by Angela Hunt
I opened my mouth and then clamped it shut, abruptly aware that I probably wasn’t the best person to comfort my cousin. For the past few days I’d been babbling about how I got pregnant so easily that carrying another woman’s child would be the simplest thing on earth. I’d been inadvertently rubbing salt into Amelia’s wound.
“I feel terrible.” Reluctantly, I slid my gaze into hers. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize.”
“How could you? Infertility isn’t the sort of thing people carry on about.”
Ouch. I’d been bragging about my fertility over the last few days.
She turned and strode toward the back of the store, shoulders slumping beneath the weight of unmet expectations.
I braced my hands on the counter and watched her go. We argued occasionally and didn’t always get along, but except for Gideon, Amelia was my closest friend. How could I have been so blind to her pain and struggle over the past few months? Because I’d been too focused on my own plans, that’s how. My mom would have called it self-centeredness, and she’d have been right.
A thought occurred to me—one that would never have entered my head if not for my investigation into surrogacy: could I carry a child for Amelia? I could have a baby for her, one member of the family doing something amazing for another. But while that might be a loving gesture, it wouldn’t meet my family’s financial needs or help our dreams come true. And the prospect of a substantial payday was why I’d investigated surrogacy in the first place.
Besides, Amelia would have mentioned something if she wanted me to consider carrying a baby for her. After all, she’d heard me talking about surrogacy, so it would have been easy for her to bring up the subject. She hadn’t, so her silence probably meant she didn’t want to have a baby via gestational carrier. She wanted to feel a baby growing under her skin. She wanted to walk around in maternity clothes and beam when people asked about her due date. She wanted the entire experience, and I couldn’t blame her. What woman didn’t?
So having a baby for her . . . was unfortunately out of the question.
Chapter Five
On Friday, December 21, Gideon and I took Marilee to school and then drove across the bay to the Surrogacy Center. We were supposed to arrive at ten, but Gideon and I pulled into the parking lot a few minutes early. The blond receptionist ushered us into a small conference room and asked if we wanted coffee, but I was too jittery to even think about ingesting caffeine. We sat on one side of a rectangular conference table, and Gideon, who usually seemed preternaturally calm, leaned back in his chair and jiggled his legs—first up and down in a frantic rhythm, then from left to right like a hyperactive adolescent.
I placed my hand on his thigh to calm him, then wondered if his nervousness didn’t stem from something other than this interview. He never discussed his work with me, but for all I knew he might soon be leaving to rescue some American hostage being held in a foreign embassy.
I gave him a narrow-eyed look, and got a slow blink in response. “What?”
“Nothing,” I answered, shaking off the vague sense of foreboding. “If you’re okay, I’m okay.”
“I’m okay.” He nodded to reinforce the point, then went back to jiggling his legs. I pressed my lips together, wondering if he was being hyperactive or figuring how much ammo he had to pack for his team’s next mission.
My thoughtful husband had taken the day off to be with me, but I had the feeling he’d rather be training with his unit.
When the conference room door opened again, I squeezed his knee as my heart leapt into the back of my throat. Natasha led the way into the room, followed by the elegant couple we’d seen in the photograph. Damien and Simone Amblour appeared even more perfect in person, but Damien had shaved his beard, leaving his face round and solid. His complexion was tanned and leathery, but hers as pale as blank newsprint. She looked a bit older than she had in the photo, and I suspected that she’d experienced a sleepless night. Maybe they were as uneasy as we were.
“Amanda and Gideon Lisandra”—Natasha gestured to us—“I’d like you to meet Damien and Simone Amblour. Damien and Simone are the couple whose file you selected, Mandy.”
As if I needed reminding.
Gideon and I stood and extended our hands across the table. “So nice to meet you both,” I said. “Welcome to Tampa Bay.”
Simone and Damien shook our hands, smiled a welcome, and sat opposite us. Like a judge, Natasha sat at the head of the table with a stack of printed documents at her right hand. “These,” she said, pressing her palm to the mountain of paperwork, “are for later. Right now I want to give you two couples a chance to get to know one another.”
Since no one else seemed inclined to break the ice, I spoke up. “First of all,” I said, a blush heating my cheeks, “I want to admit how nervous I am. I don’t know why, but I feel like I’m on trial or something.”
“Me too.” Simone pressed her hand to her chest and laughed. “Thank you for being honest, but please do not feel anxious. We are not here to judge you. We want to know you better, but most of all, we want you to know how grateful we are. We have waited so long for a child; we have made so many attempts and tried so many things. . . .”
Her voice trailed away, but her husband picked up her thought. “It is most important to our family that we have a child—boy or girl, it does not matter. Our vineyard is our life’s work, and our child will inherit a historic estate—the Domaine de Amblour is famous for its hospitality and beauty, and our wine has been lauded for generations. We are eager for our child to continue our work and claim the heritage that will rightfully be his.”
Gideon and I nodded as if we understood, but how could we? I knew practically nothing about my family history, and Gideon’s people had been living in Cuba only two generations before. As citizens of a country only two and a quarter centuries old, how were we supposed to relate to Damien’s talk of a multigenerational heritage?
