Glanced to his right. Saw the empty chair sitting next to him.
And welled up with tears.
* * *
If Christine hadn’t looked up from her papers—she wouldn’t have noticed the tears glistening in Jamison Howe’s eyes for the second he took to blink.
And then they were gone and he was watching her.
“Anything else?” he asked, not quite smiling, but looking pleased. He held up the papers she’d pushed toward him with one hand, the bottle of juice in the other, and her heart leaped. The man was too endearing to go to waste. He had to find another woman to love. To have her children.
“I’ve already had the medical exams and tests necessary,” she said. “That was my doctor’s office on the phone, giving me the final report.”
“Your doctor’s office isn’t here?” An innocuous question. She hadn’t realized how badly she’d needed it. Something to get her focus back where it belonged.
“I do see one of our doctors, but I go to her office.”
“So you’re good to go?”
“As soon as I ovulate.” Okay, that was awkward. She’d never talked to a guy about her cycle before. Not even Nathan, Ryder’s father. Two loves she didn’t allow herself to think about...
Because they were both gone from her life forever. One by his choice, the other by hers.
“I stipulate in there that I want to use my own fertility specialist—the same one who worked with you and Emily so I’m assuming that won’t be a problem—and my own ob-gyn for the delivery. You can speak to either of them about the fertilization process if you’d like.”
He shook his head. “I’d just as soon hear it from you. That is, if you don’t mind and it’s appropriate.”
Yeah. Right. That. She sighed. “This whole thing is a little...off the normal course...” she told him. “But not at all illegal,” she quickly asserted. “As long as we both have separate lawyers who are well versed in surrogacy law, and sign an agreed upon contract, we’re fine. I’ll be acting as an individual, not in any official capacity with The Parent Portal,” she added, getting back on track again. “It was decided that that was best, easiest and the least risk to the clinic. It’s all in there.” She pointed to the unsigned contract she’d handed him. “I’m choosing to use our fertility specialist and one of our ob-gyns, but as a private client, with private billing. So you’ll need to do the same. You’ll need to pay the doctors directly, not through the clinic.”
Which meant costs could likely be a little higher. Her doctors gave The Parent Portal a preferred rate—as they did all of the fertility clinics they worked with.
“It’s generally recommended that surrogacy participants go through an agency for the entire process, but I’m only going to be able to do this for you if we have a private arrangement.”
Because she’d made that choice. She wasn’t going to do anything that in any way impacted the clinic. Or even had a chance of doing so.
He was nodding. Seemingly unfazed. And she didn’t know if she was relieved or not. She was really offering to do this. But did she hope that he’d change his mind? Balk at the stipulations? These were all nonnegotiable, as he’d see when he actually looked at the contract, which started on the page beneath the preface letter from her lawyer she’d seen him looking at.
“You’ll notice an escrow agreement in there, as well as your right to prove that I’ve undergone both medical and emotional screening and have passed both.”
There’d been no point in spending time thinking about whether or not she could grant the Howes’ request without knowing that she had the ability to do so.
“And there are insurance stipulations as well.” He’d need to purchase a special surrogacy plan on her behalf, with all premiums paid up front so that if anything happened to him, or if he was in breach of contract, her and the baby’s health would still be covered. If his own health insurance didn’t offer a plan, there were plenty in the state of California that did.
She’d been taking care of her “family” for too long to put any of them—her home, the clinic, its employees and clients—at risk.
He still hadn’t done more than glance at the cover page of the document. “So what’s the process from here? Once I have my attorney look this over and it’s signed,” he said, holding up the contract.
Glancing down, she took in the other small piles in front of her, deciding which to choose next. Her face warm, she was embarrassed. Feeling his presence like she’d never felt a client—or anyone else—in her life. As though he was touching her from across the desk. As though she wanted him to.
It was because she was planning to have his baby. She knew that. They had, and would continue to have, purely a business arrangement between the two of them. She knew that, too. What they were doing was completely accepted and professional. But when it involved your most intimate parts...
She chose the calendars first—a page for each month she’d be under his employ. “This is the tentative schedule I’ve worked out,” she said. “This is based on all of the information I’ve gathered and on when giving birth would fit best in my schedule.” The dates were all in the contract, too. “This is all assuming that, biologically, everything happens as expected.” The contract held a caveat that the dates could change, without consent needed, if things didn’t work out the first time around.
He looked at every single page. She hadn’t intended him to read the specifics about the various pregnancy-related appointments she’d be having during her prenatal care. Not right then, at any rate.
The last pages were a repeat of July and August, with implantation dates again, instead of ob-gyn appointments.
“What’s this?” he asked, holding up those last two pages.
“Those start the original cycle over, a month and two later, in case it takes more than one implantation to result in pregnancy.” The contract gave him three tries with her body before they’d reassess her viability.
