Читать книгу Mission Creek Mother-To-Be - Elizabeth Harbison - Страница 9

“…Branson Hines has escaped from authorities while being transferred from Mission Creek to a high-security prison in Lubbock. The thirty-two-year-old Hines is described as five feet ten inches tall, with dark eyes, dirty-blond hair and an unkempt goatee. Police spokesman Darryl Reilly warns that Hines is volatile and may be armed. Anyone who knows anything about his whereabouts is requested to call the Mission Creek Police hot line at—”

Melanie Tourbier reached out and clicked off the radio of her rented convertible. Then she shuddered and tried to take a deep cleansing breath as her yoga teacher in London had instructed. If things were going to work out the way she wanted them to here in Mission Creek, she needed to relax, to think positive thoughts. She did not need to panic about a dangerous escaped criminal who happened to be on the loose in the very small town she was staying in for the next few weeks. She’d be cautious, of course. But then, she was always cautious about strangers.

A lifetime’s worth of paparazzi and gold diggers had taught her that.

Her cell phone rang on the seat next to her and she punched the “on” button, glad for the distraction. She slipped the hands-free earpiece into her ear. She was nothing if not safety conscious. “Hello?”

“Where are you?”

Melanie smiled at the voice of her friend Jeff. She could picture him in her mind, his wavy brown hair mussed, his thin body draped casually across the Chippendale chair he’d inherited from his wealthy grandfather. “You know where I am,” she said. “I’m in Texas.”

“Melanie Tourbier, you are out of your mind! Come back before it’s too late.”

“It’s already too late. I’ve made up my mind and I’m going through with this.” She readjusted her grip on the steering wheel, symbolically reconfirming her resolution. “Face it, pal, you’re going to be an honorary uncle.”

“Much as I’d love that, I think you’re going about this the wrong way.”

“No, I’m not,” she said lightly. She was certain of that.

“But you’re only thirty!” Jeff argued. “You’ve got plenty of time to meet a man the traditional way, not in a test tube.”

“Oh, Jeff, don’t be silly, they don’t keep men in test tubes here,” she teased.

“They keep the essence of them there, and don’t change the subject. You’ve got plenty of time to go about this in the usual way and you know it.”

“I already tried that.”

“One bad husband doesn’t mean that there’s no one good out there.”

Melanie laughed. “Maybe not, but it certainly opened my eyes to some of the bad that’s out there.”

“Your relationship with Michael wasn’t all bad.”

“Bad enough.” Michael Mason had entered her life as a financial advisor and had left it as a financial liability. The divorce had cost her millions, but it was worth it to get rid of a man who had become more domineering and intimidating with every passing month. The only good thing, if you could call it good, that had come from the relationship was she’d learned early on about medical problems that would make it very difficult for her to conceive a child. One doctor had given her a one-in-a-hundred chance, though to her it felt like one in a million.

Which was a main reason she’d decided upon her current course of action.

“Why not just wait a couple of years?” Jeff implored. “Mr. Right might be just around the corner.”

“Even if he was, and I know he’s not, a couple of years won’t do it.” She tapped her foot on the brakes and glanced right and left as she rolled over some railroad tracks. “Think about it. Say, hypothetically, I meet a guy today. We’d have to date for at least a year before I could trust him enough to even consider sleeping with him—”

“A year?”

“At least. Remember what happened with Roberto?”

“Ah, yes, the pool boy.”

“He wasn’t a pool boy and you know it. He was the landscape artist. And a con artist,” she added miserably. Roberto Loren had been a huge mistake. A flirtation gone out of control. Melanie had met him when he’d come to redesign the grounds of her estate in Maui. They’d spent the summer flirting and dating, and eventually took a trip to his home in Majorca together, where she found out, the hard way, two crucial facts: first, that Roberto was not divorced as he’d said but still quite married with three young children; and second, that he’d set the whole thing up so he could have scandalous-looking pictures taken pool-side, with his children present, which he could sell to the tabloids.

