The Heart Doctor and the Baby Read online

  She watched him closely, forcing him to say something. Anything. “And I suppose this deal we’re making will make you happy?” he said.

  With warm eyes hinting at wisdom well beyond her thirty-plus years, René studied him as if on the verge of telling her deepest secret. That near-perfect smile stretched across her face. “You have no idea.”

  The moments yawned on with the two of them cautiously watching each other. She told him how her parents had retired and moved to Nevada. How she was an only child. How all of her best friends were married and how she always felt like the odd woman out whenever they got together. He asked where the men in her life had all gone. Her relaxed expression became peppered with annoyance.

  He knew the war chant—men, the callous heartbreakers! He could repeat the same, only changing the gender. Yet he wanted her to open up, to tell him something personal, so he bit his tongue. If they were going to make a baby together, he felt he had the right to know more about her.

  “Ten years ago, I’d thought I’d found my soul mate, but instead, he dumped me, crushing my heart beneath his feet as he walked out the door.” She glanced at him. Could she tell he knew exactly how she felt? “Sorry for sounding overdramatic, but that’s how it felt. Since then, I’ve had a series of less-than-satisfying relationships, and I’m pessimistic when it comes to the topic of permanent love.”

  Jon had been married so long, and hadn’t pursued much in the way of romantic relationships since his divorce out of commitment fears, but he’d heard enough women around the clinic moan about the same thing. Love and permanence didn’t seem to fit. He figured the world of dating wasn’t such a great place to be these days, but for the life of him and his old-school ways, he couldn’t figure out what kind of guy would let a woman like René get away.

  Watching René sip her tea, Jon figured the ticking of her biological clock influenced her every thought. Sure, lots of women were waiting until their early forties to have their first babies, but she’d have to risk the time to find the right guy, get married and get pregnant when it was a well-known fact that fertility declined with each year after thirty. She’d made it very clear she wasn’t willing to take the chance. He’d computed that if she waited much longer, she’d be in her late fifties with teenagers, and that thought, having two teenagers himself, gave him pause. It was all luck anyway, and if he knew one thing about René, it was that she wasn’t a gambler. If she was going to respond to her brewing and strengthening desire for motherhood, she’d have to act…well, soon.

  “Have you really given up on finding the right guy?” He lifted his brows, prodding, then when she didn’t immediately answer, he switched to a more challenging look.

  Her gaze danced away. “Not completely.”

  Since she wasn’t about to open up, he let slip a sudden thought. “Someone like you could make the right guy very happy, but after you have a baby—” my baby; the quick thought took him by surprise and not unpleasantly “—it may be more difficult to find him.”

  “Who?” she asked.

  “Him. The right guy.”

  “Having a baby on my own may not seem like the perfect solution, but it’s what I want. I don’t need a man to validate me. And if the consequences are being a single mother, I’ll deal with them like a big girl.”

  For the third time in as many days she placed her hand on top of his. Her warmth enveloped his and on reflex he responded and twined his fingers through hers. This handholding business was starting to feel normal. His eyes latched on to her almost-caramel gaze and held it, unwavering.

  She squeezed his hand. “You’re giving me the most important gift I’ve ever wanted. How will I ever be able to thank you?”

  He thought long and hard about the right response. He thought about the greatest gift in his life—his daughters—and though his answer might come off as being lame, he meant it. “You can thank me by being a good mother.”

  René had pulled the lucky straw when it came to choosing offices. Hers was in the front of the American version of the Queen Anne Victorian house. The three-story, cream-colored structure proudly bore the official Santa Barbara historical site emblem. Her corner office was nestled in the polygonal-shaped tower, which came complete with ceiling-to-floor bay windows. She’d covered them in sheer white lace, and loved how the sun danced in patterns across the walls in the afternoons.

  She’d splurged on a Chinese-inspired walnut desk with cabriole legs, and one huge Oriental rug over the wood floor. The office seemed more befitting of a princess than a middle-class girl from Tustin, California.

