The Surgeon's Surprise Twins

by Jacqueline Diamond

  Silently, Owen thanked him for confirming the fact of Bailey’s surrogacy, even as he felt a spark of annoyance at having to learn about it from a man he hardly knew. “It should be interesting to watch my niece or nephew develop day by day.”

  “Do you have kids?” Rod asked.

  Why was the fellow so nosy? But perhaps it seemed like a routine question to him.

  Erica spared Owen the bother of answering. “Neither of us does. That’s our joke, considering the kind of work we do. Personally, I prefer keeping my personal life neat and orderly.”

  “You have kids, Rod?” Owen was glad to steer the conversation away from himself.

  “I thought I did.” The anesthesiologist left that cryptic remark hanging in the air while he adjusted the patient’s breathing tube. “When my ex-wife got ready to remarry, she produced DNA tests to prove our daughters weren’t really mine. She tried to cut me off from seeing them, but the judge said they’re still legally my responsibility. Big of him, wasn’t it?” His voice caught. “All those years, I had no idea she’d cheated on me. I still feel like they’re my girls.”

  What a heartbreaking mess. While Erica expressed sympathy, Owen kept his gaze on the patient. Best not to get involved, especially since his thoughts shifted defiantly to his own circumstances.

  How often would he get to visit his baby? Although he was currently living near Boone and Phyllis, he had no rights at all, either as an uncle or a sperm donor. He supposed he should have considered that before he agreed to donate, but somehow it hadn’t mattered until he learned about the surrogacy. And until he met Bailey.

  This morning, she’d padded into the kitchen wearing a Cheshire-cat grin and asked how he’d slept. “Fine,” he’d answered truthfully, since he did feel energetic despite his restless night. He’d also appreciated the way the morning light bathed Bailey in gentle radiance, as if she were a fertility goddess.

  A what? Owen nearly choked at the ridiculous image. It probably stemmed from living in a tropical rain forest.

  The conversation continued around him, with Erica sharing horror stories about her ex, who’d dumped her for a rich woman who would support him in style. Anyone listening to this conversation would vow never to marry. A better conclusion, in Owen’s opinion, would be to choose one’s spouse very, very carefully.

  If he had a list of qualifications, it included an advanced degree and a distinguished career. Also the kind of sophistication that inspired maître d’s to guide the woman to the best table in the house.

  There was no place on that list for an impish smile and a refusal to be intimidated by a famous surgeon invading her refrigerator. Or for a nature generous enough to bear a child for her sister.

  Maybe there should be. But he drew the line at a woman who hogged the bathroom counter with a ridiculous array of creams and ointments, and who’d dumped his toiletries into a drawer without even asking. He hadn’t bothered to fight that battle…yet.

  Focusing his attention on the procedure, he made a final assessment to ensure he’d done a thorough job. Satisfied, Owen retracted the scope, thanked his staff and went to talk to the patient’s husband.

  He found the man pacing in the waiting room. “Everything looks great,” Owen said. “She’s doing fine.”

  “When can I see her?” he asked.

  “In about an hour.” Owen explained that the man’s wife was on her way to the recovery room and that he could join her once she returned to her bed in the Same-Day Surgery Unit.

  “Thanks, Doc.” The man pumped his hand gratefully. “I’m willing to adopt, but she’s set on having a second baby. I just want her to be happy. She’s the reason I get up in the morning. As long as she’s okay, that’s all that matters.”

  “Of course.”

  Being able to enrich patients’ lives was one of the most rewarding aspects of his job, Owen reflected. But in pursuing the goal of having a child, women ran risks, from taking hormones to going under anesthesia. Even for a healthy young woman, carrying a child could be hazardous. Just look at Bailey. Why was she so large?

  That was, he reminded himself, between her and her doctor. And Phyllis and Boone, of course.

  Owen went to prepare for his next procedure, a myo-mectomy to remove large uterine fibroids. He was reviewing the case on a monitor in an alcove when he heard a couple of staff members walk by.

