The Would-Be Mommy

by Jacqueline Diamond

  Not only had the man accepted bribes from gangland figures, Mrs. Wycliff declared, he’d spent weekends in Palm Springs and Las Vegas with a crime boss and a handful of call girls. At home, his pockets had produced a damning series of casino receipts, telephone numbers scrawled in pink ink on scented scraps of paper, and small bags of white powder. She’d also found ladies’ lingerie, handcuffs and assorted other paraphernalia among his things.

  “Finally, I divorced him, but I kept quiet for our daughter’s sake,” she said. And to ensure a large divorce settlement, Ian suspected.

  “Since discovering her daughter was endangered, my client has turned over evidence to the U.S. Attorney’s office,” added her lawyer.

  “What kind of evidence, exactly?” Ian asked.

  Mrs. Wycliff waved a manicured hand. “I copied photographs I found on his computer. Of my husband in, shall we say, compromising positions. Would you like to see a few?”

  They would indeed.

  “Gives new meaning to the word excess,” Pierre observed later as they emerged into the curving, palm-shaded driveway.

  “Also the word arrogance.” Ian never ceased to be amazed at the egotism of powerful figures who assumed they were above detection. “How could he do that to his family?”

  Just before departing, they’d run into the daughter in the hall. A pretty teenager with spice-brown hair and wide-set gray eyes, she’d given them a startled, almost frightened stare. After briefly acknowledging their introductions, she’d fled to private quarters.

  “Sure is a nice place.” Pierre’s gesture took in the sprawling Spanish-style home and the luxurious spill of greenery in one of the choicest locations in L.A.

  “He didn’t manage to keep it,” Ian pointed out.

  “I hear he bought another house just as fancy.” Pierre sniffed. “When do you plan to file your story?”

  “In a few hours.” With so many issues at stake, not to mention the potential for libel, this called for more care than a quick account of a press conference.

  “Fair enough. I’ll be uploading the video pretty quick, but the editing will take a while. Coming to the office?”

  “I’d rather work at my motel.” On a prior visit to L.A, Ian had tried writing in the cramped Flash News/Global quarters, but after being repeatedly stumbled into and interrupted, he’d decided he was better off in his room.

  A short while later, he drove beneath the Rooms to Let—Weekly/Monthly sign as he pulled into the parking lot. He’d picked the location for its proximity to work, restaurants and freeways. The smell of exhaust hadn’t bothered him, nor had the traffic noise.

  Now he couldn’t help picturing Jennifer’s peaceful neighborhood. Planters spilling over with flowers. The scent of a sea breeze. A fridge full of food.

  He could hardly wait to go back.

  Inside, the room looked pretty much like every other cheap hotel or motel room around the globe. Thin mattress, stiff chair at a tiny table, small bathroom stocked with a few appliances, and a narrow closet displaying a few garments. A musty odor, overlaid with lemon cleanser, did nothing to improve the ambience.

  Ian took out the computer. An hour later, he went out to the vending machines for peanut butter crackers, returned and resumed his task.

  After finally hitting Send, he checked his watch. Nearly 8:00 p.m. Adding eleven hours made it 7:00 a.m. Sunday, Brussels time. Headquarters was staffed 24/7, so he placed a call via Internet phone to tell the editor to watch for the piece. Otherwise, it might sit in a queue until Monday.

  To his surprise, Viktor’s image appeared on the screen: broad cheekbones, sandy hair, a few wrinkles fanning from gray eyes. Ian switched on his Web cam and explained that he’d just sent the Judge Wycliff exclusive. “What brings you in on a Sunday?” he added.

  “We’re shuffling staff and I had to fill in.” As managing editor, Viktor often served double duty. “The weekend news editor got transferred to Beijing, and his replacement had some personal business to finish up before relocating from Paris.”

  “Anni must be thrilled to have even less time with you,” Ian joked.

  “She understands. And is grateful to be out of this madhouse.”

