She bent down to pick up her purse and saw the stain on her skirt. And to think she’d been worried about how she looked. She stood, feeling hurt and angry all at once. This hadn’t been a date, it had been an interview, which she had grossly failed because this man in all his shallow-mindedness hadn’t been able to see past her job title. If he’d only been willing to look just a smidgen deeper, he’d have seen that she would gladly give up her paycheck, her clients, her yard, just about everything, for the privilege of having a child—of being a mother. Tears smarted in her eyes. Appalled, she walked briskly past Paul, murmuring a hasty thanks for the juice he’d bought.
As she walked out the door, the thought struck her that her prayer had been answered—it had indeed ended quickly.
Chapter Eight
“It was terrible.” Jane’s voice trembled as she spoke into her cell phone. “No, Caroline. I’ll be fine. Thanks.” Jane disconnected the call, walked around the corner from Starbucks, and took a moment to sit on a bench and compose herself. She’d no sooner opened her purse to find a tissue than a woman sat down beside her.
“Don’t take it so hard. I knew right away you weren’t his type.”
Jane looked at the woman. “Excuse me?”
“Paul.” The woman said his name in the same dreamy voice Jane had used just this morning.
“You’re not what he’s—” the woman inclined her head toward the entrance to Starbucks, “—looking for.”
“And I suppose you are?” Jane found a tissue and snapped her purse shut.
“Exactly. Only he doesn’t know it yet. But after a day of meeting the wrong women, I’ll be here waiting for him, to make it all better.”
“Wait a minute,” Jane said. “Are you telling me that he—Paul—is meeting with different women all day long?”
“Every forty minutes, honey.”
Jane frowned at this information. It had been a job interview.
“That poor, poor man. Can you imagine how hard this must be for him?”
“No, I can’t,” Jane muttered sarcastically. She dabbed at her eyes with the tissue.
The woman nodded. “It’s enough to make anyone cry. Imagine losing your spouse and having a baby in the ICU. Just terrible, isn’t it?”
Jane’s eyes widened. A baby? In the ICU? “Yes,” she said quietly. He already had a baby. A wife . . .
Jane rose from the bench and looked down at the woman. “Well, good luck then.”
The woman’s collagen-filled lips turned up in a smile. She flipped her long, blonde hair over her shoulder and stood, revealing more cleavage than Jane and all her sisters had collectively. This woman thought she was the right one. This woman had managed to learn that Paul had been married, lost a wife, had a baby . . . Whereas she, Jane, had learned . . . nothing about him.
She was a terrible date and a terrible interview. Sobered, Jane turned and continued down the street.
* * *
Jane sat in her car with the door open, listening to voices echo through the hospital parking garage. Her mind had been so preoccupied since her failure of a date and the revelations that followed, she’d hardly recognized where she was going until she’d gotten here. It seemed that through a will of its own, her subconscious had guided her through lunch traffic to Swedish Medical Center.
What are the odds his baby is here? she wondered as she finally got out of her car and started toward the entrance. There were several Seattle hospitals that treated children. But the woman outside Starbucks had said Paul had a baby. Still, infants were treated at Children’s Hospital too. She remembered her brother’s little boy having surgery there when he was about three months old.
She supposed she could go there next.
At this thought, Jane stopped walking and sat down on a shaded bench outside the main entrance. What was she doing? Was she so desperate that she’d taken to stalking men and their children? She folded her arms and sat thinking as her cell rang—again.
“Three guesses,” Jane muttered as she opened her purse. A quick glance at the phone confirmed her suspicions. It was the Sweviecs, calling for the third time in half an hour. Jane let the call go to voice mail before dialing Tara’s number to see if she knew what was up.
“Emerald Realty downtown,” Tara answered with her usual lilting casualness. “This is Tara.”
“May I help you?” Jane finished for her. It was a wonder Tara kept her job.
“Jane!” Tara exclaimed. “How was your date? Did he turn out to be a nutcase looking to lull innocent women into his lair?”
“Yes,” Jane said, absently. “I’m in his convertible right now, on my way to his apartment.”
