” Each word was clipped and harsh.

  “Of course not. I...” She stopped. He wasn’t even going to give her a chance.

  Don’t let my parents get their hands on my baby, Marissa had begged. They’ll ruin her, too.

  Wendy had thought Marissa must be exaggerating. Now she was beginning to understand. Little Rory was all sunshine and happiness – but how long would that last around this cold, harsh man?