His trashy book on the affair was due to hit the stores this week.

“Okay, I can see why you’d want to take some time to get to know and trust a man,” Jeff conceded. “Maybe do a background check. I’ll give you a year for that.”

“Right,” she said. “So I’m thirty-one right there. Then there’s the time spent trying to get pregnant. You know about my problems there. I already tried for two years with Michael, to no avail. And I was younger then. It could take three, four years now, or even more.”

“Or a month.”

Melanie scoffed. “Those odds are a million to one, as you well know. And with every year that passes, conception grows more difficult. The already minuscule window of opportunity gets smaller and smaller, and the risk of birth complications increases dramatically.” She’d memorized these arguments over the past year of repeating them to herself. “Now, where was I?”

“You were almost forty, I think.”

“Right.” There was a blue hospital sign ahead and Melanie slowed the car and stopped at a red light. “And that’s just the first child. What if I want more?” She felt the questioning gaze of the person in the car next to her and lowered her voice. “I’d have to start all over again with—”

“Stop!” Jeff cried into the receiver, just as the stoplight turned green.

Melanie pressed the accelerator, turned the car left onto Mission Creek Drive and kept her eyes open for Mission Creek Memorial Hospital. “I’ve made myself clear, then?”

“Crystal.” He sounded defeated, but she knew Jeff well enough to know he’d resurrect the subject countless times before it was truly too late. “So how is Texas?”

“Hot,” Melanie answered, tipping her face gratefully toward the summer sun. “Wonderfully hot and sunny. I may never leave.”

“That’s exactly what I was afraid of when you left London. You may have lived here for the past fifteen years or so, but you’re still an American at heart.”

“And on my passport,” Melanie added. She’d grown up in the United States, living first in San Francisco and then in Dallas from ages five to fourteen. After her parents’ death when she was just fifteen, she had lived primarily in London, first attending an exclusive girls boarding school on the orders of her parents’ executor, then, after a brief stint at the Cordon Bleu in Paris, returning to the University of London where she studied art history.

She’d married Michael Turner directly after graduating. They had divorced just under three years later. In the ensuing five years, Melanie had focused her energies on the many charitable organizations her parents had established and patronized, but her life still felt empty. Despite everything she had, all she truly wanted was a family. Her optimism about that was fading fast. It didn’t help that the only men she’d met since her divorce were either party boys or opportunists, after her money and fame.

So Melanie decided she was through with men, through with romance. She did, however, still want a family of her own. So she’d done some research and learned that the fertility clinic at Mission Creek Memorial Hospital was one of the best in the world, as well as one of the most discreet. She’d come in part because of the clinic’s reputation and in part because, after all these years, she was finally ready to come home. Texas still felt like home.

“So what are you doing right now?” Jeff wanted to know.

“Right now I’m in the car. I’m on my way to meet with a family planning counselor,” she said. “A Dr. Cross. Doesn’t he sound nice? As I understand it, I have a quick chat with him, assure him that I know what I’m doing, and then bingo, I’m off for the procedure. Or at least the first one.” She smiled at the thought, although she was well aware she might need multiple tries. Still she felt it was best to be optimistic. “Who knows? Next time you hear from me, I might be pregnant!” She hung up the phone and returned her full attention to the road before her, literally and metaphorically.

When she arrived at the hospital, she strode straight to the elevator, pressing the button with a flourish. “One step closer,” she said excitedly under her breath.

“I beg your pardon?”

Startled, she whirled to see a man standing there. He was tall and dark, with the most striking pale-green eyes she’d ever seen. “I—I was just talking to myself.”

“Oh. Sorry. Didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

She smiled. “I guess someone who’s talking to herself has to accept eavesdroppers as part of the deal and hope none of them is a psychiatrist.”

He gave her a strange smile, and she immediately thought her joke was idiotic. Now he probably thought she was, too.

