Читать книгу To Save This Child - Darlene Graham - Страница 9

ON THE NIGHT of her thirty-first birthday, Kendal Collins sank into her giant Jetta tub until the bubbles grazed her chin. After brooding for one full, uninterrupted minute, she slowly raised a limp hand from the sudsy water and picked up one of the heart-shaped gourmet cookies she’d stashed at the side of tub. She unpeeled the cellophane wrapper, then thoughtfully nibbled the sinful treat. The second cookie went down a little faster. She washed the third down with a tall stemmed glass of very expensive merlot.

The cookies were verboten. So was the wine for that matter. Kendal always struggled with a teeny, tiny weight problem that her best friend Sarah insisted on calling “voluptuousness.” But today was her birthday, Kendal told herself. And Valentine’s Day. She reached for another cookie. She deserved a little celebration. But as she drained the last of the wine, she knew she wasn’t celebrating.

She started to cry.

At first her weeping was gentle, controlled, like a character in a soap opera trying not to wreck a mask of makeup. But before long she broke down, sobbing, hiccuping, letting the tears run down her face as she sank lower into the scented water. Finally, she had scooted so low that her lips skimmed the surface. Another inch, she thought, blubbering, and I could just go ahead and drown myself.

She rolled her eyes at such a ridiculous thought. But in this past year she had not let herself have one single pity party. And by Jove, she was going to have herself a doozie tonight.

In this past year, she had been brave, trying to show everyone that she was okay. Somehow she’d been strong this whole long, lonely year since Phillip had dumped her. Dumped was such a brutal, ugly word, but nonetheless a true one, and Kendal was all about truth these days. The ugly, unvarnished truth. She was fat. And childless. And Phillip had dumped her.

“It’s not working anymore,” Phillip had announced on the night of the fifth anniversary of their so-called relationship, which was also the date of her birthday. Which was also Valentine’s Day. Which was also this exact hateful date.

“I’m sorry. It’s just not.” His big brown eyes had looked pained as he’d said it. As if the breakup was something totally beyond his control and he was so sad, so powerless, about the whole thing.

Kendal had asked the usual questions that sputter out of the shocked and bereaved—the dumped.

What do you mean? Are you saying it’s over? Just like that? Are you moving out?

But of course he was moving out. Phillip was already packing his bags, right there in front of her eyes. And he was consulting one of his never-ending lists while he did it. He’d apparently given this considerable thought. But then, Phillip gave considerable thought to taking a poot. That’s why Kendal had never expected this kind of rash act from him.

Kendal had wanted to scream. You can’t just walk out like this! It’s our anniversary! And it’s Valentine’s Day! And it’s my thirtieth birthday, for crying out loud! Instead she forced herself to remain calm, adult, as she followed Phillip around the bedroom.

She argued that they’d built a life here. That they’d even bought this town house together.

“I’ll need my equity back,” he said flatly as he meticulously stacked underwear into his suitcase.

“You know I can’t come up with that kind of money!” Her false veneer of calm cracked as reality slammed into her. Phillip was leaving. And on the heels of that realization came another. This lifestyle they’d built had become rather expensive. “And you know I can’t come close to affording this place on my own.” The two of them had been on the rise in their careers, and Kendal had been foolish enough to assume their live-in relationship would eventually lead to marriage. Though she certainly had no intention of mentioning the M-word now, not while Phillip was packing his suitcase like some felon on the run.

Phillip carefully arranged the last of his socks in a zipper pocket. “This place was your choice, not mine. Let’s face it. We are not a good match in so many ways.”

“How did you suddenly come to that conclusion?” Kendal demanded. “Did you make another one of your damned lists or something?” Phillip was the ultimate anal-retentive pharmaceutical rep. He lived by lists. Elaborate, extensive, three-tiered lists. That was one of the things Kendal had found so comforting about him. With Phillip, nothing was ever left to chance. Once, back when their relationship had drifted into the doldrums and he couldn’t quite make up his mind to walk down the aisle, he had actually come to her with a pro and con list, suggesting that she make one of her own.

