The Heart Doctor and the Baby (9 page)

Under the circumstances, he couldn't very well tell Gretchen his first choice was the pale yellow. Or that it reminded him of Lacy's nursery, and how it had always
felt so happy in that room. Yellow was universal for boys or girls, and he wanted to think that the baby would have a bright and cheerful room to grow in. Gretchen was the last person he'd want to know any of that. As far as he was concerned, it was none of her business.

When he got back to his office, confused over the change of plans—plans René had apparently forgotten to share with him—and annoyed as hell that he felt like a blighted boyfriend, he picked up the intercom and dialed her number.

“Hello?”

It was Gretchen. So he hung up.

Twenty weeks' gestation, early July

How many patients would Jon have to tell today they were walking time bombs? First came the forty-year-old guy with an extra hundred pounds on his frame and a lousy family cardiac history, then the sixty-year-old woman who thought she'd had a pinched nerve for weeks until his office EKG showed she'd already suffered a small myocardial infarction, not to mention the thirty-four-year-old woman with a lipid profile so out of whack she was well on her way to becoming human margarine.

What really got to him—the icing on the morning's pitiful patient cake—was telling a twenty-year-old college student that his heart had deteriorated to the point of him needing to be put on a heart transplant list. Days like this came far and few between, but when they did, they zapped him. Mentally. Emotionally. Physically.

He used to gravitate upstairs to Jason's office to shoot the breeze when work got to him, or he'd spend his lunch hour running off the stress, or having a beer with Phil after
work, but today, since he hadn't seen much of her lately, and because he missed her, Jon decided to pay René a visit.

He peeked around the waiting room corner to see if Viking guard Gretchen was anywhere nearby. She was nowhere in sight, so he hightailed it over to René's office.

For a woman who'd previously kept an open-door policy, too often lately he'd found René's door closed. Today was no exception.

“She got her amniocentesis results today,” René's nurse, Amy, said, her brows pinched with worry. “She's been in there ever since.”

An adrenaline alarm shot through Jon's center. Was the news bad? There was a one to four hundred chance of birth defects with a thirty-six-year-old mother. He knew the stats, but had tried to ignore them for René's sake. Had he made a blunder beyond forgiveness?

A whirlwind of doubts and fears took him by surprise, and he knocked on the door with an unsteady hand. “It's Jon.”

“Come in,” she said, her voice sounding muffled.

Jon opened the door and found René crying.

“C
OME
in.” René squinted out the latest batch of tears, then quickly dabbed beneath her eyes with the tissue before Jon entered her office. She avoided his gaze, first having to push away the stupid fantasy that had confused and set her off crying.
Jon confessed his deep and abiding love for her, then begged her to marry him. She said yes.
A pregnant lady could daydream, couldn't she?

She couldn't fool him; the pained twist of his brows and rush toward her desk proved it.

“Is everything okay?” he asked, hand on her shoulder, squatting beside her chair.
Sure, if daydreams could come true.

She turned toward him, admiring the empathy spilling from his dark eyes. “I'm fine, just emotional as all get-out these days. Everything sets me off.”

“The baby's fine?”

She nodded and smiled. “The amnio is normal, and with all the new movement I'm feeling I'm thinking up a nickname. What do you think about Tumblelina?”

“Is it a girl?” he said, an excited hitch to his voice.

“I opted not to find out. Maybe I'll just go with Tumbler for now.”

“Okay. The baby's fine, but you don't seem fine,” he said, gazing deeper into her eyes. “What else is going on?”

She sighed. “I fired Gretchen this morning.”

Jon blinked, lowered his brows and tilted his head. “So these are tears of joy?” he said with a smirk.

She lightly cuffed his shoulder. “She wasn't that bad.”

“Trust me, she was,” he said, standing, then sitting on the edge of her desk.

That got another laugh out of her, and she'd forgotten how good it felt, until it occurred to her that the last time she'd laughed had been with Jon. “She was overenthusiastic, maybe a little nearsighted on the boundary thing and, bottom line, I just couldn't see myself going through something as special as childbirth with her.”

“So it's a good thing. You should be smiling, not crying.” There went his hand on her shoulder again, long fingers lightly massaging away her concerns.

She fought the urge to lean into his touch. “I was supposed to start the classes on labor training in two weeks. I skipped the first several since I know all that stuff, now I'll be conspicuously starting the class late, and without a coach. It's going to be weird. That's all.”

Jon hopped to standing, paced around the room. He stopped, hands on hips, and stared at his top-of-the-line running shoes, then clicked his tongue three times, a habit she related to his style of thinking. He turned his head and gave a measured gaze, then tapped his chest and shrugged. “Here's your coach.”

“Jon. I can't let you do that.” Was it indecision she saw in his eyes?