“Just kidding,” she added, in case there was any doubt.

“That’s what I figured.”

His eyes were mesmerizing, like a hypnotist’s watch. She couldn’t look away.

He was looking at her, too, and he frowned slightly, as if trying to place her. “I’m sorry, but do we know each other?”

“No, no. I don’t think so. But you do look…familiar,” she finished lamely. He didn’t look familiar at all. This was not a face she would have forgotten.

The bell dinged behind her, and she heard the elevator doors shoosh open. She turned and walked into the mirrored elevator, conscious not so much of the thirty Melanies that seemed to step on with her, but the thirty tall, dark-haired, green-eyed strangers.

She reached out to press the eighth-floor button at the same time he did on the opposite side of the door. She glanced at him and said with a nervous little laugh, “Popular floor.”

He smiled. “Most of the offices are there. Patient rooms are on the other floors.”

“Oh.” She shrugged. “I’m not familiar with the building. This is my first time here.”

“Where are you headed?”

“To see Dr.—” She stopped, reflexively protecting her privacy. “A specialist.” She gave a dismissive smile and watched the numbers as the elevator climbed.

The man nodded politely and didn’t ask questions.

It occurred to her then that she wasn’t entirely sure which suite she was headed for. Glad for the chance to do something other than say inane things to a stranger, she opened her purse and began rooting for the appointment card they’d sent to her in England.

As the elevator lurched to a stop, she dropped her wallet at the man’s feet. She reached for it at the precise moment he did and they bumped heads just as the elevator doors opened.

“Sorry,” Melanie said, her embarrassment increasing with every moment.

He laughed and handed her the wallet, which had ended up in his hand like the big end of a wishbone. His fingertips brushed hers. “Nice bumping into you.” He gave an attractive grin.

She groaned at the pun as they both stepped off the elevator. Then she retrieved the appointment card from her wallet.

The stranger stopped, considered her for a moment, then asked, “Can I help you find an office at least?”

“That’s okay.” She pulled the card out and waved it triumphantly. “I’ve got it. But thanks.”

“All right. Good luck.” He nodded and waved and was off.

Melanie watched him go, vaguely hoping she might meet him again. Something about him was interesting, reassuring. She shrugged off the notion, and looked closely at Dr. Cross’s business card. Suite 818. Once the card was back in her bag, she followed the signs to her destination.

Five minutes later Melanie was sitting in the waiting room of Dr. Jared Cross’s office, trying to ignore the continuing radio coverage of Branson Hines’s escape. The announcer repeated warnings that citizens may be in danger, then returned to the Muzak program with an old Barry Manilow song.

Melanie tried to keep her thoughts on the fashion magazine she’d brought, but for some reason the Branson Hines story made her feel as if she, personally, were in danger. She’d only had premonitions a couple of times in her life; once before her parents died, and once when she was in college and she was sure she was going to fail a course. She’d been wrong about the latter, so she was probably wrong about this, too.

“Miss Tourbier?”

Melanie jumped, even though the voice was soft. “Yes?” she asked the petite red-haired secretary who had called her name.

“The doctor will see you now.” She gestured toward the door next to her desk.

Melanie gathered her things and gave a brief smile. “Thank you.”

“Say, did you know there’s a Tourbier champagne?” the secretary asked as Melanie walked past. “My husband and I had some just last night for our anniversary.”

“Well, happy anniversary,” Melanie said with a smile. Yes, she knew about Tourbier champagne. Her father had started the vineyard in Reims, France, thirty-three years ago.

“Thanks!” the woman answered with a shake of her flame-red curls. “Two years and counting.”

“That’s terrific.”

She passed the young woman and entered Dr. Cross’s office.

He was standing with his back to her, facing a wide shelf that was overflowing with books. She couldn’t tell much about him from behind except that he was very tall, and his hair was as black as a raven’s, or at least it seemed so in contrast to the generic white doctor coat he wore. His hair color and his physique suggested that he was much younger than she had expected.