  Her parents had cashed in early on her brains, and scholarships flowed throughout her high school and college years. She’d never relied on anything but hard work and innovative thinking to get her through, though many attributed her success to her looks rather than sweat and elbow grease. It didn’t seem worth the effort to hold a grudge for their uncharitable assumptions.

  She’d tried her best to be the perfect daughter, the perfect student, the perfect girlfriend—that one had never paid off—and the perfect medical practice partner and doctor. The last required long hours and dedication to the clinic, and left little room for a normal social life. Now, thanks to Jon’s decision, she could skip over all of the preliminaries and have her shot at motherhood.

  His one request? To be a good mother. He hadn’t said perfect mother, no, just a good one. A good-enough mother. And that’s what she’d try with all of her heart to be.

  A rap at her door, followed by her nurse escorting her next patient into the office for a consultation, forced her out of the all-consuming thoughts.

  After greetings, René engaged the tension-filled eyes of her last patient of the day. The woman sat across from her desk wringing her hands. Her husband sat waiting beside her, straight as a giraffe, eyes more like a hawk.

  “I’ll get right to it,” René said and smiled, fingering a printout report. “I received your endometrial biopsy results this morning, and they were benign.” She smiled again, and noticed that relief hadn’t washed away the couple’s furrowed brows and apprehensive eyes. “That means it was negative. You’re clean. No more cancer.”

  The middle-aged patient and her husband shared a sigh, smiled and hugged. The scene made René wish all her medical “news” could be as good.

  After they stood and shook hands, and René had instructed the patient to stop by Gaby’s desk and make a follow-up appointment, she folded her arms and paced the room. She was at her prime, in excellent physical condition, and good health should never be taken for granted. Now was the perfect time…for…

  Her eyes drifted to the one wall reserved for every baby she’d ever delivered. The ever-growing collage of pictures—big and small, ornate and plain—called out to her. She scanned the gallery and thought again about becoming a mother. Chills tickled her neck.

  She sat at her desk, stared at the detailed crown molding along the ceiling and tapped a light rhythm with her pen. More exciting thoughts about parenthood whispered through her mind. Her dream really could come true. She could barely wait.

  With her restless gaze wandering the expanse of the office, she nibbled a fingernail, while her crossed leg pumped a breakneck beat. On the opposite wall was a framed photograph of the four MidCoast Medical partners the day the clinic had opened. She meandered over and took the picture in her hands. They all smiled. She was flanked by Jon on one side and Philip on the other, and next to Jon stood Jason, the owner of the building. The day was one of the happiest of her life. She remembered hugging each of them, and sharing a bottle of champagne. She thought about the hope they all had, and the desire to serve the local Santa Barbara community, back before Jason’s wife and daughter had died and Jon was still happily married.

  She’d expected to marry, too, but life had surprised them all. Only Philip, the happy bachelor, seemed to make it through the past five years unscathed.

  Well, it was her chance now. The sperm bank had called to tell her Jon had made
an appointment for today—Valentine’s Day! He had skipped part of his morning clinic for an appointment, and she’d quietly chuckled over the reason—to donate his sperm, designated for her. But when it hit her between the eyes that her dream was about to come true, the gesture touched her so deeply she’d flat-out cried. Now she grinned and shook her head. Jon was right about two things: he was full of surprises, and no matter what happened after this, their relationship would never be the same.

  Who knows how long she stared at the photograph. Jon’s image made her smile. His lanky frame, angular features, friendly demeanor and over-the-top intelligence gave her confidence she’d chosen the right man, and right now, she owed him another gigantic thank-you. And maybe another home-cooked meal?

  Jon stared down Antonin Grosso. The stocky man sat across from his desk with arms folded, and a stubborn glint in his eyes.

  “Your thallium treadmill showed an abnormality suggestive of arterial blockage.”