Tara gasped. “You have all the luck.”
Jane rolled her eyes. “I’m joking, Tara.”
“Oh,” Tara said.
Jane heard the pout in her voice. “Listen, I need you to cover my phone awhile longer, and by chance have the Sweviecs called?”
“They did. Where are you? What’s going on? Are you at Paul’s apartment?”
“Not hardly. The date—interview—was a disaster.”
“Told you. You should have gone and got your hair fixed.”
“I didn’t have time. Some of us actually work for a living. Now tell me what’s going on with my clients.”
“Not much. Mrs. Sweviec just called to say they’ve changed their mind about wanting a corner Jacuzzi with glass block. Now she wants an oval—still a minimum of eight jets—with travertine surround.”
“Three calls for that?” Jane grumbled.
“Oh, I don’t doubt they’ve been calling,” Tara said. “I knew my idea would work. I knew it!”
“What idea? Tara. What have you done?” Jane rose from the bench and began pacing. “I’ve hung in there with these people for eleven weeks, biding my time, using every ounce of patience I have to please them so I can make a sale—a sale that will pay my bills for a good, long time.”
“Precisely,” Tara said. “And I imagine now, if you call them back, you may just have that sale.”
“What?” Jane stopped pacing and ran a hand through her tousled hair.
“I told them it was a good thing they didn’t want that old corner tub after all, because you were, at that very moment, with another couple who were writing up an offer for the same house.”
“You didn’t,” Jane said, appalled.
Tara laughed. “I did. And I must say, Mrs. Sweviec seemed a little concerned that she had competition.”
“Imaginary competition. What you did was dishonest and—and probably illegal too.”
“I was just prompting them a little.”
“It was wrong, Tara.”
“Hmmph,” Tara snorted into the phone. “Some people are so unappreciative.”
“We could get in trouble, you know.”
“We?” Tara asked. “They’re your clients.”
“Thanks,” Jane muttered.
“No problem. I’m happy to help anytime.” Jane heard the snap of Tara’s gum.
“Then help me now. What do I say when they call back?”
“Don’t know,” Tara said. “But I’m sure you’ll think of something good.”
Jane heard a click, and a second later the phone went dead. Frustrated, she stared at it, then jumped when it rang again.
She pushed the button without looking at the caller ID. “Hello.”
“Jane dear, this is Martha Sweviec. I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”
“I’m sorry. I had an appointment.” Jane clenched her teeth.
“Your assistant told us all about it. And frankly, that’s the reason I’m calling. We’ve had a change of heart about the bathroom at the house you showed us last Thursday.”
“I just got my messages,” Jane said hastily. “Tara told me you’d prefer an oval with—”
“No, no, dear. We’ve decided the corner Jacuzzi will do fine, that is, if it’s still available.”
“It’s—”
“An
d if there’s an offer, let me just say that Wallace and I might be willing to go higher. The master bedroom and sitting room are exactly what we’ve been looking for.”
Jane rubbed her ear to make sure she was hearing correctly. This sweet person could not be Mrs. Sweviec.
“So, how high was the offer?” Mrs. Sweviec demanded.
Jane smiled, now that voice she knew.
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss other clients, Mrs. Sweviec, but if you’d like to come in tomorrow morning, I’m sure we can write up an acceptable offer.” Jane cringed. Not at liberty? Where had that come from? Next thing she knew, she’d be running for office.
“That would be fine, dear. Shall we say, nine?”
“Nine is great, but Mrs. Sweviec, I feel I need to explain—”
“No need. I understand perfectly. You’re loyal to all of your clients. Just remember that we’re counting on you to be loyal to us tomorrow. Good-bye, dear.”
Jane heard the disconnecting click but continued to hold her phone a minute longer, wondering if she should call Mrs. Sweviec back and explain that there was no other offer. Deciding that would be best done tomorrow—after she’d had time to think about how she would explain Tara’s deception—Jane slipped the phone into her purse. Feeling guilty but grateful, she followed her instincts to the hospital entrance and then took the elevator up to the NICU.