“Dr. Cross?”

He turned quickly. “I’m sorry,” he said, flashing an apologetic smile.

It was the man from the elevator.

Her heart dropped into her stomach. “It’s you,” she heard herself say. “I had no idea…”

He looked equally surprised to see her. “Oh, hello again.”

“Hello.”

“What a coincidence.”

She swallowed. “Yes.” Things like this happened a lot in her life. She really shouldn’t continue to be so surprised by them.

He glanced at something on his desk and said, “I gather you must be Melanie Tourbier?”

“Yes, I am.”

He looked at her for a moment, as cool as a cucumber. “Please,” he said, waving a hand at the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”

She did, wondering if he was right now recalling her talking to herself before.

That would not bode well for her.

But if he was thinking that, he didn’t let on. He sat and took out a folder. “So you are Miss Tourbier,” he said, taking a few sheets of paper out of the folder.

“Please, call me Melanie.” A flirty thrill ran down her spine, and she quickly reminded herself that this was not the time or the place or the man for those kinds of thoughts.

He looked at her over the papers. “Okay, Melanie. And you can call me Jared.”

“All right, Jared.” Still, maybe this was going to go well, after all.

He frowned and checked his notes, shuffling through the papers. “And you’re here for fertility counseling, is that correct? Artificial insemination?”

“Yes, I am.”

He looked at her again, then hesitated noticeably before setting the papers down.

She thought she saw a piece of newspaper in the pile and wondered what it was.

“I haven’t had a lot of time to familiarize myself with your case,” he said. “I understand this has all happened rather quickly.”

She smiled. “Why wait around?”

“Hmm.” He didn’t return her smile, but instead made a quick note on the top paper and returned his gaze to her. “Why don’t you begin by telling me why you want to undergo this procedure at this time.”

Melanie shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Something told her this wasn’t going to go as smoothly as she’d expected. She hadn’t planned on having to explain herself. “Because I want to start a family.”

“Alone?”

“I’m not married, if that’s what you mean.” She cleared her throat gently.

“No…significant other?”

“No, this is something I’ll be going about alone.”

He nodded, studying her with those disconcertingly green eyes. “Why have you decided on this particular route at the age of—” he glanced at the papers “—just thirty?”

She straightened her back. All feelings of flirtiness had left her. Now she was firmly on the defense. “Forgive me, but I’m not sure that’s any of your concern. My reasons are private.”

“Whatever you tell me will be kept in confidence, I assure you.”

“That’s not the point.”

He remained imperturbable. “What is the point, then?”

“The point,” she said, with more patience than she felt, “is that this is a very personal decision, made for very personal reasons. I came here for a medical procedure, not to justify myself. But please rest assured that I gave it a great deal of serious thought.”

“That’s what I’m here to help you with,” he said, with more patience than she suspected he felt. “To make sure the decision you’ve reached is the right one for everyone involved.”

“But I don’t need help with that.” Her patience slipped a notch. “As I said, I’ve already made the decision.”

“Miss Tourbier,” Dr. Cross said, then leaned back in his chair and scrutinized her like Columbus surveying the land ahead and wondering why the West Indies didn’t look right, “the Mission Creek Clinic requires that every patient have counseling before taking this very serious step. It’s vitally important that we are all in agreement that this is an appropriate action for you to take.”

He made it sound like a legal issue instead of one of the heart. “I assure you, I’m capable of making decisions for myself. And the reason I’m here is for a medical procedure, not a psychological one.”

He leaned forward, piercing her with a gaze that suddenly wasn’t attractive so much as intimidating. “With all due respect, Miss Tourbier, it is not you that I am primarily concerned with. I agree that you are old enough to take care of yourself. My concern is for the child you wish to have.”