“As a matter of fact, I did,” he admitted now, “right before I made my final choice.”

“Your final choice?” Kendal echoed.

But he turned away. “Let’s face it,” he repeated. “This relationship is just not working.”

Why did he keep saying that? By the time he faced her at the front door with one last parting look of regret and one last “I’m sorry,” Kendal was reduced to mumbling, “I understand.” Though she really, really did not understand. She’d only said that because she couldn’t endure the sight of his guilt-stricken eyes for another single second.

But two weeks later, she’d wanted to scratch those big brown eyes out when she learned that dear Phillip was involved in a new relationship—one that worked, a woman who fit his list, Kendal supposed. The woman, Kendal suspected, who had been at the root of their troubles all along—Stephanie Robinson. The snotty little drug rep who pulled down stellar sales for Merrill Jackson’s chief competitor, McMayer. The woman who now had Phillip cozily moved into her condo.

Kendal had seen Phillip only once after he’d moved out, when both of them were in Dallas for a Merrill Jackson sales meeting. He was coming down an escalator at the enormous Galleria mall and there was that hated woman, glued to his side. That hideously tall stick-figure blonde had actually spotted Kendal, grabbed Phillip’s arm and steered him in the opposite direction.

Kendal had suffered a very bad moment then. Really suffered.

She’d staggered into a nearby soup shop. Sank into a booth. Blindly ordered French onion, extra cheese. Normally she would have dived into the melted topping with gusto. But that afternoon she had stared at the bowl without so much as lifting the spoon, wondering why, why, why?

All their friends, the other pharmaceutical reps at Merrill Jackson, had sided with Kendal after the breakup, labeling Phillip the L.M.B.—List-making Bastard—and labeling Stephanie Robinson an anorectic bimbo. Which seemed like a bit of an oxymoron to Kendal but she enjoyed the sound of it anyway. She tested the words out loud against the bubbles, “Anorectic bimbo.”

But her friends’ anger on her behalf hadn’t really helped. In the long run, she had ended up missing Phillip and their tidy upscale life. Missing him with a strangely hollow pain that surprised her in fresh waves every few weeks.

As the year dragged by, Kendal’s long, lonely nights seemed to only get longer, lonelier, while she watched another of her girlfriends get married and another have a baby. And when she’d heard a few months ago that Phillip and Stephanie had also gotten married, the pain had solidified into a heavy, solid thing, squeezing like a vise around her heart. Kendal thought she had succeeded in sealing away the hurt where she wouldn’t have to feel it. Except that now, on her thirty-first birthday, here she was, with her tears pouring down into her fancy bathtub.

And fast on heels of the hurt came the fear.

Kendal had to admit that she had some major fears. Her future, without Phillip, looked a little shaky, a little scary. Too scary to contemplate after a hefty glass of merlot. Thoughts of her looming mortgage payment made her wish she hadn’t wasted money on a manicure. She raised a hand out of the sudsy water and examined her perfect French nails through the haze of tears. She’d had them done in anticipation of the girls’ night out that her friends had cooked up for her birthday. Knowing this was now the worst night of her life, they’d made a big deal out of celebrating “the one-year anniversary of Kendal Collins’s emancipation.”

She supposed the whole exercise was meant to be therapeutic, and she loved her friends dearly for trying, but she found she simply didn’t have the heart for a party.

After a hard day on the road with her boss—he seemed to be insisting on spending field days in the car with Kendal more frequently—the idea of getting all fixed up and oozing false cheer in some trendy bar seemed more like drudgery than fun. She’d called Sarah and begged off. She just could not do it, she told her protesting friend. Not tonight.

The real truth was she wanted to stay home and brood about her life.

She studied her fingers, and suddenly the expensive manicure looked like a metaphor for all that was wrong with her life. It was too perfect. Perfect nails, perfect clothes, perfect car, perfect town house—her whole life looked like a magazine ad. And she hated it. Suddenly it all seemed so sterile, so false. And she hated Phillip for leaving her all alone with it. And all alone to pay for it.