Once inside the viewing area, Jane peered through the large glass window and wondered what to do next. She watched as the nurses on duty moved from one isolette to another, monitoring and caring for their tiny patients. There was no way to know which, if any, of the infants belonged to Paul.
Behind her the door swung open, and Jane turned to see who it was, then smiled as she recognized Mrs. Howard, the grandmother of a little boy who’d been in the NICU when Andrew was there.
“Mrs. Howard. It’s so good to see you again.”
“Please, call me Marion,” the elderly woman said. “It’s Jane, isn’t it?”
Jane nodded, and Marion took her hands in a friendly squeeze.
“How is that little boy of yours?”
“Andrew is fine. He’s at home with his mother—my sister—right now. Remember, I was just filling in for her when she had chicken pox?”
“Yes, yes. That’s right.” Marion nodded. “Baking soda paste. Best thing in the world for those, you know. No need to buy any of that expensive pink stuff.”
Jane smile widened. “Is that how you treated your children?”
“Every one of them. Common sense and extra loving got them through the pox and much worse. Same thing applies today. All these babies need—” She inclined her head toward the nursery window, “is a little extra loving and they’ll be just fine.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Jane said. “Is your grandson still here?”
“Yes, though he’s so much better. He’s a fighter, that one, got all the spunk of his granddad.”
“And I see you’re still coming to see him. He’s lucky to have you.” Jane didn’t doubt for a minute that time spent in this woman’s arms would be a powerful healer for anyone. With a pang of sorrow, she thought of her own grandmother who had passed away three years earlier, and she suddenly wished Mrs. Howard would take her hands again.
“I’m the lucky one,” Marion insisted. “I’m so fortunate to come here while my Penny is at work. In fact, I’ve enjoyed it so much, I’m even thinking of volunteering here after Jesse is better and goes home. Though—” She leaned in closer to Jane and lowered her voice to a whisper. “My friend Carol says I should work with her down in geriatrics. She thinks her job is the best because of all the widowers there to flirt with. Says it reminds her of nursing during the war.”
Jane laughed. “I can see it would be hard to choose.”
“Oh no, not for me. These babies are the best. There’s something special about them.”
“I agree,” Jane said, turning back toward the nursery window.
Marion patted Jane’s arm. “So if your nephew is at home, what brings you here today?”
“My um . . .” Jane realized that she was staring at the answer to her dilemma. Mrs. Howard knew about every baby in the NICU. Not only was she Jesse’s grandmother, but she had been dubbed the NICU grandmother by several families—at least when Andrew was here. Jane doubted much had changed. There was something about Marion’s sweet countenance that made people open up to her. She was a great listener and a genuinely compassionate person. Of course she would know about Paul’s baby.
“My friend, Paul—Bryant—has a baby here, and I was hoping to see . . .” Him? Her? Jane didn’t even know that much.
“You’re friends with Mr. Bryant,” Marion exclaimed, looking at Jane differently. “How wonderful. That poor man needs some friends. Losing his wife and no other family to help him . . .” She shook her head sadly. “But which baby did you come to see?”
Jane gave Marion a puzzled look.
“After all,” Marion continued, “he has two.”
* * *
Depressed at how tired he was, Paul stepped off the elevator and wearily made his way toward the NICU. It was one thing to get winded taking the stairs, but quite another when just getting on and off an elevator took every ounce of energy he had left. Ignoring the nagging worry that his cancer was spreading again, he reasoned it was the painkillers he’d swallowed this morning that were making him so tired. His health couldn’t be declining that fast. Not now. More likely it was those women who had taken it out of him, leaving him physically and emotionally drained.
He’d hardly been able to stand that last appointment. Sharlene had spent an agonizing thirty-eight minutes on her Grande Mocha Frappuccino. He’d never seen anyone drink so slowly. He glanced over his shoulder again, worried he was being followed by her or that blonde bombshell. What a nightmare. He could still hear her shouting, “But I’m right for you! And I absolutely love children.”