I caught Gideon’s eye and smiled, guessing at his thoughts. As a military family, we’d be lucky if we managed to spend three years in the same city.
“Your home sounds beautiful.” I crossed my arms. “I’ve never been to France, but I’ve seen movies. If it’s anything like the country in Under the Tuscan Sun—”
“Tuscany is Italy,” Simone corrected, her voice gentle. “But I daresay you would find many areas that appear similar. If you have seen any vineyard, you would understand what our home is like. From a distance, the fields look as though they have been stitched with neat rows of vines, plotted with extreme care and patience.”
I smiled at her artistic description and hoped she didn’t think I was a complete ignoramus. I’d never been to Tuscany or France, so how was I supposed to know which was which?
Damien shifted in his seat. “You have other children?”
Polite of him to ask, since I knew he’d studied my folder and had to know I had a daughter. “We have a four-year-old, Marilee. She’s beautiful.” I fumbled in my purse, then pulled out my phone and pulled up a picture. Simone and Damien leaned across the table to look at it, then nodded in appreciation.
“Lovely,” Simone said. “She looks healthy and strong.”
“She is.” I smiled at the photo, then dropped my phone back into my bag. “She’s perfect in every way.”
“Simone, Damien”—Natasha turned to face them—“why don’t you tell Mandy about some of the requests you wanted to ask of your gestational carrier.”
Simone turned to her husband, who took the lead. “We believe in healthy living,” he said, the parentheses around his mouth settling into a look of firm resolve. “So we hope you don’t smoke.”
“I don’t,” I answered, grateful to get at least one answer right. “And neither does Gideon. I don’t drink, either.”
Damien’s mouth curved in a rueful smile. “As a vintner, I am sorry to hear that.”
“But happy for the baby,” Simone added, laugh lines radiating from the corners of her blue eyes. “I know the
risks, and I am glad you are willing to be careful.”
“I had an easy pregnancy with Marilee,” I said, trying to put them at ease. “No hypertension, nothing like that. Not even much weight gain, really. Suddenly it was time for her to be born, and there she was. I think I was lucky, but my mom says my hips were designed for having babies. They’re nice and roomy.”
The tip of Simone’s nose went pink as she released a polite laugh. “I am glad to hear it. We want things to be easy for you.”
“I assume you’ll want the usual battery of tests,” Natasha said, pulling a page from an orange folder. “The test for Downs at thirteen weeks, amnio at twenty—”
“We do not care about tests,” Simone interrupted, a thread of alarm in her voice as she straightened in her chair. “They do not matter. If the child has Downs, we would not want to terminate the pregnancy. We do not want to risk the baby’s health with amniocentesis, nor do we want to do anything to inconvenience Amanda.”
I glanced at Gideon, who had lifted his brows in pleased surprise.
Simone settled back in her chair, lowering her gaze, and her husband reached for her hand. Something passed between them, something I didn’t understand, but Natasha had clearly touched a nerve.
“All right,” she said, shoving the schedule of tests aside. “We won’t require testing at any point. Is that agreeable to you, Amanda?”
Always willing to steer clear of needles, I nodded. “No problem here.”
“Very well, then.”
We sat for a moment in a quiet so thick the only sound was Gideon’s rhythmically squeaking chair, then Simone tapped the table with her long nails and looked at me. “There is something else—I wondered if we might ask a favor?”
“Sure,” I said.
“At the appropriate point in the pregnancy, if I emailed you a recording—or sent a tape, whatever is easiest—could you play it for the baby every night? I think it is important for a fetus to hear its mother’s voice, especially since this baby will be surrounded by French speakers.”
I blinked, then smiled as understanding dawned. She wanted me to hold headphones or a tape player up to my belly. “I could do that. As soon as we know the baby has ears.”
Damien propped his arm on the back of his wife’s chair. “Our child will probably not learn English until he or she goes to school.”
“I don’t suppose”—Gideon spoke up for the first time—“you’d consider teaching him Spanish?”
The Amblours looked at each other, clearly baffled, while I kicked my husband’s shinbone. “You’ll have to excuse him.” I forced a smile. “My husband is cubano, so he was making a little joke.”
“Oh.” Simone pursed her lips and nodded slightly. “I see.”
“Any other questions or concerns?” Natasha looked from one side of the table to the other. “If not, we have paperwork to sign. Will you please look over these pages, initial each at the bottom, and sign on the last page. When you’ve completed one set, pass them across the table so the other couple can do the same thing. Gideon, the Amblours’ contract will be with your wife, but you may sign as a witness. You’ll see the proper spot on the final page.”
I sat up straighter and took the pages Natasha offered me. Gideon and I had already studied the contract, so it held no surprises. In short, I was to do everything necessary to facilitate the success of the embryo transfer. After a positive pregnancy test I was to do everything necessary to ensure a healthy baby and successful delivery. I would not be asked to participate in selective termination of any fetus unless the pregnancy directly threatened my health.
