Читать книгу The Heart Doctor and the Baby - Lynne Marshall - Страница 8

RENÉ MUNROE hadn’t been this nervous since her first date at fifteen. Today, twenty years later, she worked like a madwoman to prepare a meal for her coworker, Jon Becker.

She used whole tomatoes and garlic cloves, fresh basil and, because she liked tangy instead of sweet, she added her signature dash of balsamic vinegar to the marinara sauce. Then she went the extra mile to make the pasta from scratch.

Tonight, if she handled things perfectly, could turn out to be an “extra mile” kind of night. The linguini looked delicious as she pulled the noodles through the gizmo, hoping all would turn out as planned. Add a salad of baby greens and fresh Italian bread from her favorite bakery, and she had a meal. A darn fine meal. A meal that might lead to a dream come true.

She brushed off her hands, grabbed the dishes and tableware and hipped her way through the swinging kitchen door to the dining room while trying to push nervous thoughts out of her mind. Could she pull this off? She distracted herself by setting the table.

Three years ago she’d found a classic Craftsman home in disrepair in the foothills of Santa Barbara. Since it was close enough to the medical clinic, she bought it for a good price and little by little began restoring it. The dining and living rooms were her favorite parts of the house. She’d knocked out one wall to bring an open, flowing feel to the area, but had maintained and refinished all of the built-in shelves and extra woodwork. This was a home she intended to live in for the rest of her life. A home she hoped to have a family in.

She believed in keeping design uncluttered, like her life, and the simple dining table and chairs with a matching buffet were the only furniture in this room. Sage-green walls brought peace to her roiling jitters, and were a perfect contrast to the abundant rich golden wood.

After tonight, if all went well, the last thing her life would be was simple.

She put bright red place mats on the table to contrast the subtle earthenware vase heavily laden with colorful dried flowers. She needed things to be just so tonight, and did a quick walk-through of the living room to make sure nothing was out of place.

A natural-rock fireplace served as the focal point, and even though she’d cheated with a gas log, the fire gave the living room that extra bit of coziness she wanted. Anything to help make easier the topic she was about to bring up with Jon.

One mad dash to the bathroom to touch up her makeup and run the comb through her hair, and she was ready…just as the doorbell rang. Perfect timing.

Jon stood on her porch with his typical serious expression and a bottle of wine in each hand. Along with his usual salt-and-pepper-brown closely cropped hair, he sported a new beard tracing a thin red-tinged line along his jaw, and wore a black fleece vest, long-sleeved gray shirt and jeans. When she let him in, he smelled good, like sandalwood and some exotic spice, and it struck her that she’d never noticed his cologne before.

“Wow,” he said. “You’ve really done a lot with the house. It looks great.”

He’d helped her do a walk-through when she’d first considered buying it, and had given his nod of approval. After his divorce two years ago, she wasn’t sure how to handle their mostly business relationship and, not wanting to send the wrong message, hadn’t invited him back again. He’d struck her as a recluse since then, avoiding anything that smacked of social interaction. In fact, she’d been pleasantly surprised when he’d accepted without protest her invitation for dinner.

Had it really been that long since he’d been here? She thanked him and gestured for him to sit while she opened the wine, but instead he followed her into the kitchen.

“I thought I was the high-tech guy,” he said, “but look at you, going all stainless steel.”

“Yeah, I upgraded,” she said with a laugh as she popped the cork out of the bottle, splashed some wine into the glasses and walked him back to the living room. Small talk had never been a problem with Jon, but they’d never ventured deeper than that, and definitely had never come close to what she needed to discuss with him tonight.

“We should probably let the wine breathe,” she said, wishing she could catch her breath, too. The moment she’d seen Jon her heart started tapping out odd beats, and right this minute it felt as if someone was juggling in her stomach. What she was about to ask him was the craziest idea she’d ever had in her entire life.

“Dinner smells fantastic,” he said.

“I hope you’re hungry.” She did her best to appear nonchalant, as if her future didn’t depend on the outcome of tonight’s meal. “Let’s sit for a bit, and…uh, talk. I’ve got some cheese and crackers to go with the wine.”

