Finding Colin Firth: A Novel (32 page)

Gemma moved on to the paragraph about Lindsey Tate, a New Hampshire woman who’d adopted a baby whose birth mother had been a Hope Home resident thirty years ago. She was looking back at her notes about Lindsey when a strange pain began in her stomach, like menstrual cramps. She put her hand to her stomach and stood up, thinking she’d been hunched over her laptop too much. But the pain intensified. Gemma walked around her room, as much as the small space would allow, and the pain got so bad she doubled over. What was this?

Was she losing the baby?

She opened her door and braced herself against the doorjamb, the pain getting worse in her abdomen. “Isabel?” she called out, startled by the desperate wail in her voice. Please be here.

“Gemma?” Bea called from upstairs. “Are you all right?”

“I’m having really bad pains in my abdomen,” Gemma said, barely able to get the words out.

Bea rushed down the stairs, and in moments she was back with Isabel.

“I’m pregnant,” Gemma said. “Just nine weeks. The pain is really intense.”

Isabel’s eyes widened. “I’m taking you over to Coastal General. Bea, can you cover the inn?”

“Of course. Anything you need.”

Gemma could barely stand straight up as Isabel helped her down the stairs. What was happening? She walked doubled over in pain to Isabel’s car, the cramping pain unrelenting.

“Honey, listen. I don’t want you to worry about anything,” Isabel said as she backed out of the driveway. “When I was in the early stages of pregnancy, I also had some severe abdominal pain, and it turned out to be nothing. The ER will likely do an ultrasound and just check you over. Don’t worry.”

But Gemma was worrying. She’d never felt cramps this bad. “Am I losing the baby?”

Isabel sped up, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. Gemma doubled over, rocking a bit up and down. “We’re here.” She pulled up to the Emergency entrance and called out, “My friend is nine weeks pregnant and having severe abdominal pains!”

In moments Gemma was in a wheelchair and being pushed through the automatic doors into the ER. Before she knew it she was lying on a cot, two nurses hovering to take her vitals and insert an IV of fluids. Breathe, she told herself. The pain began to lessen some. A doctor came over and introduced himself as
the attending OB and explained that he was going to spread some cold, jellylike substance on her belly for the ultrasound.

“Okay, there’s the heartbeat,” he said, and Gemma glanced up at the screen, her hand over her mouth. “I’m not quite sure what caused the pain, but it seems to have abated, and the baby is fine.”

Gemma couldn’t stop staring at the flashing heartbeat, at the fetus right there on the monitor. A part of her, a part of Alexander. For the first time, she felt connected to the life growing inside her. She was really going to have a baby.

A baby she would have been devastated to lose, especially without having had the chance to feel something—and she didn’t mean a flutter. She meant connection. The stirrings of love.

A nurse helped wipe off the jelly from her stomach, and then told her to lie and rest there for thirty minutes before she’d come to discharge her. She stared up at the ceiling, overtaken by something that felt a lot like wonder. Mixed with cold fear.

Gemma had been instructed to take it easy for the evening, but a walk didn’t seem like much exertion. She found herself drawn to the playground on Main Street, always full of children climbing over the fairy-tale-character structures and being pushed on the swings. She was hoping that after the scare, her perspective would be different, that she’d suddenly have all these warm and fuzzy feelings, that the elusive maternal instinct would suddenly settle into her bones, her bloodstream, and she’d be a different person altogether.

But as she watched two toddlers packing sand in buckets in the sandbox, she felt . . . nothing much at all. No rush of
oh, how adorable, I wish I had one of those
.

There was only the same fear. That she wasn’t up to the task, that she’d fail as a stay-at-home mother even with all day to practice her new life.

For reasons she wasn’t even clear on, Gemma pulled out her phone and pressed in her mother’s telephone number.

“Gemma, how lovely to hear from you.”

How formal. “Mom, I wanted to ask you a question. Did you plan your pregnancy with Anna or was she an accident?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“I’m just curious. I know your career is very important to you, so I wondered if you planned getting pregnant or not.”

“I did plan it. And five years later, I was ready for a second baby—you. What’s this all about?”

She hadn’t expected that. She’d always figured both pregnancies had been surprises. But her mother had planned the “interruption” to her life and career. “I’m pregnant. I’m due in January. I guess I’m just thinking about how I’m going to handle everything.”

“There’s no need to be all dramatic about it, Gemma. You’ll hire a well-vetted nanny and you’ll do what you need to do. I’m surprised at the news, though. I thought you wanted to focus on your career for a few more years yet. You’re not even thirty. I was thirty-four when Lisa was born. Thirty-nine with you.”

God, is this what she sounded like to Alexander? Probably. Where were the congratulations? Where was the “I’m going to be a grandmother”? What did you expect? she reminded herself. Your mother suddenly being different when you’re not?

Except Gemma was different now—if just a little.

“Well, I’m pregnant now.”

“Yes, indeed!” her mother said, finally injecting a note of excitement in her voice. “And congratulations. If you’re thinking of names already, you can consider Frederick, after my father.”

“Actually, Alex likes Alexander Jr. or Gemma Jr.”

Silence. “Are you kidding? I never know when you’re kidding.”

“I’m not sure,” Gemma said, smiling to herself. She was amazed that the sweetness of the memory of Alexander trailing a finger over her cheek while suggesting Gemma Jr. as a name, telling her she was beautiful and whip-smart, overrode her mother’s flat, cold demeanor. “Well, I just wanted you to know the news. I’d better get going.”