About now, the Department of Child Welfare didn’t look so bad.
And to think he’d only met half the women he was supposed to today. He hated to imagine an afternoon to match this morning. Skipping out on his later interviews was worth getting an unlisted number—and a bodyguard if necessary.
Paul knew he was being picky, but who wouldn’t in his situation? Had meeting women been so stressful or downright scary before? He thought back to his college days, trying to form a mental image of some of the girls he’d gone out with. His mind drew a blank. He had dated, hadn’t he? There’d been that one homecoming dance . . . Paul groaned. He hadn’t meant to shut his date’s dress in the car door and drive like that the whole ten miles to the restaurant. But she had meant it when she told him off at the dance and called her roommate to come get her.
No wonder he was so bad at this. If it hadn’t been for Pete introducing him to Tami, who knows what might have happened.
Or not happened. If it hadn’t been for Pete . . .
Trying to shake off his misery and exhaustion, Paul went to the sink and began scrubbing up. Across the room, he saw two women standing by the NICU door. He hoped nothing bad had happened today. He wasn’t worried that it might have been Mark or Madison—the hospital would have called him. But he hated it when any baby had a particularly bad day. He somehow felt like they—he and the other parents here—were all in this together. They made up a club of sorts whose membership required being a parent of a critically ill infant. When one of those infants suffered, all the parents felt it, because they knew it could have just as easily been their child.
It could be his next.
Dreading any more bad news, Paul pulled a mask from the box and turned toward the door.
Several steps away he stopped, shock registering on his tired face as he recognized the woman standing beside Marion. He was used to seeing Marion here, but the woman with her . . . He catalogued her features—just to make certain.
Sandals, fluorescent toes—he could see them even from across the room—flow
ered skirt, wild hair. It was her all right. One of his many appointments that had gone terribly wrong from the beginning. Paul tried to remember why this one had been so awful. After a moment he had it.
She was the realtor. He moved closer. She was looking at Madison through the glass like a . . . vulture. Wasn’t that the word she’d used? Paul moved closer.
“Poor woman,” Marion said. “Died right after the paramedics got there. It’s really a miracle the twins survived.”
Jane, a look of revelation on her face, turned away from the window and looked at Marion. “I think I was here that day, taking care of Andrew when a nurse came in and . . . How old are they? About seven weeks?”
Marion nodded.
“Then I’m sure of it. I remember.” Jane looked through the window again, straining to see the infant in the isolette Marion had pointed out.
Paul watched, both fascinated and worried, as Jane leaned her forehead against the glass. Who is she? he wondered. If she was a realtor, then what was she doing in the NICU the day his babies were born? Was she a volunteer? Who was Andrew?
Marion stepped closer to the window and to Jane. “The little girl, Madison—Maddie I like to call her—she’s had spunk from the get-go. But her brother Mark, he’s got a problem with his heart. I’m not quite sure what it is exactly. I hear he’s better though, since his surgery awhile back.”
“Surgery,” Jane murmured. “On a preemie. That must have been so—so terrifying for his father—for Paul.”
Marion pursed her lips together and nodded, looking at Jane thoughtfully. “I imagine fear is a feeling he’s become well acquainted with. Having cancer does that to a person,” she finished meaningfully.
“What?” Jane gasped, her gaze pulled from the window to Marion.
Paul froze, hoping she hadn’t seen him.
Marion misinterpreted Jane’s exclamation. “Yes, dear. I had cancer too—breast cancer. I was only forty-two when I had a mastectomy. It was quite terrifying—and I don’t just mean the surgery. It’s the uncertainty of it all—not knowing how long you’ll be around.” She shook her head. “What Mr. Bryant must be going through . . . I count my blessings each and every day that I’m here with my grandchildren.” She gave Jane a final squeeze. “And now I’d better get in to see that grandson of mine.” She turned and headed for the sink, nearly running into Paul. She smiled at him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Bryant. Eavesdropping were you?” she asked with a knowing wink. Then, before Paul could reply, she added, “She’s a keeper, that one.”
Counting Stars Page 6