Melanie felt as if she’d been slapped. He may not have put it as kindly as he could have, but he was right. Of course this was about the welfare of the child. She’d come across as a selfish, spoiled brat, talking about herself and what she wanted. In all her years of being alone, she’d had only herself to worry about, but she knew once the child was real, it would be second nature for her to put him or her above all else.

“Dr. Cross,” she said, wishing she had an olive branch to extend, “I’m afraid we’ve gotten off to a bad start here. Not only do I agree that the needs of the child come first, but I appreciate the fact that you feel so strongly about it. I feel the same way.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, absolutely. This is not a decision I made lightly. I had to ask myself a lot of questions first, about whether I was ready to take on such a large responsibility. Which I am,” she hastened to add. “And about whether it was fair to bring a baby into the world without a father.”

He nodded, looking more interested than he had when she’d begun. “And what was your answer to that last question?”

She swallowed. Maybe she shouldn’t have brought that up. If she hadn’t, maybe he wouldn’t have thought to do it, either. “Well, I guess my answer is that I think any child is lucky to have one adoring parent. Some don’t have any.” She felt a pang of loss before she even realized she was thinking of her own parents. It was like that sometimes, her reaction to the loss so automatic that it came before any thought.

“I agree.” Dr. Cross’s voice was quiet. “There is nothing worse for a child than to feel unwanted.”

“Believe me, this baby will feel wanted and loved. He or she will have more loving attention than most kids. I have…means,” she understated. “I’m fortunate in that I won’t have to go to work and put my baby into someone else’s care. I’ll be there for him twenty-four hours a day.” She hesitated. “I believe that’s a tremendous advantage for him. Or her.”

A moment passed before he spoke again. “Miss Tourbier, I’m not going to play games. I am aware of your financial advantages. One of my concerns, though, is that a baby might seem to you to be a fun thing to have around, something to cuddle and play with, when in fact a baby is only a baby for a short period of time. Having a child is a lifetime commitment.”

“Dr. Cross, I’m not a teenager looking for something to comfort adolescent angst. I’m a grown woman who has contemplated this and made a careful decision.”

“And I want to help make sure it’s the right one.”

“But I don’t need help with that, since, as I’ve said, I’ve already made the decision.” Half an hour ago she’d hoped she’d meet this man again. Now he was turning into the biggest obstacle to her plan. Be careful what you wish for, she thought.

“Please understand, here at the clinic we like this to be a cooperative process.”

“Well, I’m trying to cooperate, but I feel like I’m up against some stiff opposition and I’m not sure why.”

He kept his gaze steady on her. “What you perceive as opposition is simply caution.”

“And what is it about me that makes you feel so cautious?”

“You are a young woman seeking to raise a child alone.”

“Why is that so shocking?”

“Not shocking,” he said in a measured tone. “But only about five percent of our cases are single mothers.”

“And do all of them undergo such scrutiny?”

“Every one of them.”

“It’s a wonder you’ve stayed in business, then.”

“It’s one of the reasons why business is thriving here. Our standards are high for both our patients and—” he paused “—our donors.”

Melanie’s face felt very hot. She knew they were picky about their donors, of course. That was why she’d chosen this particular clinic. She didn’t want sperm from some guy who was trying to make a quick five bucks to support his drinking or drug habit. She wanted the father of her baby to be someone who was carefully screened.

“All right, let’s cut to the chase,” Melanie said. “What are you worried about in my case?”

“It’s not easy to be a single mother. I’m afraid the reality of parenting might be a bit different from what you expect. Although you’re not the first single woman to want to conceive, you are young and clearly used to a lifestyle that allows you unusual freedom.”

“What’s your point?”

“What happens if it all turns out to be much harder, and maybe a lot less enjoyable, than you expect?”

“I’m sure at times it will be,” she said steadily. “And at those times I will love my child just the same.” She chose her words carefully. “Dr. Cross, life is often not what we expect. I have learned that several times over. But I would never, ever take on a responsibility like this if I wasn’t ready to give it one hundred percent.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” His voice softened and he scribbled something in her folder. “Honestly, I am. However, I’m sure you understand that we need to explore this further. It’s our standard operating procedure.”

