As she went to summon the next patient from the waiting room, Harper basked in a warm glow, thinking about rescuing those little boys from her dreams. What a miracle if someday they might run and play for real.
* * *
THE FIRST DAY OF SPORTS camp, as Peter had discovered the previous year, brought its share of bumps. Homesick kids, conflicts and acting out, youngsters with a fear of water who resisted swimming, and disorganized parents who arrived late—all were par for the course. It was nearly 7:00 p.m. by the time he collected his car from the faculty parking lot and drove home.
Although this northern part of Safe Harbor, California, lay several miles from the ocean, a sea breeze drifted through his car window. On his left lay a light industrial area, with a shopping plaza on the right. A note clipped to the dashboard reminded Peter to stop for milk and cereal. In his impatience, he ignored it. He had enough supplies to last until tomorrow, anyway.
A few minutes later, he reached a neighborhood of old-fashioned cottages set amid palm trees, firs and jacarandas. Angela had fallen in love with the name of their street, Starbright Lane, even before she saw the fairy-tale cottage with its gingerbread trim, broad front porch and latticed windows.
While Peter might have preferred a modern design, he’d been relieved to discover they could manage the payments on their teachers’ salaries. Room for a home gym, along with a small paved basketball court behind the double-wide garage, had sealed the deal for him. After three years of cramped apartment living, he’d been grateful for the space.
From the garage, Peter carried his laptop case through the connecting door to the green-and-white kitchen. Glass-front cabinets displayed Angela’s flowered dishes and teacups, while the scents of vanilla and orange spice lingered even now, nearly two years after her death. He half expected to see her turn from the stove, greeting him with a smile. Teaching first grade hadn’t dissuaded her from cooking a full meal almost every night, while Peter had handled dishwashing duty.
After setting down the laptop, he cut through the living room to fetch the mail from the front-porch box. Since he did most of his banking and bill paying online, there wasn’t much beyond advertising flyers.
Peter tossed those in the trash and strode down the hallway, past his bedroom and the guest room that they’d planned to convert into a nursery. A knot formed in his chest.
They’d tried to start a family for over a year before consulting a specialist. As one of six children, Angela had expected to conceive easily, and they’d attributed the delay to stress from her busy schedule.
Maybe if they’d gone in earlier, they’d have caught the ovarian cancer soon enough to save her life. The symptoms—bloating, lower back pain, persistent lack of energy—had been so vague that even Angela’s regular doctor hadn’t found them alarming. Only later had they learned that one of her grandmothers had died of ovarian cancer, and an older sister had been diagnosed with breast cancer in her twenties but survived.
Six years of happy marriage had been followed by six months of suffering and pain. Hope would flare at word of an experimental treatment, only to fade. Peter still had trouble believing he’d never again hold his loving wife in his arms.
Only recently had he followed up on another discovery they’d made during their fertility workup: his low sperm count. The doctors he’d originally consulted hadn’t been able to pinpoint the problem. Then, recently, he’d contacted men’s fertility specialist Cole Rattigan, who’d diagnosed Peter with a rare allergy to his own sperm.
According to Dr. Rattigan, his condition shouldn’t stop him from becoming a father. Via a high-tech medical procedure, doctors could inject his sperm directly into an egg.
The chance to cherish a son or daughter from infancy filled him with excitement. He could hardly wait to shower a child with love, and to see the light of understanding dawn as words and concepts became real to that tiny new person.
Peter’s parents, retired teachers who also lived in Orange County, supported his plans. His sister, a lawyer who lived in Maryland, enjoyed her high-power career and didn’t want kids, so when he’d informed his parents of his intention to become a single father, they’d been thrilled. His child or children would grow up with loving grandparents, family holidays and the security of being part of an extended family.
In the den, he opened his laptop and grumbled at the slowness with which it booted up. As soon as it did, he navigated to the fertility program’s website and entered his password.