“I've gone through it twice, and I'm a damn good coach. If you don't believe me, ask Cherie, if she'll talk to you about me.”

With Jon on her side, insisting he could replace her doula, her downtrodden mood shifted to something more lighthearted. Though the gesture was beyond sweet, she couldn't let him go through with it. “Jon, the last thing you want to do is get involved in my birthing classes.”

“You're telling me what I think? Trust me, René, you have no idea what I think.”

“But…”

“I think I just volunteered to be your answer. Let's have dinner after work tonight and talk more about it.” He glanced at his watch. “I've got another patient waiting. I'll pick you up on the way out later.”

Before she could protest, and admittedly it came slow because she couldn't think of one reason to, he had his hand on the doorknob. “Let's eat at that Mediterranean alfresco on Cabrillo,” he said as he slipped outside.

She glanced back at the amniocentesis results and smiled. The baby was healthy, she'd gotten rid of her nagging doula, and Jon had just insisted he wouldn't let her go through the birth alone. It wasn't exactly like her fantasy, but it had come a lot closer than she'd dared to hope.

 

Jon closed the door and fought the pang of sadness. René had looked so pitiful. He'd never seen her like that before. Pitiful shouldn't be in the dictionary that described René. Independent. Yes. Competent. Of course. Vulnerable? Never! Perfect. Definitely. That always came to mind when thoughts of the lovely Dr. Munroe breezed through him. It tore at him to see her so unguarded, made him need to do something about it. He couldn't bear to leave her alone in that condition.

A cold wave hit when he reached his office and started to realize the ramifications his volunteering would have.
Not only had he volunteered, he'd insisted to be her birth coach. Was he out of his mind? Not really. Turns out René's happiness meant more than any fallout he'd have to deal with, like caring for her when he knew damn well he had no business getting close. He had nothing to offer her long term; maybe this interim gesture would make the inevitable loss less painful.

He shook his head, feeling another secret pact coming on, and barely able to handle the first, he wasn't sure if he was ready for another.

He shuffled through the top drawer of his desk. Where was that journal when he needed it?

 

Three hours later, at seven o'clock, pleasantly full and definitely tired, René invited Jon in for a quickie peek at the baby furniture.

They'd had effortless and enjoyable conversation all through their Greek-with-an-American-twist dinner. He'd reassured her about his birth-coaching abilities, and altered her attitude about jumping in late with a group of people who'd already bonded. Now she anticipated a great experience with Jon at her side, and it felt good.

She offered him peppermint tea and oatmeal chocolate-chip cookies for dessert back at her house, and he'd said yes before she could finish the sentence.

They had tea, dessert and more casual conversation carefully centered on MidCoast Medical Clinic. After one final agreement about his being her Bradley birth coach—another secret they agreed to keep from everyone they worked with—he followed her down the hall.

Because she wasn't completely sold on the color choice, tiny butterflies flitted through her stomach at the thought of sharing the baby's room with Jon. Would it pass
his approval? To overcompensate, she swung open the door with great flair and switched on the light. “Ta-dah!”

Dead silence, uncomfortably long.

“Purple?” Jon said, an incredulous look on his face as they stood in the nursery.

“Heather. It's called heather, and Gretchen said it's a soothing color for babies.” The remnants of her confidence dissolved.

“Maybe girl babies. What if it's a boy?”

“She assured me it's a unisex color.”

“Not. So not.” He must have spent the weekend with Lacy, and one of her favorite teen phrases had rubbed off on him, because he never said things like that. He shook his head and took a ministroll around the room. “You didn't mention purple when you ran down your list of colors to me.”

René kept her smile to herself. Okay, so maybe his reaction wasn't so much about hating the color as it was about being disappointed she'd ignored his suggestions and painted the room with her ex-doula?

“What about bright?” he said. “Simple? Not overpowering? Yellow. Like we talked about.”

She'd been on the fence about the final results of Gretchen's shade brainchild. Now that Jon had pointed out the dreadful mistake, she couldn't deny it another second. Suddenly overcome with anxiety about choosing the wrong color and messing up her baby before his or her life began, she ran her hands through her hair. “I hate it. I hate the room this color.”

Jon's expression changed from disappointment to concern. “Come here.” He pulled her into his arms. “On the bright side, the furniture looks great! And you don't have to leave the walls this way. I'll repaint them for you.”

Why did it feel so inviting and comfortable in his arms?
She could stay here for hours and hours breathing in his clean, musky scent, enjoying the solid wall of his chest, if he'd let her. “You will?”

He nodded. “Of course it'll take a coat or two of primer first, which will increase my original price from one to two home-cooked meals.”

Without giving it a thought, she kissed his cheek. “You're on. Thank you. Oh, thank you.”