  Was she really? Ten years ago, his sister had been as ambitious as Ian. Even after her marriage, she’d spent months working on a separate continent from her husband. Finally she’d reached the agonizing decision to quit in order to start a family. He’d always assumed she planned to start reporting again once the kids got older.

  Viktor went on talking. “We moved your follow-up on baby Rosalie. It’s already getting a great response from subscribers. There’s something about an abandoned baby that hits people right in the gut.”

  “I’m sure it’s a relief from reading about economic woes and bombings.”

  “You have to keep this story alive.” The editor leaned back in his desk chair, nearly bumping the wall behind him.

  Ian had promised to be off duty tonight. Still, he could pursue the story next week. “She plans to turn the baby over to Social Services on Monday.”

  “Don’t wait for that. Get in touch with the birth mother. What’s her name, Sunny? Find out her story. Who the father is. Why she dropped off the baby. Why she was so insistent on Jennifer becoming the mother.”

  Even as his instincts acknowledged Viktor’s news judgment, Ian’s spirit rebelled. “In return for today’s access, I promised Jennifer I’d respect her privacy.”

  “And so you will. But contacting the birth mother is another matter.”

  Ian doubted Jennifer would see it that way. “I think we’ve milked this enough. Why upset people’s lives to write fluff?”

  “Because it’s fluff that people love to read about,” his editor pressed. “By the way, did you know Armand Ephron is retiring?”

  That caught Ian’s attention. Armand, whose sun-creased and battered countenance was instantly recognizable worldwide, held the enviable position of writing his own column, “From the Fire.” He had the freedom to choose stories anywhere on earth, from onetime interviews to in-depth investigations.

  “Who’s replacing him?” Ian asked.

  On the screen, Viktor’s jaw worked. “We’re considering several possibilities.”

  Ian nearly stopped breathing at the implication. “Am I one of them?”

  “I wouldn’t have mentioned this if you weren’t,” his brother-in-law said.

  Ian would kill for that position. Or at least maim someone. “What can I do to make my case?”

  “The decision will be based on a body of work, not any one story,” Viktor replied. “We’re looking at a range of qualifications. Writing style. News instinct. The gift of stirring Internet buzz.”

  Suddenly, the ability to ferret out human-interest stories had become more than window dressing, Ian saw. He’d always considered Armand basically a hard-news guy, but now that he thought about it, the guy had a talent for finding the personal angle in the stories he reported.

  “And you want me to track down this birth mother.” Ian sighed.

  “It isn’t a test,” the editor countered. “I’m just alerting you to put your best foot forward with all your stories this week. Bill and Mack have the final say.”

  They were Flash News/Global’s executive editor and publisher, who’d jointly founded and obtained financing for the news service. No doubt Viktor would be asked for input, but he couldn’t show favoritism.

  The opportunity to land such a position might not recur for decades. “Thanks for the alert.”

  “You’re welcome. Now, I’d better get to work on your latest opus.”

  Ian signed off, his thoughts in turmoil. While he didn’t believe his entire future hung on this one story, he ran the risk of missing a bet if he backed off. Especially if the rest of the week proved slow in L.A. while some competitor in another locale hit the news jackpot.

  Well, no use worrying. With luck, by tomorrow he’d figure out how to handle this situation. And luck generally came
down on Ian’s side.

  Chapter Eight

  “If Esther doesn’t get here soon, I’ll have to leave.” Samantha fingered a sophisticated plum gown that stood out among the mostly pastel bridesmaids’ dresses. “I’m giving a talk to a group of teenagers tonight and I need to review my notes.”

  Jennifer, who’d arrived five minutes late after misjudging how long it would take to get Rosalie ready, didn’t feel qualified to criticize. Still, the matron of honor was twenty minutes overdue, especially annoying since they’d arranged this outing to suit her schedule.

  Also, in the crowded shop, other customers had to keep sidling past the baby carriage. On the plus side, Rosalie seemed entranced by all the colors and movement.

  Jennifer tried to picture Ian crammed in here with all these women, dresses, hats, stockings, veils and dye-to-match shoes. He’d probably be grinning his head off.