For my efforts to help the couple achieve a successful pregnancy, I would be paid two hundred dollars a month, beginning today and continuing until the baby’s delivery. I would also receive one hundred dollars each time I attended a monthly surrogate support group.
Once my doctor confirmed a fetal heartbeat, I would receive twenty-four hundred dollars per month until the baby’s birth, and at the beginning of the second trimester I would receive one thousand dollars to cover the purchase of maternity clothing. If at any point my doctor prescribed total bed rest, the Amblours would hire a housekeeper for my family and compensate me for my lost wages at the grocery. In addition, the Amblours would purchase a one-year term life insurance policy—in the unlikely event something went fatally wrong, Gideon and Marilee would receive one hundred thousand dollars.
When we had signed all the documents, Natasha handed me an envelope containing my first check—two hundred dollars to cover parking, mileage, meals, and anything else I might spend as I went about the work of getting pregnant with the Amblours’ baby.
“All right, then.” Natasha piled the copies of the contract into a neat stack, then smiled at us. “Simone, I understand you are going to see a reproductive endocrinologist here about egg retrieval, correct? And, Mandy, when the time is right the RE will put you on Lupron to prepare your uterus for the transfer. At this stage of the procedure, I step out of the way and let the doctors manage the tricky work of making sure the egg donor and recipient get their cycles synchronized. Any questions about anything we’ve discussed?”
Relieved to have come to a bridge and successfully journeyed over, I looked across the table at the woman who still seemed terribly tense. I couldn’t imagine why she was jittery—after all, she and her husband had money, power, position, a private jet, and a potential surrogate, so what could she possibly lack?
A baby, of course. Until she held her little one in her arms, she would probably worry about every detail.
An inner voice warned me not to get too close, but still my heart went out to her. I had never yearned desperately for a baby, but I had once yearned for Gideon. I could remember being completely convinced that I would never know true happiness unless I had his love.
Simone Amblour was no love-starved romantic, but she was a woman. And something told me that we women loved, hated, and desired with an intensity many men would never experience.
* * *
While I waited to hear from the reproductive endocrinologist about how I should begin preparing for the embryo transfer, holiday festivities continued at the grocery. Three days before Christmas, a busload of residents from a retirement center pulled into the parking lot. “Ay, caramba,” Mario muttered loud enough for me to hear. “Me olvidé de las personas mayores.”
He hurried to attend to something behind the butcher counter while I watched the old folks step from the small bus, their careful movements reminding me of the elderly Carlos and Yaritza Fernandez.
“What’s this about?” I asked as Mama Isa came over to check out the new arrivals. “We have tourists now?”
She nodded, her eyes intent on her potential customers. “The activities director promised to bring twenty-four people, and it looks like they all made it. Mario and Jenna prepared box lunches of a traditional Cuban Christmas dinner, so the old folks are coming to visit the grocery, then they’re taking their boxes and eating at the park across the highway. It won’t be exactly traditional, but at least it’ll be something different for them.”
Mama Isa sashayed toward the door while I watched the seniors gather in the parking lot. Their faces shone with expectation, and I could only hope our little shop didn’t disappoint. What memorable gems did they expect to find in a Cuban grocery?
A moment later Mama Isa pushed the front door open and welcomed them in a cheerful voice. “¡Hola, bienvenido!” She nodded toward a tall gentleman who inched forward with small, cautious steps. “¿Cómo está, señor?”
“No speak-o Spanish-o,” he said, offering his arm to one of the women following him. “English only.”
“Then welcome to our grocery.” Mama Isa stepped back so he could enter. “If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask.”
A moment later Amelia came out of the office and joined me at the register, but I hadn’t exactly been bombarded with folks rushing to purchase Goya beans, packaged cockles, or suckling pigs.
“They’ve already paid for the box lunches,” Amelia told me, looking at an old man who kept smiling at her. “So unless they buy something else . . .”
I folded my arms and watched a woman sniff a can of coconut milk. “Looks like they’re more interested in looking than buying.”
“What do you think?” Amelia smiled at me as she leaned against the counter. “Will we be riding a tourist bus one day?”
I shrugged. “We’ll be lucky to live so long.”
Amelia straightened as a woman plucked something from a nearby vegetable bin and lifted it into the air. “What’s this thing?” she yelled. “It says boniato—”
Amelia hurried to the woman’s side. “Ma’am, that’s a sweet potato.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” The woman dropped it back into the bin and turned toward the door. “I can’t read any of the signs in this place. What time is lunch, anyway?”
I turned toward the cash register, hoping one of them would at least buy a candle or a bag of plantain chips, but kilt-clad Claude Newton was the only customer coming toward the checkout stand. He dropped a pack of gum onto the counter and grinned at the seniors around him. “They should come hang out with my posse,” he said, winking as I rang him up. “Maybe they’d feel a few years younger.”
After a few minutes the seniors’ activities director, a young woman in navy slacks and a white blouse, walked to the center of the store, blew a whistle, and announced that her group should head toward the front door. Claude shuffled out with them, but instead of boarding the bus, he hopped on his bicycle and peddled off to wherever he hid when he wasn’t lounging around with the nudists.