She glanced at the desk. Did he have some sort of checklist he had to go through? “Okay,” she said, resigned. “Explore away. We’ll do it your way. I want you to feel as comfortable with this as I do.”

He gave her the look a teacher might give a mischievous child. “Now you’re suddenly feeling cooperative?”

“I’m suddenly feeling that I have no choice.”

He shrugged and gave her a quick smile. “That will do, I guess. So tell me, do you have any experience with children?”

She felt her cheeks grow warm. “Not exactly.”

“Hmm.” He leaned his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers before his face. “What do you mean ‘not exactly’?”

“Does a person have to have experience with children in order to have one?” she countered.

“Not necessarily—”

“Good. Because I’m perfectly willing to learn on the job.”

He kept his eyes on her for a moment, then made another note. She tried to see what he was writing but couldn’t.

“Am I getting points against me for that?” she asked. “What are you writing?”

He looked at her with exaggerated patience. “I’m just making a few notes to myself.”

“Care to share them?”

He looked at his pad, then set it down. “Okay. You want me to be blunt, I’ll be blunt. I don’t think you know what you’re getting into. It may not be what you expect, and if it’s not what you expect, your disappointment may become evident to the child. The best way to fix a mistake is not to make it in the first place.”

“Dr. Cross.” Melanie used her most authoritative voice. “While I do appreciate your candor, it doesn’t sound to me as if you’re trying to help me make this decision at all. It sounds as if you’re trying to talk me out of it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Does it?”

She’d had enough therapy after her parents’ deaths to recognize the basic psychological trick of making her reveal some hidden truth by encouraging her to talk. In this case, presumably, the truth he had in mind was her secret wish to be talked out of having a baby.

“Yes, it does,” she said. “I’m willing to discuss this with you and reassure you and the clinic that I’m a good candidate, but it seems to me that in order for this to work, you must be impartial. To insure that I’m committed to the child’s welfare, not to waste valuable time—yours and mine—trying to talk me out of my decision.”

“Are you afraid I will talk you out of it?”

“Not at all.” She tried to maintain her calm. “Look, as you are aware, the timing of this treatment relies on…” She searched for a delicate way to put it. “…my monthly cycle. I’m afraid that we will waste so much time driving down this dead-end road that we’ll miss this month’s, er, window of opportunity, that the entire process will be delayed. You’ve got my chart there, I assume. So you know I might need many attempts and that, even then, the chances of it working are slim. I don’t want to wait. Surely you can understand that.”

He looked at the chart, and his expression, when he looked back at her, was more compassionate. “I do sympathize with your concern. But surely you understand that I can’t rush things simply because a patient may have trouble conceiving.”

“If it’s possible at all,” she said, her voice wavering slightly with emotion. Stay calm, she told herself. Breathe.

“If it’s possible at all,” he agreed.

She took a moment to collect herself, then asked, “All right, what do I have to do to convince you?”

“Slow down a little. Truthfully, Miss Tourbier, I’m less concerned with your complete lack of experience with children than I am with your all-fired determination to do this so quickly despite the inexperience.”

He didn’t think she could do it. He wasn’t even going to give her a chance. He was going to take his little notes and then recommend to the clinic that she was a bad candidate for the treatment. Her dreams for a child, or children, would be blown out like a match, on this one man’s whim.

“Please, Dr. Cross,” she said, her heart beginning to ache. “What can I do to prove to you that I’m ready for this?”

He tapped his pen on the paper a couple of times, then let go of it.

Melanie watched it clatter on his desk.

“I have a suggestion,” he said.

Hope surged in her. He hadn’t written her off yet.

Not that he had the right to simply write her off.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Actually, it’s more of a challenge. Or—” he lowered his chin and looked at her seriously “—you might even call it a dare.”