Why did she persist in living a lifestyle that no longer had meaning? Because she didn’t know how to do anything else? Because she didn’t actually have anything else? And if this was all she had, how was she going to continue to pay for it?

Her district sales manager’s voice came worming up out of her memory.

“Collins?” They were in her company Taurus, on their way to a tiny hospital in western Oklahoma. What had started out as a quick road trip had been hampered by thunderstorms and road construction. Warren’s mood was as testy as the weather. To mollify him, she’d slipped him a Valentine’s cookie from her stash in the glove box. But he’d just called her by her last name. Not good.

“I’ve been going over the western region’s sales figures, yours in particular.” Warren bit into the cookie. “Your numbers have certainly fallen off a bit in the past year, haven’t they?”

“Yes, but…” But what? Kendal didn’t have a good answer here. She knew she’d let her sales numbers slide. She regretted that for more than one reason and had vowed more than once to change it—along with everything else about her life. “I’m taking steps to correct that.”

“I was wondering…” Warren was talking with his mouth full, a small slight, perhaps another ominous sign. “Have you made any progress in getting Dr. Bridges on board with Paroveen?”

Dr. Bridges. The very name made Kendal’s insides seize up. Dr. Jason Bridges, the up-and-coming facial reconstruction surgeon whose thriving practice sat smack in the middle of Kendal’s territory, yet remained frustratingly out of her reach. She’d heard all about him. Supposedly, he was some kind of handsome bad boy. The Wolf. That’s what the single women at Integris had labeled him. They said any woman who attempted to slip a choke chain onto that man’s neck, much less jerk on it, would quickly find herself dumped.

But she also knew Jason Bridges leaped at the chance to use his brilliant mind and his incredible hands to help people. Aggressive was hardly the word for him. Coming straight from an extended residency at Johns Hopkins, he had burst onto the scene at Integris and nothing had been the same in the surgery department since.

People had talked about him from day one. Within months patients had started flocking to him.

Kendal represented Paroveen, the perfect drug for a busy doctor like Bridges. Paroveen was now being aggressively marketed after years of research and development, and promised to dramatically reduce post-op swelling and scarring with almost no adverse side effects. Kendal believed in its efficacy wholeheartedly, but getting Bridges to believe in it was another matter. He stubbornly persisted in using the competitor’s equivalent, Norveen.

Warren swallowed his bite of cookie. “When I saw you at the Christmas party, you told me you were going to close in on Bridges right after the first of the year. And now—” he waggled the cookie “—it’s already Valentine’s Day.” Warren smiled a coercive smile that was anything but sweet.

Since Christmas, Kendal had launched a one-woman campaign to get Bridges to switch. To no avail. She’d done everything in her power to forge a positive connection with the man, arriving earlier and earlier at the hospital to catch him on rounds. Didn’t the man ever sleep?

But so far she’d barely gotten her foot in the door of his tenth-floor offices. And that was only thanks to getting on a first-name basis with Bridges’s nurse, Kathy. And that was only because over a box of doughnuts one morning they’d discovered their mutual loves—chocolate and the Spanish language.

“Uh, actually, I haven’t made as much progress with Dr. Bridges as I’d like, but I’m working on it.” She bit her lip before she blabbed about the basket of Valentine’s cookies and promos. Recent regulatory codes prohibited such gifts, but Kendal was desperate. She couldn’t ever seem to schedule a sanctioned breakfast or dinner in Bridges’s office, which, of course, just happened to be Warren’s next suggestion.

“Why don’t you set up an in-service breakfast in his office?”

Duh.

Kendal wondered if the other reps got micromanaged like this. “I’ve offered to do that many times, but the nurses keep saying Bridges doesn’t have time. He’s got an awfully full surgical schedule. The man’s apparently some kind of freaky machine—doing surgery from dawn ’til dusk.”

“I am well aware of that. That’s why he’s the number one facial reconstruction surgeon in the region, our highest potential market.” Warren had stretched out the words well aware with exaggerated patience. Indeed, that was the point. Everybody in the business was well aware that if a prolific, fastidious surgeon like Bridges used Paroveen, the rest of the local surgeons would soon follow. “That’s why we need to get him to at least try Paroveen. We’re never going to get him to prescribe the drug until we get him to at least try it.”