Long and lean, Jon settled into the hardy wood-and-earth-tone upholstered chair that went so well with the style of the house. Come to think of it, he looked as if he belonged there. She sat in its mate so they could both share the small table where she’d already laid out the appetizers. He tossed a couple of crackers topped with the nutty cheese-ball spread into his mouth before he sampled the wine.

When was the appropriate time to bring up the subject? Surely there wasn’t any etiquette for when to broach the topic of artificial insemination amongst friends. She took a long swig of the wine and felt her mouth dry up. “I need some water—can I get you any?”

By now, with her uneasy behavior, he’d gotten that suspicious glint in his eyes, the one she’d often seen him give a patient fudging about their diet or medicine. She’d been way too skittish, and Jon could tell something was up.

“You seem really anxious.” His eyes brightened. “Is it me?” He snapped his fingers. “It’s the beard, isn’t it?”

She swiped the air. “Gosh, no. Jon! The beard?” If she’d given it any thought at all, she’d admit the beard complemented his carved features, but beards were the last thing on her mind tonight. She took another sip of wine, then headed straight to the kitchen to gather her thoughts, soon emerging with ice water for both of them.

He waited with a thoughtful expression, brows faintly furrowed. “The beard was my daughters’ idea.” He scratched the triangular swatch beneath his lower lip, and straightened in his chair as if uncomfortable with the added masculinity.

“It’s a nice addition. Really.” Why did she need to say “really” if she’d meant it in the first place? Oh, if only her jitters would go away she might act like the normal person he knew from the clinic, instead of a nervous, stammering mental job.

He grew serious and shifted on the cushion, as if his curiosity had reached its apex. “There’s a reason besides eating dinner that made you invite me tonight, isn’t there?” His narrowed, probing stare made her spine straighten. “And I’m fairly sure it isn’t to talk about my facial hair.”

She needed another glass of wine and quick. “There is something I’d like to talk about, Jon.” Oh, God, how was she going to do this? “But let’s do it over dinner, okay?”

“Oh-kay.” If he had an inquisitive look before, now he bore the expression of a sleuth about to solve the crime of the century.

She stood and he followed her to the table. She couldn’t stand still and made a dash for the kitchen.

“Can I help with anything?” he asked through the door.

“Just sit. I’ll be right back.”

Thankful for the distraction, she swept through the kitchen, put the pasta on to boil, flung open the refrigerator for the salads and, gathering up the basket of bread before hitting the door, delivered the icy cold plates, dressing and bread all in one swoop.

The two of them became miserably bad at small talk as they ate, especially since she’d hinted at a much bigger topic. He glanced at her and her gaze flitted away, suddenly finding the bread of interest. She snuck another look at him; he chased a grape tomato around his plate. The mounting awkwardness made her grateful when the pasta timer went off and she rushed back into the kitchen to serve up the main course.

Jon tore the bread apart and dipped it into the sauce. “This is great, just great,” he said after his first taste.

“I’m glad you like it.” Normally she loved to watch a man enjoy his meal, but this time around all she could do was nod and smile, and try not to break out into welts over what she was about to bring up.

Deep breath. Swallow.

“So the thing is…Jon…I was, uh, wondering…” She nibbled on bread and twirled her fork around in the noodles, over and over again, no appetite whatsoever.

Jon leaned against the slated straight-back chair. She saw the wheels turning and the cogs meshing in his genius-level mind and knew she couldn’t stall another second.

“You know you’re driving me nuts, right?” he said, planting his fork into his pasta.

She closed her eyes and blurted. “What’s your take on artificial insemination?”

His fork stopped midbite. He shut his mouth and dropped a look on her that said she’d potentially lost her mind, every last bit of it. “In general? Or for some specific reason?”

She swallowed what felt like a paper towel, a large and grainy paper towel. “Let’s start with…in general.”

“For someone who has fertility issues or no partner…” He began in his typical professorial manner, then narrowed one eye. “Is this pertaining to you?” he asked, an incredulous gaze on his face.

It was indeed pertaining to her and now was the time to get serious. No more skirting the issue. This tack was making her come off foolish and flaky, and on the topic of artificial insemination, she was anything but.

