Love Has The Best Intentions by Christine Arness Page A

watch no longer. “Stay off
your feet while we’re gone. Rest, woman! That’s the whole point of
this expedition.”
    Tugging on the handle of the passenger door,
Sandi’s dancing feet embodied the impatience of four years young
with the tardiness of her elders. “Come on, Aunt Claire!”
    My sister grasped my arm. “You all right? Not
still brooding about—”
    “I’m simply wondering what I’m going to feed
the munchkin for lunch. That’s all that’s on my mind.” I forced a
bright smile which wouldn’t have fooled Sandi and freed myself.
“Got to run before she yanks the door off my car.”
    Once we were on our way, Sandi chatted
unself-consciously, her shrill, piping voice competing with the
sounds of Saturday morning traffic until she discovered the radio
scan button.
    Vintage Motown, rock, rap, and country
western, spurted out of the speakers until I switched off the
radio. Realized that I preferred the discordant blare over
treacle-thick silence.
    Bored, my niece appropriated the sunglasses
I’d placed on the dash after the sun disappeared behind a
cloud.
    Perching them on her snub nose, she demanded,
“How do I look?”
    Her pert tone and confidently uptilted chin
proclaimed a conviction that she had been transformed into someone
stunning and grown-up. The dark lenses dominated her features,
concealing childishly rounded cheeks and huge brown eyes. Strangers
frequently mistook Sandi for my own daughter on our frequent
outings together. “How sweet! She has your eyes!”
    Not today. Mine were red and swollen from
crying; the glasses Sandi modeled had been useful earlier in
disguising the puffiness when facing my sister.
    “You look glamorous. Tres chic,
mademoiselle!”
    Sandi beamed and the glasses slipped off her
nose and tumbled into her lap. I forced an answering smile, my
shield of cheerful composure holed by pinpricks of pain.
    But the release of tears must be denied until
I was once more alone in my apartment, that cavern of loneliness
haunted by angry voices and the ghost of a woman sobbing over a
stained tablecloth and guttered candles. Party favors from an
intimate supper turned into a dreadful parting repast.
    “Stop wallowing in self-pity”, I chastised
myself in disgust. “You’ll never be able to climb out of the mire
if you continue to dwell on those memories...”
    But Ken’s clipped voice overrode Sandi’s
chirping song. “You’re an adult, Claire. I thought you always took
precautions.”
    Precautions? Instantly, I was back in the
dining room chair facing Ken, the meal prepared with such tender
anticipation churning in my stomach. My lover had chosen to accuse
me of carelessness, his reaction peevish, as though I’d forgotten
the mosquito repellant on a camping trip.
    Candle flames cast unfriendly shadows across
the cheekbones which my fingertips ached to caress. The food set on
the neutral zone of the table which separated us had been prepared
with love and nervous expectation. I’d left work three hours early
to bake Ken’s favorite cherry dessert.
    Reflected flames glowed in the eyes which
locked onto mine like a target sight. I wondered briefly why I’d
always regarded candlelight as romantic.
    When Ken spoke again, his tone shifted to
relief. “At least this isn’t a big deal.”
    At my sharp, indrawn breath, he frowned in
quick rebuke. “Unless you’re foolish enough to think about keeping
it.”
    I stiffened in involuntary protest of the
pronoun. It? His casual tone might refer to a pencil rolled under
the table or a quarter discovered on the sidewalk. Not our child.
He was dismissing something forged on the white hot anvil of our
love without a second thought.
    “I didn’t want to consider adoption until
we’d had a chance to talk about this—”
    “Get rid of it. Now.” Ken’s voice was flat as
the champagne in my glass.
    I’d bought the champagne for a celebration,
our celebration. My dinner companion raised his glass of wine and
took a noisy sip,