The Green Lace Corset, стр. 51

Ten business days had passed since she and Fay had ordered the DNA kit, and it still hadn’t arrived. Had it all been a scam? The clock was ticking. At this rate, it would be too late to have an abortion.

Anne examined the e-mail order receipt again and dialed the number. A frazzled-sounding woman answered, and Anne said, “I ordered a kit more than two weeks ago, but it never arrived. I can see that my payment went through.” Anne gave her order number and address.

“Just a moment, please.”

While Anne waited, a Brahms lullaby played in the background.

The woman had a voice that could cut steel. “Yes, we sent it out a week and a half ago.”

“It never came.”

“Perhaps it got lost in the mail?”

You think? Anne tried to keep her voice calm. “Please send another one right away. It’s an emergency.”

“We’ll send it out tomorrow. Confirm the address again.” Anne repeated it for the second time and hung up.

She checked her social media. It seemed like everyone she knew was having a baby. Chrissy in New York was having her third. Every other day, her friend Kristen posted another adorable shot of her “little man.” Even Prince Harry and Meghan Markle had welcomed their first with a plethora of photos. If she had this baby, would she get in on the act too?

Two days later, Anne spied a cardboard envelope squished into her mailbox.

RETURN SERVICE REQUESTED was printed in huge block letters on the outside, along with a return address in Ohio.

Mrs. Landenheim came out of her apartment, holding the black kitten in her arms, and eyed the envelope surreptitiously.

Anne hid it behind her back and stroked the kitty behind the ears. “You are so adorable.”

“How are you today, Anne?”

She didn’t need this busybody asking questions. Also, she seemed to remember something on the lease about no dogs or children.

“Good. I’m in the middle of something. See you later.” She ran up the stairs, sat on the daybed, and further inspected the envelope.

Baby-blue dots connected by lines, like in a high school science textbook, decorated the front and extended onto the back in a zigzaggy helix motif.

“Alexa, play Carlos Nakai.” Anne needed some relaxing music to help calm her.

“Music by R. Carlos Nakai,” Alexa said.

“Thank you,” Anne said, as Native American flute music began to play.

With trembling hands, she opened the envelope, dumped the contents on the bed, and read the directions.

First, she’d have to fill out the form on each envelope and collect four DNA samples for each person tested. She counted out the swabs in their sealed wrappers. To gather samples, a person will rub swabs for thirty seconds from inside the person’s cheeks. Put them in the prepaid return mailers and mail. She’d need to be careful because insufficient DNA collected may require recollection.

Sounded easy enough, except it didn’t say anything about how to ask possible fathers for samples. She examined the materials again. There was only one prepaid return mail envelope. How could she have been so stupid to get into this predicament? she asked herself, for the fifty billionth time. She was in a pickle and craving them. Maybe she could just have the baby on her own and not even involve either one of them.

Fay was right; Anne needed to find out who the father was. The thought of seeing Barnaby made her skin crawl, so she resolved to contact Sergio and composed a text: Hi Sergio. I’m pregnant and need a DNA sample from you because you might be the father. That would be so cold. She erased it. It would be better to tell him face-to-face. Maybe she should wait until tomorrow. No, she had to get it over with.

She took a deep breath and FaceTimed him.

“Hi, Bigfoot. I’m on my way into a meeting. What’s up?”

Seeing his handsome face always made her heart twirl. She felt light-headed and just couldn’t tell him. “I just wanted to say hi.”

“Want to come out next weekend? I’ll get tickets to—”

“I’m way too busy.”

“Sorry, I’ve gotta run. Love you. Call you later.”

He’d said he loved her. She lay back on the daybed and remembered their last night together. No way could she tell him she’d slept with someone else and that she might not keep the baby. Now she needed to backtrack and go to plan B. She’d have to spill all to Barnaby and get a DNA sample.

She shuddered, imagining sharing custody with him, her baby crawling all over his filthy apartment. When she told him the situation, he might glom onto her and want to be involved. Judging from his living conditions, she suspected his financial support would be zilch, even though she’d never accept it anyway.

Did she even need to tell him? Maybe she could snag a DNA sample without his knowing. Maybe from his hairbrush? That wouldn’t work. He was bald. His toothbrush? She’d have to get into his apartment somehow. Was getting a sample without permission even legal?

She scrolled down, found his old Facebook friend request, clicked it, and sent him a message: Hey, Barn. How are you?

He got back to her right away. Who is this?

That didn’t bother her. After all, it had been two months.

Anne: We met at Rhinestone Ruby’s a few months ago.

Barn: Oh, yeah. Didn’t recognize your art photo. You were the great dancer, LOL, in the green outfit.

Anne: Wanna get together?

Barn: Sure. How about Ruby’s?

That was the last place she wanted to go.

Anne: Do you know Coffee Cup Café on Sutter?