Despite his eagerness, he went first to the roster of surrogate moms. Dr. Rattigan had suggested that, as a legal precaution, Peter use both an egg donor and a separate surrogate. That way, the woman carrying the baby wasn’t giving birth to her own genetic child and, if she changed her mind about relinquishment, had no legal grounds for claiming custody.
He’d already chosen the woman he would employ, a married homemaker and mother who, during a previous surrogacy, had given birth to a healthy baby girl. Peter reviewed Vanessa’s description and photo, which showed a friendly woman with strawberry-blond hair, above the caption I Love Being Pregnant!
When he’d interviewed her, he’d been impressed by her enthusiasm and good nature. He had no doubt she’d nurture his child, providing a loving start before birth.
The most difficult decision lay ahead. Previously, while studying the profiles of egg donors, he’d been keenly aware that he was choosing a woman to provide half of his child’s genetic makeup. Her personality, her intelligence, her strengths and her weaknesses would strongly influence his future child. While Peter believed in the importance of the home environment, there was no denying the role of heredity.
Unable to make a choice, he’d postponed the decision. Then, today, he’d seen Harper Anthony.
Clicking on the section that listed egg donors, he found her photo at once. The first time he’d viewed it, he’d experienced a vague sense of familiarity, and assumed he must have seen her around town. He hadn’t connected the woman identified only as Mrs. H.A. to his late colleague, nor—given her sweep of long hair—had he been struck by the resemblance to Angela, although he could see it now.
Why was she willing to do this? Peter wondered. Her statement contained the usual remarks about wanting to help others, loving children and treasuring the miracle of life. Perhaps working in the medical profession had influenced her decision.
She offered to meet with prospective recipients. How awkward would that be? Besides, having a woman he knew as the egg donor was asking for trouble, Peter conceded. They would no doubt continue to run into each other after the child was born, and what mom could resist feeling possessive toward her genetic child, even though she hadn’t carried it in her body?
Yet he’d observed what a caring mother Harper was, and he’d taken an immediate liking to her outspoken, bright little girl. This way, his child’s background wouldn’t be such a question mark.
He wouldn’t have to inform her. He’d been assured that he could maintain complete confidentiality if he chose. With the surrogate, that hadn’t seemed important—indeed, Peter wanted to experience the pregnancy with her, to view the ultrasounds and to hear his baby’s heartbeat—but the donor would be out of the picture once the pregnancy became established.
Still, he’d see Harper around town, and he didn’t like keeping her in the dark. Moreover, as the years went by, she might learn he’d had the child with a surrogate, notice the resemblance and put the pieces together.
Peter took another look at the woman in the picture. Her skin glowed, and her delicate necklace resembled a daisy chain. The impression was natural and healthy, which matched the woman he’d seen today.
Troubled, he closed the site. He’d hoped to make a decision. Instead, he’d simply raised new complications.
Well, he’d only decided a little over a month ago—once he received his diagnosis from Dr. Rattigan�
��to proceed with becoming a father. Peter had quickly passed the screening process and background check required by the hospital’s surrogacy program. Now he faced one of the most important decisions of his life.
He’d have to think about it.
Chapter Two
Mia was jumping up and down, her tennis shoes springing off the living room carpet. “Hold still,” muttered Harper, taking aim with a brush and achieving only a passing swipe at the messy honey-colored strands.
“Good thing you cut her hair,” observed Stacy, who looked feminine and comfortable in a peach knit top and maternity jeans. Only halfway through the first trimester, her pregnancy was already beginning to show, since she was carrying triplets. “It’s adorable even when it’s rumpled.”
“I’m going to Disneyland!” the little girl crowed. Although she’d been to the amusement park in nearby Anaheim before, it never lost its appeal.
“And we appreciate your keeping us company.” Stacy’s fiancé, Dr. Cole Rattigan, grinned with anticipation. He had honest brown eyes and a sturdy build that he maintained by bicycling to and from the hospital almost every day.