  The man scrubbed his face with a beefy hand. “Please, doctor, I’m a butcher—speak the English!”

  Jon grimaced. True, layman’s terms were his downfall. “You may have a blocked artery in your heart. I can’t stress enough the need for an angiogram. Oh, uh, that’s a study that will tell me if any of your heart arteries are blocked.” He fished through his patient education pamphlets and found the right one, then handed it to him.

  “I no need this test. I feel fine.”

  “Feeling fine and being fine are two different things, Mr. Grosso.” Jon ran his hand over his stiff spiky hair and reconsidered the explanation in butcher’s vernacular. “Take your prime beef. It may look fine, but until the U.S. government checks it out and approves it, you won’t know if it’s diseased or not.” He stared at the man while the analogy computed. “You look good. You feel good. But your heart isn’t so good. This study says so. We may need to unplug the arteries so your heart gets more blood and feels better.”

  Something clicked. The man’s expression brightened. “You mean like that plumbing guy? My pipes need cleaning?”

  Jon snapped his fingers and pointed at Mr. Grosso. “Exactly! Your pipes may need cleaning out. We need to schedule an appointment for a special test to decide if they do.”

  “I don’t know. That sounds dangerous. I need to talk to my wife first.”

  “Okay. Talk to your wife, but make it soon. I’ll talk to her, too, if you’d like. Bottom line—you need this test, Mr. Grosso.”

  “Okay, okay, but I feel fine.” He rose to leave, and Jon stood, too.

  “It’s Friday. I want to hear from you by next Wednesday.” Jon waved the EKG and treadmill results around to impress the patient that he had solid proof he needed the angiogram. “You have to get this done ASAP.”

  The man glanced over his shoulder, then hung his head when he grabbed the doorknob. “We’ll see,” he mumbled.

  Jon sat on the edge of his solid oak behemoth of a desk and shook his head. Before he had the chance to mutter a single curse, something grabbed his attention, and two young ladies rushed him.

  “Dad!”

  “Hi, Daddy!”

  Amanda and Lacy threw their arms around him and hung tight. Every frustrated physician-oriented thought he’d been thinking flew out of his head. His teenage daughters had a way of doing that for him.

  “Hey!” he said, smiling. “You guys are early.”

  “Mom had a hot date,” Lacy said, with a strong hint of sarcasm.

  Ack. Cherie hadn’t even tried to hide her multiple trysts from the girls since the divorce. Hell, she’d started extramarital dating before they’d even finalized the divorce. The thought still boiled his blood.

  While deep in a group hug, he noticed René walk up to his door. Her intent expression changed to comprehension when she spied the girls. Since his office was in the back of the building, and the copying machines and bathrooms were in the middle, he knew she only came to this part of the clinic if she needed to talk to him.

  She shook her head and flipped her hand in a wave, mouthed “thank you” and started to walk away. The sparkle in her eyes, since he’d agreed to be her sperm donor, had made everyone in the clinic take note. He’d heard his nurses comment to each other. “What’s up with Dr. Munroe?” “I wonder if she’s in love!”

  His daughters turned their heads toward the door and caught sight of René just as she turned to leave. “I just wanted to wish you a happy Valentine’s Day, Jon,” she said, expertly covering for herself.

  “Hey, same to you.”

  He grinned at the thought of having put that gleam in her flashing eyes. Briefly, he wondered what would have transpired if his daughters hadn’t arrived early. Would she give him another squeeze of the hand and kiss on the cheek, a gorgeously grateful smile, and eyes so filled with joy his heart would palpitate? He felt guilty how simple his part of the agreement was, but if she wanted to make this huge deal out of it, it was fine with him. As long as no one found out. As long as it wouldn’t change his life or routine, or plans for China.

  “Who was that?” Lacy asked.

  “You know, Dr. Munroe. She’s one of the partners,” he said. He continued the group hug with the girls, and smiled.

  “She’s really pretty,” Amanda said.