When she hung up, it wasn’t with the usual hole in her heart, wishing that her mother were different, though, yes, it would be nice. Her mother was who she was. Gemma was who she was. Alexander was who he was. All she knew was that she felt fuller where there used to be empty space, and not anywhere near her belly, either. Was it the pregnancy? Not wanting it, then almost losing it and realizing that she did feel something for the little burst of life inside her? Maybe it was these past weeks, working on a story about women, about family, about pregnancy, about interruption, about hope, about despair, about dreams—a story that had ensnared her, heart, soul, and mind.

“I can understand how you feel,” Patrick said as he sat down across from Bea at the little round table on the balcony of his hotel. Even the view of the lit-up harbor, the incredible dinner he’d ordered them from room service, and her attractive date couldn’t get Bea’s mind off all Veronica had told her, showed her.

Bea sipped her wine, her appetite for her grilled salmon gone. “But was it mean of me to say it to her? That I don’t know what she’s supposed to mean to me?”

She was so damned confused. Last night when she’d called Veronica for Timothy’s contact information, Veronica had sounded so strained. But this morning, she found an envelope with her name on it slipped under her door. Inside there was a photograph and a note. Her biological father.
Thought you might want to have this. Timothy Macintosh, March 1991
.

Bea had stared at the picture for a long time. She looked a lot like the teenage boy standing there in the leather jacket. But despite how long she looked at it, she felt no connection to the person in the picture at all. Probably because of all Veronica had told her. Timothy Macintosh had never felt any connection to her. But Veronica had.

Bea hadn’t done anything with that contact information. The piece of paper on which she’d jotted down his name and
address and telephone number lay under one of the seashells on her dresser in her room at the inn. Last night, when she’d hung up with Veronica, she’d picked up a shell and asked it her burning question: Should I call Timothy Macintosh?

There was the usual whoosh, but nothing else. No yes. No no. Just . . . nothing. She’d wait a couple of days and let it all settle inside her—that she had his address and phone number, that she could contact him when she was ready.

“This relationship is new to both of you,” Patrick said, taking the last bite of his swordfish. “It’s okay to have some speed bumps. To figure things out, how you feel, what you’re comfortable with. For both of you.”

Bea nodded. That made sense. There was no rush, and she couldn’t feel something out of nothing. She would have to feel her way with Veronica. Just as Veronica would need to do the same with her.

Patrick stood up and moved behind her, and she felt warm, strong hands massaging her shoulders.

“Thank you for talking me through it,” she said. “And thank you for dinner. It was great. The whole evening was great.”

“You’re welcome. And I had a great time too.” He sat back down and scooched his chair closer to her. “Tomorrow’s insanely busy at the set, and we’re going to be setting up shop at a diner in town for a few days, but maybe you could come by around five to say hi? I don’t want the whole day to go by without seeing you.”

“I’d love to, but I’ve got a tutoring gig at five. With Tyler’s sister, Maddy.”

“Tyler Echols, the PA?” he asked. Was that concern on his face?

Bea nodded. “He’s paying me fifty bucks an hour. I can definitely use it.”

“I probably shouldn’t say anything,” Patrick said. “But given what you’re going through with your own birth mother . . .”

Bea stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

Patrick seemed to be weighing whether or not he should tell her. “Look, I don’t know Tyler too well and maybe I misheard him, but I don’t think so. About a month ago when we were filming in New York, I overheard him talking to another PA buddy of his about a documentary film he did an internship on, about adoption. Anyway, Tyler was telling this guy that his sister was adopted and that he found her birth mother for her—and shook her up for money. He was just out of college and broke and figured she’d feel guilty and give him whatever he wanted to arrange a meeting between them. To his credit, he did seem to have real interest in helping his sister, but I got the sense he figured he’d kill two birds with one stone, you know? Set up contact—and line his pockets.”

“God,” Bea said. “That’s vile.”

“If he wasn’t so good at his job, I’d fire him. And who knows—maybe he was just talking smack. I don’t know. But I just figured I’d tell you in case he tries to get out of paying you for tutoring his sister.”

She’d be on red alert. “I appreciate it. Duly warned. So did he get money out of the birth mother?” She remembered Tyler saying the experience was disappointing, so clearly not. And no wonder Tyler had said not to bring up the subject with his sister. Maybe they were both grifters. Or maybe his sister didn’t know what Tyler had tried to do.

“I don’t know,” Patrick said. “Just make sure he pays you fair and square, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, liking that someone cared. She missed that, someone looking out for her.

She’d give the tutoring one session and get a feel for Maddy. If she seemed shady, Bea would quit. But she wouldn’t spite Maddy just because her brother was a class-A jerk.

“I love this view,” Patrick said, and this time, his face and the lights and the boats worked their magic. They sipped their wine, and then he took hers and put it down and kissed her.

All thoughts of birth mothers and birth fathers and shady production assistants went out of her head; she could only think about Patrick’s lips, the beautiful sensations running up and down her spine. How long had it been since she’d been kissed? Almost a year. Too long.

His hand went to the zipper of her jeans.

She covered his hand. “I really like you, Patrick. But let’s take this a little slower, okay? In fact, I should get going. But thank you for tonight.”