She’d done her homework, had read with interest about the local donor bank, no doubt supplied by multiple university students in need of extra cash. Wondered if she could go through with choosing an anonymous donor based on her list of specific requirements and qualities. Though it would serve her purpose, twenty-first century or not, how cold was that? Images of immature, beer-goggled university boys flashed through her mind, and a firm twist in her gut had kept her from logging into the Web site. Then she’d thought about her list of requirements and one particular face had popped into her mind.

She finished off the last few sips of wine and carefully placed the glass on the table. “I’m seriously considering it, Jon. I’m not getting any younger, and I don’t see Mr. Right walking in my front door anytime in the near future.” She grabbed his hand, didn’t realize she’d done it until she felt his hard knuckles and lean fingers. She’d never touched him in this needful way before. “I want a baby, more than you can imagine.”

“And you want my opinion about this because…?” It was his turn to guzzle the wine.

Her eyes couldn’t stretch any wider. Since she’d finally opened up the topic, she decided to go all the way. “Traditionally, my wanting a baby would entail finding the right guy, getting married and settling down.” She blurted her thoughts as her eyes roamed around and around the room. “Unless some miracle occurs in the near future, marriage and pregnancy isn’t going to happen. But this is the twenty-first century, who says I have to be traditional?”

His suspicious look, along with the expression of terror, almost made her laugh as she went for the grand finale. How did one go about asking a man for his DNA? She grimaced. Very carefully.

“And I brought the topic up with you, because in my opinion…you’d be the perfect donor.”

He choked, bobbled his glass, which toppled over and spilled. They both jumped up to mop up the liquid.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Oh, no, it was my fault for dropping a bomb on you.”

He strode into the kitchen and reappeared with a towel, then when he’d absorbed the last of the wine with it, he produced a damp sponge to clean the wood. “I hope this doesn’t stain.”

“It’s the least of my worries.” She fought with several strands of hair that had fallen in her face during the fuss over the table.

He went still as the topic noticeably sunk in. “Wow. You’re really serious about this.”

She met his gaze and gave an assertive nod.

He scraped his jaw, and paced the dining room. “Wow.”

“Will you at least think about it?”

“Wow.” The bona fide genius, Jon Becker, had melted down to uttering a single-syllable echo.

She’d finally gathered her wits and was ready to talk business. “I’ve jotted down some thoughts about everything, and maybe you can give me your input—” oh, what an unfortunate choice of words “—about anything I may have overlooked?”

His dark eyes took on the wariness of a wild animal. He seemed to need to hold his jaw shut with his hand. After a few seconds considering her proposition, he dropped another look on her that made her take a breath. “You want me to be a father again at forty-two?”

She thought carefully how to best respond. “No, Jon. I want you to donate your sperm so I can be a mother at thirty-six.”

He went perfectly still, stared at her as if he’d never seen her before. “You want a designer baby?”

Sudden calm enveloped her, and clarity of thought finally followed. “Let’s sit down.” She gestured toward the living room to the small sofa in front of the fireplace. He followed.

“I’ve already got my daughters, I don’t want any more kids,” he said. “And I’m planning a sabbatical once Lacy graduates and goes off to college. I’ve waited a long time to be free again.”

“You won’t have to be a part of the baby’s life. I’m just asking you to be the sperm donor.”

“Why not ask Phil? He’s single. Young.”

“He’s also a playboy and irresponsible.” She left out the part that she preferred Jon’s nose to Phil’s. “Jon, I’ve thought about everyone I know, and you are the top of the list. You’re intelligent, healthy…you have an endearing personality—” How was she supposed to tell him the next part? She took a deep breath and spit it out. “And I think your DNA would work really well with mine.”

“A superbaby?”

“A baby. Just a baby with a lot going for it. I’ll take complete responsibility for the child. Nothing—I repeat, nothing—will be expected of you beyond your, uh—” her eyes fluttered and she suddenly needed to swallow “—donation.” She tugged her earlobe and hoped she wasn’t blushing, though her face definitely heated up. “All things considered, your job will be relatively easy.”

Their eyes met and he seemed hesitant, as if he’d mentally walked his way through exactly what his part would be, and was completely uncomfortable with her proposition.