  Holding a strapless white gown in front of her, Lori studied it in a full-length mirror. “She’s flying to Washington tomorrow for a conference. I guess she got busy packing.”

  The saleslady who’d been trying to help them since they arrived regarded them with strained patience. “If you’d like to start trying on dresses, I’d be happy to put them in a changing room for you.”

  “Thanks, but not yet.”

  “Just let me know when you’re ready.” She moved off.

  “I don’t know if I want to go with traditional white.” Lori frowned. “Esther’s pushing for a theme of black-and-white. That seems a little severe to me.”

  “Whose wedding is this, anyway?” Samantha burst out. “Seriously, Lori! You’re not nearly this nice to anyone else. Don’t take that the wrong way. But you cut Esther an incredible amount of slack.”

  “She’s been my best friend forever. And her wedding was fabulous, so I know she’s got great taste.” Lori sighed. “The thing is, after helping three of my sisters plan theirs, I’m sick of the usual color schemes.”

  “Which are your favorites?” Jennifer asked.

  “Pink and purple, but Louise used those and Lana picked lavender and rose. I can’t have a wedding like theirs.” Her sisters’ names all started with the letter L, Jennifer gathered. “I thought about a strictly Christmas theme, but red and green just doesn’t work for me.”

  “These are smashing.” Samantha indicated a set of gowns in silver for the bride and blue with silver trim for her attendants. “And they do fit the season.”

  “They’re gorgeous. But if we decide on something, Esther will sweep in here and make us start over,” moaned the bride-to-be.

  “Oh, honestly!” Samantha scowled at a new arrival who bore a resemblance to Esther but, on closer inspection, proved to be a stranger. “No offense, but your best bud reminds me of a prom queen who thinks the whole world revolves around her.”

  Lori bristled. “Maybe it does.”

  “She is very accomplished,” Jennifer said to ease the tension. “Doesn’t she have a law degree from Stanford?”

  “USC,” Lori corrected.

  “I’ve seen in the paper that she’s prosecuting high-profile cases, so the district attorney’s office obviously thinks well of her.”

  “You don’t have to take her side,” Samantha said. “You do PR for the hospital, not for the administrators’ spouses.”

  Jennifer supposed she had been acting out of instinct. “I like Tony. I’m assuming he chose his wife wisely.”

  Lori’s cell phone played a wedding march. She checked the display and demanded, “Where are you?”

  “Ah, the queen deigns to address her subjects,” Samantha muttered.

  From Lori, there ensued a series of “ohs” and “yes, buts,” concluding with, “You sure you can’t stand plum? Well, I’m not sure I care that it’ll clash with your Chinese red living room! Okay, fine.”

  “Unbelievable,” Samantha said as their friend clicked off. “She wants the bridal party to match her decor?”

  “We don’t have to match,” Lori explained. “Just not clash. She said silver and blue would be fine.”

  Samantha crossed her arms. “Esther’s not coming?”

  “She has to finish some last-minute paperwork before her trip.” Lori appeared to be searching in vain for more justification. “I admit it’s annoying….”

  “Last-minute work she didn’t know about when you talked to her an hour ago?” Samantha growled. She obviously didn’t expect a reply, nor did she receive one.

  The women tried on the silver-and-blue dresses, which, to Jennifer’s eye, looked fantastic. Lori couldn’t believe they’d hit the jackpot on their first shopping trip, but had to admit the bridal gown—one of three designs in silver—was everything she’d hoped for.

  As Jennifer was changing into her street clothes, Rosalie let out a tiny cry. “Oh, dear. I fed her before we came. I can’t believe she’s hungry again already.”

  “You know what?” Lori said. “I’ll have the shop put a two-week hold on these dresses. That way Esther can try hers on when she gets back from her trip.”

  “Good idea. Even Esther ought to be able to make her way in here by then,” Samantha said.

  “She’s not like she seems. Honestly.”

  Samantha laid an arm around her friend’s shoulders. “Don’t let me dampen your spirits. This whole process should be a pleasure.”