  Normally, he ignored the ever present hum of voices, but this time he couldn’t. “They’re sharing the same house?” the man was saying.

  “I can’t wait to hear what Bailey thinks about that!” the woman replied, and then coughed as she spotted Owen. Averting her face, she scurried on.

  Well, great. The conversation in the operating room, which had no doubt been overheard by a number of people, had already become common gossip. While he’d known this was likely to happen, he hadn’t expected word to spread this quickly, or for staffers to seize on it with such glee.

  As long as they don’t know you’re the father, there’s no reason for the press to get involved. Owen felt fairly certain about that. Still, who could tell what interested the local media? And since Bailey wasn’t a patient at Safe Harbor, her coworkers weren’t bound by the center’s requirement of confidentiality. Just by common decency and discretion.

  “You’re kidding? He’s the uncle?” boomed a male voice in the hallway, followed by shushing noises.

  Owen felt the heat rise in his neck. In his younger years, friends used to enjoy embarrassing him just to watch the telltale flush. He’d mastered that response by focusing on being above such pettiness, and he resorted to the same attitude now.

  “Is my next patient ready?” he snapped at the nearest nurse, the same blond fellow who’d just shot his mouth off about Owen being an uncle.

  “I, uh, think she’s been prepped,” stammered the young man, whose name tag read Ned Norwalk, RN.

  “I don’t care what you think. I want to know if she’s ready. Go find out.”

  Owen watched in satisfaction as the nurse hurried away with a subdued, “Yes, Doctor.”

  Owen was already beginning to regret letting the cat out of the bag today, but he’d only done so as a preemptive measure. That paled beside the stories Bailey was likely to spread. What if his every personal habit and dietary quirk became fodder for staff jokes?

  Since he and Bailey were stuck with each other, they needed to have a serious discussion about respect. She might not be a patient at Safe Harbor, but she was an employee. And the reputation of the hospital and its new fertility program—not to mention Owen’s personal privacy—trumped everything else.

  He had a busy day ahead, but tonight he’d hash this out with her. This time, he didn’t intend to let her one-up him, either.

  Chapter Four

  Bailey had given up long ago on understanding men. While there seemed to be some decent ones around, like her friends’ husbands, in her experience you couldn’t count on them. They disappeared when you needed them, like her father. Or they flaked out emotionally, like the young man she’d foolishly married at nineteen and divorced at twenty-one after she realized he was more interested in playing video games than in having a relationship.

  The most puzzling man of all was Dr. Owen Tartikoff. She’d been hearing for months how abrasive he was, and she’d seen his arrogance for herself, yet this morning he’d grinned as if elated to see her scuffing into the kitchen in her oversize sleep shirt covered with anime figures. He hadn’t groused about the trucks roaring into the supermarket lot last night. Amazingly, he hadn’t even mentioned the fact that she’d dumped his shaver and cologne into a bathroom drawer, which she’d done specifically to annoy him.

  Maybe he was on drugs. She didn’t think so, though. A surgeon with a failing like that wouldn’t last long.

  Fortunately, he left early, giving her a chance to spend Saturday morning lounging around the house undisturbed, catching up on her internet contacts and taking a long nap. After lunch, Bailey arrived at the Edward Serra M
emorial Clinic for a shift as a volunteer peer counselor.

  Housed in an annex next to the city’s community center, the perpetually underfunded program had been established by pediatrician and activist Samantha Forrest as an alternative to traditional clinics. Here, pregnant teens, abused moms or anyone who needed a sympathetic ear and some guidance could wander in without worrying about appointments or paperwork.

  The other volunteers included Nora, who was meeting with a young married couple this afternoon to discuss family planning, and Nora’s husband, Leo, a police detective who sometimes counseled teen boys in need of a father figure, although he wasn’t on-site today. As for Bailey, she didn’t consider herself an expert on anything beyond nursing, but she was glad to serve as a caring friend.