Kendal let the wipers beat to the count of two, seeking the right words to defuse her boss. “I know things have slipped in my territory. But I’ve done everything I can to meet this guy. I try to leave samples. I talk to his office staff a couple of times a week, but I have yet to lay eyes on the man—”

“I don’t have to tell you how this stuff works, Collins.” Warren pronounced each word as if she’d suffered a lobotomy. “You used to be one of the best reps in the business. I’m telling you, do whatever you can to impress him.”

There was her last name again. That and Warren’s choice of words—used to be—sent a warning buzz ripping straight from Kendal’s toes to the top of her head. Kendal used to be Merrill Jackson’s hotshot sales rep, the one who won all the quota awards at the national meetings. But when Phillip had bugged out on her, it had felt like he’d pulled some kind of plug. All of her confidence had been seeping like air from a tire ever since. While she should have been aggressively garnering new business, Kendal found it was all she could do to get out of bed some mornings. The truth was she had been too busy surviving emotionally to expand her business. And in the cutthroat world of pharmacy sales, stagnation was bad. Real bad. Now she was stuck with a dwindling territory, a lifestyle built around two handsome paychecks instead of a single meager one and a growing pile of debts.

Her manager knew Bridges was a tough sell. Very set in his ways. Very particular about patient care. Very brand loyal. This was a test.

“Look, if you don’t want to go after Bridges, I can always call—”

“No!” Kendal wasn’t about to let some other rep take part of her territory. She would get Bridges or die trying. “Don’t worry. I’ll find a way to tap into his schedule, and when I do, I’ll wow Bridges and his crew.”

“’Atta girl, Kendal.” Warren had smiled, and Kendal had actually been grateful when he used her first name.

She sat up and smacked the sudsy water with her beautifully groomed hand, railing at the one who started this mess. “Phillip Dudley, I hate your freaking guts!” She raised her chin higher to the ceiling, shrieking even louder, “And I hope you die!” The word “die” echoed back off the Italian tile walls, sounding so ugly that it shocked Kendal to her senses. What kind of bitter woman was she becoming? She slid back down into the water and might have dissolved into tears again if the portable phone on the counter next to the tub hadn’t bleated in her ear.

Annoyed, she grabbed the thing. This was Sarah, no doubt, trying one last time to talk Kendal out of staying home alone on her birthday. But the caller ID displayed an unfamiliar number. With a sudsy finger, she punched Talk. “Hullo.”

“Is this Kendal Collins?” A vaguely familiar female voice.

“Yes.”

“Hi, Kendal. This is Kathy Martinez from Dr. Bridges’s office.”

Kendal tried not to make watery noises as she sat up straighter in the tub. Dr. Bridges’s nurse?

“Did I catch you at a bad time?”

Kendal leaned forward in the water, adjusting the phone. “No, actually, I was just…relaxing. What can I do for you, Kathy?” She was grateful that she was able to maintain a fairly coherent business voice, despite the wine.

“Stephanie Robinson—” the nurse started, “do you know Stephanie?”

“I know the name.” Stephanie Robinson. Kendal gripped the phone, thinking that if Stephanie Robinson were anywhere near this bathtub, Kendal would drown the woman. Why was Dr. Bridges’s nurse calling her about Stephanie Robinson? To rub in the fact that her boss was still prescribing Stephanie’s drug like candy?

“Well, she had to cancel a breakfast she had arranged for Dr. Bridges and the staff. I knew you were on our waiting list in case we had a cancellation. You wouldn’t be interested in doing it, would you?”

Kendal almost slid under the water in disbelief. Would she do it? Would she do it? Was the sky blue? Did the Pope wear a beanie?

“Actually, I’d love to.” Was she saying actually too much? She frowned at the empty wineglass.

“Great! Apparently Stephanie’s expecting and has such a dreadful case of morning sickness that she can’t even function until noon most days.”