  “She can be lots of fun when she’s not so rushed,” the bride-to-be added weakly.

  “I’m sure she can. On rare occasions, possibly coinciding with odd phases of the moon, but let’s not argue,” Sam responded.

  The three of them laughed. “Okay, she let me down,” Lori conceded. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her.”

  “Maybe she’s caught up in getting ready for the baby,” Jennifer suggested.

  The other women nodded. To Jennifer’s relief, they parted on that conciliatory note.

  Despite her affection for her new friends, it felt good to get home with Rosalie. Shopping with a baby along meant dividing her attention, and she yearned to enjoy the little one fully in the short time they had together.

  Jennifer’s throat tightened as, seated on the couch, she supported the baby in the crook of her arm and tilted the bottle. She dreaded the prospect of handing Rosalie over to a social worker. Already the little one had better control of her head and neck muscles, and a stronger sucking ability. Who would be holding her a week from now, or a month? Who would watch her take her first steps?

  Tears filled Jennifer’s eyes. Yet it was crazy to dwell on this. She had far too much else to think about.

  After Rosalie finished nursing, she set the portable bassinet in her downstairs office and logged on to look for Ian’s story on the Internet. To her surprise, a close-up photo of her with the baby dominated Flash News/Global’s home page. In the picture, delight animated Jennifer’s expression, while the baby gazed back intently. Good heavens, why were they featured so prominently?

  Ian began his story with Lori’s anxious phone call and Jennifer’s rush to the baby’s side. A reader would get the impression she’d driven like a madwoman, obsessed with reaching the infant.

  Dear heaven, how many people were reading this, and what would they think?

  The rest of the story flowed smoothly, with more sweetness than she’d expected. Another photo highlighted the sponge bath, while the text recapped Sunny’s relinquishment on Friday. It also mentioned the hospital as a safe haven for mothers and babies.

  Did Ian have to use those words again? Safe Harbor was no more a safe haven facility than any other hospital.

  The public relations side of Jennifer’s brain took over. How great an impact was this story having? She began to search the Web.

  The account had been picked up by dozens of Web sites and blogs. Fortunately, the comments were generally positive. Most people seemed to find it the feel-good item of the moment.

  Jennifer wished she felt equally good about the situation, but she didn’t. Her discomfort had little to do with th
e relinquishment issue and everything to do with her past.

  Since entering public relations, she’d understood that her name and face would occasionally appear in the media. So far, there’d been no repercussions. But the events of twelve years ago had left scars, not only in Jennifer’s life, but on other people, too. People who might blame her for being involved with Frank when he ran afoul of the law. People who’d been injured and who might believe she’d gotten off too easily.

  Frank remained in prison, where he belonged. Although she’d testified against him, she wasn’t worried about him attempting to get retribution from behind bars or in the future. He’d seemed genuinely contrite for the harm he’d caused. But she didn’t expect his other victims to forgive him—or her.

  What if the press found out? That would cast a very different light on this warm, fuzzy story.

  She ought to feel relief that, on Monday, she would hand over the baby to someone else, ending her involvement. Yet when she scanned her e-mail and found that Ian had sent a sheaf of photos, she spent half an hour studying the images with an ache in her heart. Soon, this would be all she’d have to remember Rosalie by.

  With a twist of anxiety, she returned to the e-mail program and the ever-growing queue that she’d ignored previously. Since the hospital’s Web pages listed her e-mail address, it wasn’t unusual to hear from the public—but so many messages!

  You brightened my day, read one from Hong Kong. Many blessings.

  What a lovely story, wrote a woman in Australia. Fantastic!

  Jennifer relaxed as she flipped through more laudatory messages. No one seemed angry or combative. She responded briefly to as many as possible.

  Between tending Rosalie, heating a can of soup for dinner and replying to the e-mails, Jennifer lost track of the hour. When the doorbell rang at 9:10 p.m., it startled her.

  Ian.

  She must look a mess. She’d spilled soup on her sweater, along with a splatter of Rosalie’s formula.