He went back to the first page. And she slid the last pile of papers across her desk. “This is all reading material I’ve gathered about the procedure. There’s a sheet in the back that gives a list of credible surrogacy clinics if you decide you’d rather go that route. Or even just call and talk to someone before you take this on. They have all kinds of resources available to you...”
He was already shaking his head. “I’ve done my homework,” he said, meeting her gaze openly. And then he smiled. “I just can’t believe you said yes,” he said. And then continued, “Except that in my mind, I knew you would. I also knew that thought made no sense.”
Her life had to make sense. Always. And this did, helping him. She’d held a staff meeting, let everyone know what she was contemplating and why. Every single one of them had offered their support and told her how much they admired her for what she was doing.
Of course, she was their employer, but the doctors who worked with her certainly didn’t need her as much as she needed them.
“I’m assuming we’ll be doing this on your regular cycle then, instead of having you on fertility drugs that will regulate you to a specific date, since the embryos aren’t going to be freshly prepared.” He’d ignored the contract, but this he was reading.
“That’s right,” she said. Which was why his original question about timeline had had her blurting out about her ovulation. “Five days after mid-cycle is best as it generally takes a naturally forming embryo that long to travel through the fallopian tube.”
Talking about their reproductive parts was routine at The Parent Portal. Discussing them with Jamison Howe made her a little uncomfortable. Embarrassed. And kind of like she was getting a little bit naked in front of him.
Speaking of which...
“I’m assuming you’ll want to be present for medical visits, but I reserve the right to have my privacy protected,” she said.
The child she
’d be growing was his. Not hers. He had a right to be there for each step of its growth.
“You have a choice to make,” she told him, gesturing with a nod toward the calendars he’d put on the edge of the desk. “We can do a mock injection to make sure we have timing right with my cycle if you’d like, before using any of the embryos. They implant more than one each time, and since you’ve got a limited number and no guarantee that it will take, my doctor made the offer... They can follow a nonembryonic injection to see if my uterus is ready to accept implantation so many days after I ovulate...”
Oftentimes the mock trial was done when the embryo was being freshly prepared from a mother’s egg, because the surrogate had to take fertility drugs to put her cycle in line with the mother’s. But, in this case, because the embryos were so critically limited, her doctor had suggested Jamison might want to do that. Christine was an expert on fertility, as much as she could be without a medical degree, but she’d learned some things over the past couple of weeks.
He shook his head. “No, I’m fine with going ahead,” he said. “I don’t want to put you through anything more invasive than necessary. And from the reading I did, the mock trial is generally done when the embryos are being freshly prepared...”
She was impressed. And oddly comforted. The man wasn’t just acting on a whim. He knew his stuff.
He picked up the calendar again. “So it looks like June 7 is our day?”
Ten days away.
“Assuming we come to a contractual agreement.”
He nodded. Stood. Held out his hand.
So she shook it. As she’d done with many, many clients over the years. Probably including him and his wife.
So why, as he thanked her again, holding her gaze, seemingly letting her read into his depths, did she suddenly feel as though, with that simple, professional touch of the hand, she’d just agreed to a crazy kind of love?
Chapter Seven
Jamie had his attorney add one clause to the contract in the coming days, allowing Christine the right to have contact with the child. And also, if at any time the resultant child wanted contact, Jamie could call her and let her know, with the decision to meet up to her.
There’d be a bond there.
And Christine’s life work was about the human element involved in fertility science.
His son or daughter was going to know that his or her biological mother had passed away a year before conception. That child might want to know Christine. Conceivably, he or she might feel some gratitude. Hopefully. If Jamie did his job right.
Everything else about the contract was solid. Appropriate. Even the living expense amount—exactly to the penny of the average projected cost in the state of California, according to Jamie’s lawyer.
He’d have signed it even if it had been hugely one-sided. Two days after the meeting, he stayed on the court for a couple of hours after tennis camp, hitting balls with anyone who wanted to play with him, while he waited for the call from his attorney telling him that she’d signed the final contract that had been hand delivered to her that morning.
He’d offered, at the beginning of camp, to make himself available to any of the attendees who wanted some one-on-one time with him. He hadn’t expected the twelve-student lineup, but allotted each of them fifteen minutes after which they could go to the end of the line and wait for a second session.
The May air was balmy. Low 70s. The court protected from direct sun by the school’s amphitheater behind which they sat.
He gave the private sessions a few times every year during camp. Usually setting a stopping point before he began, but that day he didn’t. That day he needed the session more than his students did. That day they were helping him.
And when the call came, at just after three, telling him the deal was signed and legally recorded, he shared the news with the seven students left on the court with him. And took them all out for ice cream to celebrate.
He was back in the father game.
And he was going to be a good one.