“But we work together,” he said. “How on earth am I supposed to not be involved?”

“I admit it could get tricky, but if you just put yourself in a clinical frame of mind, think of it as a scientific experiment between friends and colleagues, it could work.”

He didn’t look convinced.

She patted his hand, the same hand she’d never touched before tonight. “I just know we can handle this.”

He didn’t look nearly as sure as she professed to be, but she homed in to the subtle willingness to explore the possibilities with him, and seized her opportunity.

An hour or two or three later, after they’d discussed everything from health history to parental obligations or, in his case, lack thereof, to attorney input and whether or not to do home insemination versus clinical, intravaginal or intracervical insemination, the bizarre nature of their conversation seemed almost normal, as if two medical colleagues were discussing lab results.

“You feel like some dessert?” she asked.

He laughed, but admitted he did.

Amazingly, he ate every bite of the apple-and-berry torte she’d picked up at the bakery. Then, when it was time to leave, he hesitated. “I need time to think this over, René.”

“Of course! I’m just grateful you haven’t gone bolting out my door, peeling tire rubber trying to get away.”

“I wouldn’t run out on you.” He squeezed her shoulder.

“I know that, Jon.” She ducked her head against his chest, something else she’d never done with him before tonight, then quickly lifted it.

“I guess I’d better be going.” It was almost midnight.

“When you make your decision, if it’s yes, all you have to do is give me the nod and I’ll have my attorney draw up a contract. If you do decide to help me with this, I won’t hold you responsible in any way, Jon. You have my word. I promise.”

He took a breath and got a goofy look on his face. “In that case, we could save all kinds of trouble and do this the old-fashioned way,” he said with a devilish glint in his eyes.

An absurd laugh escaped her lips, and she socked his arm. Jon thought more like most men than she’d imagined. “You’re such a joker.” Though in the five years she’d known him, joker was never a word she’d use to describe him.

They’d had a conversation about creating a life without sex. He’d recited the statistics on success rates depending on his motility, and her fertility considering her age. They’d taken it to the scientific level, which made sense since they were both doctors, and he’d almost agreed to the plan. She wasn’t about to throw one major potentially mind-blowing wrench into the mix, no matter what he suggested in jest. The old-fashioned way? No way. No how.

She bit her lip and stared at him. As their gazes fused, a new understanding bridged between them. Under the most unlikely circumstances, they’d taken their business relationship to a new level. Whether Jon decided to take her up on the deal or not, things between them would never be the same.

Jon could run a hundred miles and still not work out the crazy mix of emotions sluicing through him. He’d woken up early—hell, he’d never officially fallen asleep by true sleep study standards—and after tossing and turning he’d gotten up before sunrise and hit the Santa Barbara foothills. What little REM time he did manage had been cluttered with vivid dreams about babies and doctor babes, outlandish propositions and some interesting positions, too. At one point, René had straddled him. He liked that part of his dream, yet it had made him sit bolt upright, disoriented. And poof, the sexy vision had vanished.

A sudden steep hill forced him back into the moment, and he hit it with determination, refusing to slow his pace. Last night, in another transition from non-REM to early REM, he’d seen René as if looking through the wrong end of a telescope, motioning to him to follow her as she floated farther and farther away toward a baby. A tiny baby. In a test tube.

Crazy dreams matched by crazy thoughts.

His lungs burned with each stride, his leg muscles protested with aches and near cramps, but he refused to stop, refused to give in to the hill. That damn proposition. He had plans, for crying out loud! He was going to take a sabbatical and travel to the Far East. He’d study with Asian healers and cardiologists and learn their methods while imparting his knowledge. His daughters had reached the age where they’d be going out into the world, and he dreamed about doing the same. Finally!

It still seemed unreal that two years ago his wife, out of the blue, had asked for a divorce after seventeen years of marriage. It had sent him reeling in disbelief; even now the thought released a thousand icy needles in his chest. What had he done wrong? How had she fallen out of love with him? If he couldn’t trust her to keep her word in marriage, what woman on this planet could he ever trust?

He’d withdrawn and lived the life of a recluse since then, even going so far as to take up long-distance running, anything to avoid other people. His medical practice and plans for a sabbatical had kept him going when he didn’t think he could go on. That and his relationship with his daughters.