  While Nora used the counseling room, Bailey went outside to a picnic table with a woman who’d wandered over from an exercise class at the community center. Sitting across from her in the leafy shade, Renée Green had a strong rectangular face, light brown hair laced with gray, and tired eyes.

  “I’m only sixty-two but I just don’t have any purpose for living.” Despite the July warmth, the woman folded her arms as if warding off a chill. Her loose-fitting tan blouse and polyester pants weren’t exactly summery. “I’ve got an okay job as a receptionist and I manage the payments on my small house. But since my husband died two years ago, I don’t feel like anybody needs me.”

  “That’s a tough one.” Bailey tried not to squirm on the hard bench.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me that life has meaning and I should get involved in something?” Renée unfolded her arms and rested them on the table.

  “You might try dyeing your hair. That could perk you up.” Most women in Southern California colored away the gray.

  The older woman barked out a laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s a start,” Bailey pointed out. “Work on the little things and the big ones will follow.”

  “Dyeing my hair won’t make me matter to people.”

  Searching for a way to rouse the woman from her gloom, Bailey asked, “What do you think it would take? What does make one person matter to another?”

  Renée’s shoulders sank. “I’d feel differently if I had a child. I gave up my baby son for adoption when I was seventeen, before I met my husband.”

  “Maybe he’d like to meet you.”

  “I entered my name into one of those registries so he could find me, but he never has.” Tears rimmed her eyes. “Does that shock you?”

  “I’d think he would be curious,” Bailey agreed.

  “I mean, that I gave up my child.” Renée gestured at Bailey’s midsection. “You and your husband must be thrilled to death.”

  “Oh, I’m divorced—I’m carrying this for my sister,” Bailey told her. “I’m probably going to end up just like you. Wait a minute—that sounded bad, didn’t it?”

  Renée gave a reluctant, almost painful chuckle. “It sounded horrible, but refreshing. At least you’re honest. I hate having people patronize me. That’s why I hardly ever talk to anyone.”

  Didn’t the woman have any friends? Afraid of making her feel even worse, Bailey skipped that subject and returned to a neutral one. “There are websites where you can upload your picture and try out different hairstyles and hair colors.”

  “It sounds like fun,” Renée conceded. “What color do you think would look good on me?”

  Bailey considered. “Red, if you want to attract attention. Or you could go blond.”

  “And make a complete fool of myself?”

  “How about strawberry-blond? That’s subtle.”

  “I’ve been a mousy brown all my life. I don’t think any shade of blond would be subtle.” But Renée was smiling.

  “If it doesn’t work, you can always color over it.”

  The woman cocked her head as she considered. “You know what? I think I really might dye my hair. Although I don’t see how that’s going to change anything.”

  “If you have no purpose in life, that’s kind of freeing,” Bailey noted. “You could do anything you like. I mean, you could give your hair a purple stripe. Who’s going to complain?”

  “People sneer behind your back,” Renée said.

  “People sneer about me all the time, but as long as they do it behind my back, so what?” Bailey replied. “Half the hospital considers me nuts for being a surrogate, and they don’t even know…well, never mind about that.” Talking about her sister’s laxness in paying medical bills could lead to a discussion of Bailey’s current living circumstances, and she had more or less promised Owen to be discreet.

  “Sounds like you could use a little counseling yourself,” Renée observed.

  “I’m a hopeless case.” Bailey spotted Nora emerging from the annex. Sunlight turned the doctor’s hair to spun gold, and a flowing rose-colored maternity top flattered her enlarged figure. “Wow, is it two o’clock already?”

  Renée checked her watch. “So it is. I should have arrived sooner. You could have told me what color to paint my toenails.”

  “Wait till you pick a hair color,” Bailey advised. “Then you can coordinate that with your nails and maybe a new wardrobe.”

  Although it was a serious suggestion, Renée seemed amused. “I’ll do that. Are you here every Saturday?”

  “Depends.” Bailey dug into her purse and found a business card with her cell number. “Call and I’ll arrange to meet you.”

  Renée got to her feet. “You’re a sweet person. I’ve enjoyed our talk.”