  “Why don’t you ask her out?” Lacy added.

  “A date?” He made an incredulous laugh. “Who needs that when I’ve already got my favorite girls?”

  Even if it would cost him a dinner out and involve some sort of shoes or clothes shopping, he wouldn’t trade his biweekly visitation weekends with his daughters for anything in the world. Especially on the most interesting Valentine’s Day he’d had in a long time.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MONDAY morning, René had to teach the last “What to Expect When Expecting” class since Claire had delivered prematurely. Ten women in various stages of pregnancy sat rapt with attention at the day’s topic: Epidural or Natural Birth. René already knew what her personal preference would be. Natural birth.

  One woman was unfamiliar to René, and since only MidCoast Medical patients, in particular her OB/Gyn patients could participate, she questioned her.

  “Oh, I’m Gretchen, Stephanie Ingram’s doula. She was called into court today.”

  The lawyer was involved in a high-profile murder case, and René had often lamented about the horrible timing of it with her pregnancy.

  Hmm, a doula. Stephanie had hired an assistant to provide nonmedical support during the pregnancy and delivery. Claire had recommended her. The doula would perform nonmedical duties—anything from back rubs to aromatherapy, to errands, or anything else the future mom might need. The doula’s goal was to organize and support the mother through the entire process. Sounds like something I may require in the near future, if all goes well. It was never too soon to plan ahead.

  “May I have your business card?” René asked.

  Gretchen Lingstrom—freckled, redheaded, tattooed and eyebrow pierced—beamed as she handed her the card.

  After the class had ended, René searched out Jon. She wanted to bring him up to date on the chat with her lawyer. Both of his exam rooms were closed, which meant he was seeing a patient.

  She peeked around the corner of his door. He sat, head down, scribbling away with his left hand. For an out-of-this-stratosphere smart guy, he definitely had an artistic side. One thing she remembered was that he kept a journal, and it was something she’d always admired about him. He’d admitted it to her at the first clinic Christmas party after his divorce, where he’d had a bit too much to drink. He’d clearly been hurting at the time, and said it helped him relieve stress and work through his divorce. She’d never realized how hard his divorce had been on him until the other night, when they’d set out to get to know each other after agreeing to make a baby together. She wondered if he was writing about how backward their process was.

  René smiled and tapped on the door. Her stomach went quivery and her heart bumped up its rhythm, and she didn’t
understand why.

  “Hey,” he said, a welcoming gleam in his eyes.

  “Hey. I just wanted to bring you up-to-date. I got word the…uh…specimen made the grade. We’re all set to go as soon as I—” she glanced down the hall and back, then whispered “—ovulate.”

  Surprisingly, his cheeks rouged up as he gave her a lightbulb broad smile and a thumbs-up sign.

  That afternoon, Mrs. Grosso stood somber faced before Jon, with Antonin doing his best to hide behind her four-foot-eleven frame. “He no want the test. It’s too much. Too dangerous.”

  “Mrs. Grosso, are you aware that your husband could die from a heart attack if he doesn’t take care of his arteries?”

  She glanced over her shoulder; Antonin made such a minute head shake only his eyes seemed to move. She let go a long string of emphatic Italian words, obviously berating him for denying that fact prior to now.

  “No. No. No,” Antonin said. He couldn’t be swayed.

  Worry etched her brow as she shrugged. “What I’m going to do?”

  Jon looked into his patient’s eyes. “If I make an appointment for an ultrasound of the heart, where they just bounce sound waves off your chest, will you go?”

  “No cutting? No needles?” the man said.

  Jon shook his head. “If you see for yourself there is a blockage, will you promise to have the test—the real test—to save your life?”

  The missus poured out more Italian, this time using her hands and arms for accentuation. Antonin’s grumpy face took on a more thoughtful expression.

  “You’ll already be in the hospital and we can handle things from there. What do you say?” Jon said.

  The man stared at the floor and mumbled, “Oh-kay.”