* * *
She was good at her job. Able to care deeply, to empathize, sympathize, bleed compassion and keep a personal distance at the same time. To Christine, doing so was a no-brainer. A happy life meant taking care of who and what you loved.
Others told her she had a gift.
Whatever. She didn’t see it that way.
She was just appreciative of her ability to remain personally impassive that first Friday morning in June as she was undressing in the small, a little too cold procedure room in the offices of her fertility doctor’s private practice.
She didn’t allow herself to dwell on the man sitting outside reception, waiting for his child to be conceived. Other than to remember that she was working for him.
As she’d talked to Olivia the night before, over her last glass of wine for the next nine months, she’d told her friend that she kind of saw what she was doing as the same kind of thing as a soldier going to war. Soldiers gave their lives, their bodies, to their country for the time they spent in their attempts to provide citizens with the freedom they deserved. She was signing on for nine months of service to provide a family with a deserving citizen. She was helping one man win the fight against infertility and a tragedy that had taken away his family.
Her whole life’s work was about helping to create families. The Parent Portal was the home that housed all of the people who were “family” to her. And as the doctor and a nurse came in, explained the process one more time, asked her if she was ready, Christine positioned herself as instructed, smiled and nodded.
It was just another task for work.
* * *
She’d driven herself to the doctor’s office. Jamie had offered to pick her up, but she’d said she was going into work first, taking care of a few things, making certain a few others were ready to go and then she’d meet him at the fertility specialist’s office. He’d had the appointment prior to Christine’s, to meet with the doctor, hear about the procedure, along with the same list of instructions Christine would be receiving. He’d known that she’d be required to wait awhile after the procedure before she could leave, had offered to go in and sit with her, but she’d opted to work.
He sat in a chair by the window of the reception area and watched videos on his phone. Birthing videos. Pregnancy videos. Diaper changing videos. And a couple of monster truck competitions.
And every time he heard the door open to the inner rooms, he looked up. When he was the last person in the waiting room, he slid his phone into the back pocket of his black dress shorts and paced a bit.
Tom had called the night before, asking if he wanted a boy or a girl. The judge had tried one more time to talk Jamie into waiting to have a family with a woman he could fall in love with and marry, have children with, but Jamie had heard a note of anticipation in the older man’s voice that had been missing for a long time.
Maybe since Daisy had died.
This baby was going to be well loved. Boy or girl. Jamie honestly didn’t care which. Whether he had a little Emily or a little him, he was good. Tom didn’t have a preference, either. But he had a plethora of plans that they could all do together as a family, from Disneyland to touring the country’s capital.
When the door finally opened, after all that waiting, he wasn’t at all prepared to see Christine. Or, more accurately, prepared for how beautiful she looked to him. Her short hair, all thick and curling in different directions at the end, like she’d just been blown away by great sex. Those brown eyes that showed surprise when they landed on him.
“I didn’t think you’d still be here.”
“Of course I’m here,” he said. “The contract stipulates that I be an active participant from the very beginning. The baby needs to hear my voice so I’m recognized at birth.”
“Yes, but...we don’t even know if I’m pregnant yet.” She came cl
oser. Looked kind of tired. Which was expected. She’d just spent a good bit of time lying down.
“You have to take it easy for the next couple of days. Rest,” he said. Which was one of the reasons she’d chosen Friday rather than Thursday or Saturday for the implantation. So she could take the weekend to lie low.
“I know,” she told him, a tad peevishly.
He was being a pain in the ass already. He got it. Walked with her to the door and blinked as the bright sun hit him in the face. If she didn’t like him discussing the instructions with her, she really wasn’t going to like what he had in mind next.
“I’m planning to make dinner for you tonight,” he told her as they approached their separate vehicles. “And to clean the dishes and whatever other chores you might need doing.”
With her hand on her car door—a somewhat older burnt orange small SUV—she turned to him. “Dr. Howe. Seriously...”
“It’s in the contract,” he said. She’d had it drawn up to her specification. He’d read it thoroughly. “You’ve given me the right to be a part of everything. This rest period between implantation and pregnancy is critical.”
“And you only have a limited number of embryos, two of which were used today,” she said, nodding. “Plus you’re paying for my services and you’re right, I did give you the right to as much access as you wanted. I just didn’t envision...well, we’ll figure it out as we go. Remember, the success rate is estimated at only around sixty percent, so I might not even be pregnant yet. But...for now, okay, fine. This is all brand-new and we’re finding our way. But I already have dinner in the refrigerator. I made up a chicken enchilada casserole last night. You can heat it up and clean up afterward. You stay downstairs and you leave when I’ve had enough company and need some privacy. That’s in the contract, too. My privacy.”
Grinning, Jamie nodded.
He’d expected to have to fight a lot harder to get in her front door.
A Mother's Secrets Page 6