  “Me, too.” Although she wasn’t sure how much good she’d done, the woman did seem more cheerful.

  While Renée strolled off, Bailey greeted Nora and went inside to sign out. She emerged to find the doctor lingering in the sunshine.

  “I thought you’d left. Is Leo picking you up?” Even on a Saturday, he might be working across the street at the police station. Since his promotion to detective a few months ago, he’d been putting in long hours.

  “Yes. He’s running a few minutes late.” Nora cleared her throat. “I was on call at the hospital this morning and heard some startling news.”

  “Oh?”

  “Are you really sharing a house with Owen Tartikoff?”

  Where had that information come from? Had Alec yakked to his colleagues? Her unwanted roomie was sure to blame the whole thing on Bailey. “Who told you that?”

  “Rod Vintner, who was assisting at one of Owen’s surgeries,” she said. “Apparently the great Dr. T. made no bones about it.”

  “He told people?” What a hypocrite! “He practically bit my head off when he found out I’d discussed it with Patty.”

  “He’s a control freak,” Nora said. “As soon as he realized word was bound to get out, he must have decided to manage the message.”

  Although there was still no sign of Leo, they headed down the gentle slope to the parking lot. They’d soon be rotund enough to roll rather than walk, Bailey mused.

  “What exactly did you hear?” she asked.

  “That he co-owns the house where your sister’s letting you stay.” Nora adjusted the shoulder strap of her purse. “And that Boone’s his brother.”

  “Half brother,” Bailey corrected.

  “Were you aware of that? Before yesterday, I mean?”

  “I had no idea.”

  Nora gazed wistfully toward the parking lot entrance. You could tell she and Leo were newlyweds, the way they missed each other when they were apart for more than five minutes. They hadn’t been able to spare more than a weekend for a honeymoon because Leo needed to get up to speed on his new position. However, they’d be taking a ten-day trip to Hawaii in early August, which meant a bit of a break for Bailey, too.

  “So Owen is your baby’s uncle.” Nora’s voice broke into her reverie.

  “Yeah. How about that?”

  Nora clicked her tongue. “You don’t have to put up with that man’s bullying. Bailey, your sister had no business letting him move
in without your consent. You didn’t agree, did you?”

  “Totally blindsided.” Usually, Bailey enjoyed talking to Nora, but today she felt an urge to get away before anything awkward hit the fan. Anything more awkward.

  “Tell Phyllis to put you up somewhere else,” Nora said. “She’s not paying you to be her surrogate. The least she can do is make sure you have decent living quarters.”

  “She can’t afford it.” Bailey clamped her mouth shut too late. Why, oh, why hadn’t she developed the habit of controlling her tongue?

  Nora studied her with concern. “You told me your sister and brother-in-law were doing well financially.”

  “They are!” Bailey hurried to explain. “They’ve got a piece of a big construction project, a wonderful investment opportunity in New Zealand, and they’re pouring everything into it.”

  “You sound like you’re quoting someone,” Nora said skeptically.

  Bailey hesitated, only for an instant, but the doctor must know her well enough to note the significance. After all, they’d worked together for five years. “That’s what Phyllis said. But so what?”

  “You’re concerned and so am I.” Beneath the pink top, something rippled. Was that the baby moving? At five months, it was possible—or Nora might just be breathing heavily. “Bailey, how much of your savings is invested with their firm?”

  “About…twenty thousand dollars.” To Bailey, it was an enormous sum.

  “Is that everything you have?”

  No use dissembling. “Pretty much.”

  Nora tapped her foot. “I’d hate to think of you losing it.”

  “I won’t. They send me monthly accounting.” Across the lot, a group of senior citizens emerged from the main building, exchanging farewells as they dispersed. They reminded her of something. “Most of their clients are older folks, like those guys. They’re smart. I’m sure a lot of them have experience with investing. They must be staying on top of the whole business.”

  Nora’s expression darkened. “How do they find these investors? Through seminars?”