“I’m sure the park will be full of kids.” Harper set the brush aside. “Saturdays in summer tend to be jammed.”
“That’s half the fun. Anyway, we want to experience this through her eyes,” Stacy said. “It’ll be years before our kids are old enough to go on rides. And with three of them, I doubt we’ll have a chance to relax and enjoy it.”
“My first trip definitely requires a kid.” Having moved to Safe Harbor from Minneapolis the previous year to head the men’s fertility program, Cole evidently hadn’t found time until now for the county’s best-known tourist attraction.
“Mia, stop jumping! This isn’t sports camp.” Harper restrained her daughter before she crashed into the dark-wood entertainment center.
“We’ll be honing our parenting skills,” the surgeon added. “This is as much a learning experience as a pleasure trip.”
While that might seem an odd attitude, Harper had grown accustomed to Cole’s refreshingly naive view of personal interactions. Brilliant in his medical practice, he’d only recently emerged from an emotional cocoon after falling in love with Stacy. Raised by a surgeon mother who’d purposely chosen an uninvolved father, he’d missed out on many of the usual childhood rituals, such as birthday parties and trips to theme parks. “I wish you’d at least let me pay for her ticket.”
“It’s her birthday present,” the doctor responded cheerfully. “Besides, we like spending time with Mia.” He and Stacy had babysat previously, allowing Harper to attend a seminar on digital photo editing.
“Her birthday isn’t for two weeks. But thank you.” Harper took a final peek inside Mia’s backpack. Additional sunscreen, tissues, a water bottle, school ID and the cell phone that doubled as a camera. Everything checked out.
As her friends escorted the bouncy girl to their car, Harper stood in the doorway of her ranch-style home. Around the front steps, geraniums, miniature roses and marigolds brightened the flower bed, and the scent of jasmine drifted from a neighbor’s yard.
As for Mia’s upcoming birthday, Harper hoped the Disneyland visit might compensate for what she feared would be a lackluster party. She couldn’t afford a costly celebration like some of her daughter’s school friends had thrown, with hired entertainers or a trip to see Cirque du Soleil. The rent on this house already strained her budget.
The car vanished down the street. Harper stood for a moment longer, letting herself adjust. As much as she relished a rare free day, it felt weird not to have her daughter with her.
She went inside for her camera. As a teen, in addition to shooting for the high school website, she’d taken pictures for the sheer pleasure of seeing the world afresh. Since then, she’d been too busy to do more than record key events. That was changing, however.
Harper packed snack items, applied sunscreen and set out extra food and water for Mia’s black-and-white kitten. Then she locked the house behind her with the buoyant sense of going on a holiday.
Rather than take her car and have to pay attention to driving, Harper strolled a few blocks to the bus stop on Safe Harbor Boulevard. En route, she paused to photograph a spray of yellow blossoms on a tree and a climbing rose blooming across an arched trellis. Typical of early summer weather in Southern California, the sky was overcast. That would burn off later, but for now a breeze cooled the air.
Slowly, she relaxed into an easy rhythm that contrasted with her usual hurry. A whole day to take pictures. How precious was that?
On the bus, a family clustered with a large picnic basket. A group of girls chattered and laughed, while a young couple sneaked kisses. After observing her fellow riders, Harper turned to gaze out the window, studying shapes and patterns of light and shadow.
They rolled past stores, offices and the occasional bicyclist on a trail that paralleled the boulevard. Off to the right Harper glimpsed the six-story medical center and the adjacent office building where she worked.
Even though she’d loved being a full-time mother, Harper treasured her life now. It was busy, yes, and demanding, but she and Mia had a lot of freedom. If she didn’t feel like cooking, they ate sandwiches and salads for dinner. On weekends, they took spur-of-the-moment trips.