He went still for a millisecond, then, as if erecting a protective barrier, he held her at arm's length and gave her a playful glance. “Throw in the birth-coach thing, and I'm seeing a whole lot of free meals coming my way.”

His smile nearly melted her, but she was stuck two feet away at the end of his firm grasp, definitely out of kissing range, and obviously the way he wanted it.

Note taken, Dr. Becker.

Jon would have liked to stop the clock, savor how René felt in his arms, inhale the rich aroma of her hair and skin, but he knew better. It had been so long since he'd held her like that, and he missed it. Man, he'd missed it. Now, he literally kept her at arm's length, to keep from making another huge mistake.

He'd made a month's worth of plans with René, something else he should have known better than to do. He was playing with fire by pushing his way into her life, knew the cost would be a bitch, but right now, seeing her eyes sparkle and warm to his touch, knowing she was carrying his baby, even if once removed, he threw all good sense out the nursery door.

“So tomorrow after work we'll pick out some paint, and I'll get started. And what day do we start the class?”

“A week from Wednesday,” she said.

“Next Wednesday it is, then.” He glanced at his watch
as an excuse to keep from making a total fool of himself. He couldn't let her see how happy he was about these plans. He had to save face, pretend all he really wanted to do was help her. He was such a liar. “I'd better be going. Let you get your baby sleep.”

He knew he shouldn't get excited about spending so much time with her, knew it would hurt both of them down the line. He needed to tell her about the few nibbles on his job search, needed to be up-front about that. She deserved to know he'd started researching airfare to China, and had been in touch with a cardiologist from one of the Beijing universities.

He'd signed on as a sperm donor, but felt the need to make the kid's journey into the world an easier one, even if only by way of support for the mother. All of this was temporary, just until the baby was born.

Even with this logical line of thought, he made a snap decision to ignore all the warnings and live in the moment. He pulled her close, kissed the smooth skin of her forehead and, while he was in the neighborhood, inhaled the sweet shampoo scent that he liked so much in her hair. Before he could sink deeper into trouble, he released her, hightailed it down the hall and let himself out.

Twenty-two weeks' gestation, late July

“Dinner's ready,” René called from the doorway.

Jon had moved all the baby furniture to the center of the nursery and carefully covered it with old sheets. He'd placed a huge dropcloth over the hardwood floor and had the paint splatters to prove its worth.

“Be right there,” he said.

She'd spent an hour chopping, sautéing and baking their dinner, even mashed some potatoes since she re
membered how he'd raved about them once at their clinic potluck.

It seemed strange having a man puttering around in the house while she cooked. It felt good, too good. She couldn't allow herself to get used to it; she'd made her plans and, due to her circumstances, they didn't include a man, just a baby.

She'd laid out the table; he appeared at the dining room door drying his hands with a paper towel, and with a yellow primer smudge on his cheek. “Two walls down, two to go. Mmm. Something smells fantastic.”

The tone of his voice, the content expression on his face and the familiar compliment soothed like magical fingers over her concerns. The scene reminded her of cozy times when she was a child and her father came home from work, always appreciative of her mother's dinner efforts.

What would it be like?
she mused as she busied herself with a hand towel.

On his best behavior, he pulled out her chair, then sat across from her. She wouldn't be able to dodge his intense stare, and worried he might read her thoughts as he seemed to have a knack for that. It took her a moment or two to empty her mind, relax and enjoy the meal she'd prepared.

As always, he ate with great pleasure. He chewed, smiled and occasionally winked when his mouth was full. Their conversation consisted of discussing pertinent items of business from the clinic before drifting to the more personal.

“Turns out both Amanda and Lacy are going to the Santa Barbara Summer Soiree.”

“Really?”

“Amanda's boyfriend's best friend couldn't find a date. Don't tell Lacy I told you that—I'm not sure she even knows. The guy's a nerd like I was in high school, and Amanda pawned her sister off on him. I've been sworn to
secrecy, but figure my secret is safe with you.” He gave a self-deprecating glance, followed by a smile. “I suspect Lacy couldn't care less who her date is as long as she gets to buy a new dress.”

René laughed softly, enjoying his confused fatherly expression. Maybe it was his voice, deep in tone and always a pleasure to listen to, or the rich food, but the baby kicked her in the ribs. She gasped.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Fine. Sometimes when I eat, the baby gets very active. Usually it's because of a glucose rush, but maybe my stomach makes too much noise?”

He laughed, and shoveled more food into his mouth, and she marveled over the simple pleasure and how she enjoyed having a man, this man, around. Somehow, she wanted to get inside his head and figure him out. “How does it feel having a daughter about to graduate and set off for the east coast?”

“Weird. Really weird. I'm taking it one day at a time, and this weekend I've got to go dress shopping with both of them.”