Expecting? Stephanie was pregnant? Kendal raised her knees out of the sudsy water and propped her elbows on them. She pressed her forehead with the butt of one hand and squeezed her eyes shut while she fought down tears. Pregnant. With Phillip’s child.

When Kendal remained quiet too long, Kathy Martinez said, “Kendal? Are you still there?”

By an act of will so fierce it sent a tremor through her, Kendal dragged her mind back to the conversation, focusing on the good fortune that had suddenly dropped in her lap.

“When do you want me to come?”

“Tomorrow. Seven o’clock.”

Tomorrow. So much for the pity party. She’d be busy getting her act together for a presentation instead. “Great. I’ll see you then.”

They hung up, and Kendal slid back down in the water, feeling far, far worse than she had before the nurse called, if that was possible.

So Stephanie Robinson, no, Stephanie Dudley in her nonprofessional life, was pregnant.

She, Kendal, should be the one who was pregnant by now. That had been the plan. At least that had been her plan. To pay down the town house for about a year, then, as soon as they were married, get pregnant. Then combine their home offices, convert the third bedroom into a nursery and live happily ever after. Her longing for a child overcame her suddenly, an ache in her middle, a physical hunger.

Did she really miss Phillip so much, or was it this fantasy she missed? The idea of a family. They weren’t getting any younger, she’d told Phillip more than once, hoping to inch him toward the altar. They’d have to start on a family as soon as they were married. She’d never dreamed the malleable Phillip wouldn’t go along with her program.

Only in hindsight had she recognized that Phillip had been mostly silent during these one-sided conversations. Ominously silent.

She got out of the tub and pulled the plug. She stared at the draining water for a moment while she thought, Goodbye tears. Kendal Collins is all done crying. Kendal Collins was, by Jove, going to have Dr. Bridges eating out of the palm of her hand within the month. She would make so much money that she could pay for this stupid town house outright if she wanted to.

Almost angrily, she started toweling off. She stopped when she caught her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror that covered one wall. She gave herself a determined glare, straightening her shoulders. Yes, indeed, Kendal Collins was going to take her life back, make buckets of money and forget all about marriage and babies…and pain.

But when she started toweling again she thought, Who am I kidding? She couldn’t forget about marriage and babies. Because that was what she really wanted. Underneath the manicures and cars and clothes, that was all she really wanted.

But now, instead of marriage and babies, she found herself on her thirty-first birthday, all alone and struggling to survive in a very competitive business.

She closed her eyes, wondering again why Phillip had left her. Oh, sure, their love life hadn’t been the hottest in history. But she had thought that was the way Phillip preferred it. He’d always been reserved…almost to the point of being passive. She had always feared that unleashing her own fierce passions might scare the pusillanimous Phillip off.

So ironic. He had left anyway, despite her efforts to mold herself to suit him. Was there something wrong with her? She opened her eyes and gave her reflection a critical once-over. She was cute. Everybody said so. She was healthy and…shapely. Was she perhaps a little too shapely? Phillip had hinted as much so many times that Kendal had struggled to lose weight, trying to keep him happy. But Phillip had dumped her for the anorectic bimbo anyway.

She turned sideways and lifted her chin. Okay, so she was endowed with some pretty serious curves, but she also had a healthy mane of coal-black hair, riveting green eyes and skin like a China doll. She unhooked the clip that held her hair high and let the heavy waves tumble down. They felt cool against her bath-warmed back. She looked, she decided, like a Madonna, like a woman born to be a lover…a mother.

To hell with Phillip. She liked herself the way she was, and even if she never found a man, never had babies…

She clutched the towel to her front and closed her eyes. Never? She had turned thirty-one on this very night. Never was looking like a real possibility.

“Please, God,” she whispered to a deity she seldom thought about, much less prayed to. A deity so remote, so powerful and elusive, that she refused to even assign “it” a gender.

“Please,” she prayed, “send me a husband.” And as long as she was asking she decided to add, “And a child, too. That’s all I really want. A family. I don’t even care how you do it.”