Harper had never experienced this kind of independence before. Stunned by her father’s death in a car crash when she was sixteen, she’d clung to her boyfriend, Sean. She’d leaned on him through college and their four-year marriage, adapting her interests to his. Hiking and motorcycle riding—until her pregnancy—had replaced photography, and being a wife and mother had replaced nursing. She’d had no idea to what an extent her reliance on him had preempted her sense of self until after his death.
Although Harper would always treasure their years together, she didn’t care to repeat the experience with anyone else. Today, she felt liberated.
When the bus crested a rise, before them spread the U-shaped harbor from which the town took its name. Small boats and a scattering of yachts lined its edges, while sailboats and catamarans headed toward the jetties that protected it from the Pacific Ocean.
Along a harborside quay lay shops and a café. Farther down the shore, past the yacht club and some private waterside homes, Harper noted beach umbrellas and blankets staking out areas of sand. So far, however, only a handful of wet-suited surfers braved the chilly waves. It was always colder at the ocean, even compared to a few miles inland.
Zipping her jacket against the wind, Harper descended at the bus stop and made her way onto the beach. No one seemed to mind when she captured their images: an older couple holding hands as they strolled, a man tossing a beach ball with his little boy, a woman in a floppy hat pouring a steaming cup of liquid from a thermos. Thank goodness for memory cards that stored thousands of images.
A clump of palm trees framed the subtle colors of sea and sky. Walking and clicking, Harper lost track of time—a rare luxury. As the day warmed, she removed her jacket and tied it around her waist.
A man caught her eye—a muscular fellow, head down, wind ruffling his hair and sweat darkening his T-shirt as he jogged toward her along the sand. Athletic shorts emphasized his sculpted thighs and, admiring the classic impression of masculinity, Harper snapped a couple of quick pictures.
Then his chin lifted and familiar blue eyes met hers. Startled, Harper lost her grip on the camera, which was saved from a fall by the cord around her neck. At the same time, the man slowed.
“Peter. Uh, hi.” She debated whether to apologize for photographing him, but that might require an explanation. And her only reason had been that she found him attractive.
Breathing hard, Peter halted in front of her. Since their conversation the previous Monday, Harper had glimpsed him several times at sports camp. He’d always been surrounded by mothers ask
ing questions about their children and sometimes, judging by their body language, flirting with him. Who could blame them?
He indicated the camera. “Is this for a project?”
“Nothing in particular.” In his presence, Harper instinctively tossed her hair, only to find that she missed the accustomed weight of it. Anyway, she didn’t mean to react with flirtatious moves like those other women. “Photography used to be my hobby. I’m rediscovering it.”
“Mind if I take a look?”
“Not at all.” Harper switched the camera to display mode and handed it over.
Peter leaned toward her as he flicked through the pictures. “You have a terrific eye.”
Shifting closer to see the shots, Harper caught the appealing scent of clean male sweat. “Isn’t that a cute little boy? Something about him reminded me of...” She broke off.
“Of Sean?” he asked.
Harper examined the image. “Not really. Just—oh, it’s not important.” She wasn’t ready to share her dream about little boys.
He shifted away. “Mind if we walk? I’d like to keep moving while I cool down.”
“Sure.” Glad of the company after a morning alone, Harper fell into place as they strolled toward the pier. She adjusted her stride to his without difficulty, since he was only a bit taller than her five foot nine inches.
“Where’s Mia?” he asked.
Guiltily, Harper realized that she hadn’t thought about her daughter in over an hour. Still, she’d resolved not to be a helicopter parent, and Mia could reach her by phone if necessary. “She went to Disneyland with my friend Stacy. It’s her fiancé’s first visit and they thought it would be more fun with a kid.”
A Frisbee flew toward them from a group of teen boys. Peter caught it easily and skimmed it back. “You don’t worry about her?” Quickly, he added, “Not that you should.”
“Stacy’s a nurse and her fiancé’s a doctor, so she’s in good hands,” Harper said.
His Baby Dream (Safe Harbor Medical) Page 2