René had asked him to consider this “deed” a special gift to her, and that he wouldn’t be involved beyond the initial donation. He could tell by the solidly sincere look in her eyes that she wanted a chance to have a baby, but would it be a passing whim?

And more importantly, based on his experience with his ex-wife, could he trust that giving his sperm would be the extent of his involvement with René?

That afternoon, the MidCoast Medical staff meeting dragged on. René stealthily tapped her foot under the table and listened to Jason recite the quarterly reports.

Her mind wandered, dying to know if Jon had made his decision yet, but doing her best not to make eye contact with him. She didn’t want to pressure him.

“We’ve balanced our budget, which means we’ll be able to buy that new lab equipment we’ve been wanting,” Jason said, using a laser pen to highlight the slide behind him. “And if things keep up this way, in a few more months we won’t have to send our patients to the local hospital for bronchoscopies. We can do them here.”

“That would be fantastic,” Phil Hansen said. “I’ve been waiting a long time for that.”

The clinic, housed in a renovated Victorian mansion in downtown Santa Barbara, was thriving. The four-doctor practice had taken a risk and prevailed against the odds. They’d built a clientele from nothing and reached out to the community, and their hard work had finally paid off.

Jason gave his signature broad smile—the one he’d been wearing ever since he’d fallen in love with and married Claire, the nurse practitioner. “Who’d have thought that five years ago when we conceived the idea to join forces and build our own clinic, we’d come this far?” he said, glancing toward his partners, then at his pregnant wife.

“Me,” Jon raised his hand. “We did our homework, studied the demographics, discovered the perfect location and need for the clinic. We had your money, Jason,” Jon added with a smirk, “and business expertise. We were bound to succeed.”

He analyzed everything and, genius that he was, always did a fine job. René glanced fondly into his luminous brown eyes, which softened ever so slightly when their gazes met. She nodded and smiled. He smiled back—a masculine take on Mona Lisa. The kind of understated yet proud smile that made René react in her gut whether she wanted to or not.

Was he sending a subtle message? Had he made his decision?

Claire shifted in her chair, her brows knotted together and lips slightly pursed. René had seen that same look hundreds of times on the faces of her third trimester patients. Toward the end of the pregnancy, constantly searching for comfort, all they longed for was to get that baby out of there! René offered a smile of encouragement as she locked gazes with her newest friend in the medical group.

Claire attempted to smile back, then tossed a glance toward the ceiling as if searching for moral support. Though considered a high-risk pregnancy since Claire also had lupus, René had seen her patient through nothing but smooth sailing from the first day she’d examined her.

Claire was expecting her second child—Jason and Claire’s first together—and their newfound love was nothing short of a miracle. It gave René hope that anything was possible. Even for her.

As René listened to the rest of Jason’s report, she stared at her lap, at the hands that had delivered countless babies…and the noticeably empty ring finger. Her thirty-sixth birthday was next month and this year, for the first time in her life, she’d become aware of distant keening. That ticking biological clock had never bothered her before, but now consumed her thoughts, drove her crazy with the desire to be a mother. Even to the point of making a fool of herself by asking Jon to be a sperm donor. Rather than cringe, she glanced longingly at Claire’s very pregnant state.

Claire gasped.

René went on alert. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Claire said, releasing the word with a cleansing breath. “Been having Braxton Hicks all day.”

René quirked a brow. “All day? Why didn’t you say something?”

Claire shrugged. “Second-kid syndrome?”

Since Claire wasn’t due for another few weeks, she’d keep her eye on her as the meeting continued.

Phil shot up, forcing her to crane her neck toward the ceiling. His longish dark blond hair swept back from his face in a cavalier manner. Tanned and too handsome for his own good, he read his obligatory monthly OSHA report, and tortured them with rules running the gamut from what chemicals were acceptable to how to dispose of soiled dressings. She prayed the pulmonary faction of their group wouldn’t tell them it was time for another disaster drill. And if he did, how soon could she schedule a vacation?

Claire let out another gasp, this time grabbing her back. René checked her watch. It had only been one minute since the last one.