Chapter Three
Sara padded down the stairs to the kitchen, thankful for her cozy pink slippers and cashmere robe. The abundant walnut-and-limestone flooring in the house made it cool on autumn mornings, especially when fog obscured the sun. Yesterday’s tense drive back from Berkeley had only enhanced the chill in their home.
Her fitful sleep left her determined to start the week off on a better note. Her mom always believed in looking at a person’s intentions instead of allowing hurt feelings to fester and extend an argument. With that in mind, Sara turned on the electric teakettle, placed a few slices of bacon in the microwave, and proceeded to fix Hunter an egg sandwich. Having already returned from his morning cycling, he should be hungry after his shower.
The bacon aroma helped boost her mood. Crisp, salty, greasy goodness that went with everything from OJ to chocolate. She’d miss bacon if she got pregnant, having to eliminate nitrates from her diet for months. Maybe she should have some today just in case . . . to hold her over.
The thought prompted a smile. If she got lucky, in a few weeks she’d have to cut out all the no-no’s her friends had talked about, too. Unlike them, she wouldn’t complain—not even about going nine months without wine. She’d willingly give up food altogether and get nourishment through an IV if she finally got pregnant.
While sweetening Hunter’s tea, she heard his footfall echoing from the hall. He hesitated in the doorway, looking much too handsome for this early hour. Although CTC was a “business casual” office, Hunter’s well-tailored slacks and bespoke shirts stood out compared with everyone other than Jenna, who also took great care with her appearance. The tension in his lean body and sharp lines of his face softened when he looked at her.
“Good morning.” His cautious smile signaled that he, too, wished for a truce. “What’s all this?”
“A peace offering.” She slid the plate along the island toward him.
He sighed and crossed to her, cupping her face. His large, warm hands made her feel delicate and protected. “I’m sorry, Sara. Barking at you hadn’t been on my agenda when I’d planned the weekend. I’d hoped for us to . . . well, I’d hoped to have more fun than we did.”
“I know.” Her arms encircled his waist as she fitted herself against him. Although sex was not strictly prohibited at this phase, many people who’d had success with IVF discouraged it while undergoing all the procedures and tests. She and Hunter hadn’t abstained the first time, and it failed, so this round she’d insisted they refrain. The lack of physical intimacy wasn’t helping their relationship. “I’m sorry I’ve been so tense and standoffish.”
He kissed her in that possessive, commanding way he did most everything. “It’s okay. We’re going through a lot now, and unlike you, I can’t blame my moods on hormone shots.”
“Let’s not lay blame.” She rested her head against his chest and breathed in his woodsy Azzaro Chrome cologne while he rubbed her back. “We could both be a little more patient.”
“Okay.” He eased away and eyed the bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich. “This looks great, thanks. I’d eat with you, but I have a meeting at eight thirty, so I’m going to have to eat it while I drive. Do you need help with a shot before I go?”
“Just the one.”
“Let’s get it done.”
Sara retrieved a vial of progesterone oil and a pink needle from the cabinet and prepared the shot while Hunter sipped his tea and ate a bite of the breakfast she’d made. Once she’d finished preparing the shot, she handed it to him and pulled down the top of her pajama pants to reveal the grid drawn in marker on her right butt cheek.
“Babe, I hate thinking of how much these bruises must hurt.” Hunter sighed while caressing her black-and-blue hip before cleaning the area with an antiseptic wipe. “Ready?”
She nodded and looked away, bracing for the prick of the needle that had to go all the way into her muscle. When it reached its target, her breath caught, and she heard Hunter mutter a curse.
“I’ll be glad when this part is over.” He withdrew the needle and returned it to her.
“Me too.”
“I’ll bet.” He grinned, held up the remains of his sandwich, and kissed her cheek. “Thanks for this.”
“Don’t forget we have a three o’clock appointment for another ultrasound.”
“I’ll meet you there.” He turned to go, then spun back and pulled her close, staring into her eyes. He swooped in for another kiss. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.” She stroked his cheek with her thumb. Something she’d probably done thousands of times since they’d met.
He kissed her palm and winked. “Have a good morning.”
She watched him go, relieved that she’d extended the olive branch this morning. Now she could focus her thoughts on praying for good news from the doctor—eight or more fifteen-millimeter-size follicles on the ultrasound would be wonderful. They could celebrate if she could convince him not to return to the office after the appointment.
It’d been a long while since she’d surprised him with anything romantic. In the beginning, she’d planned many impromptu nights. They could use one now, even if it couldn’t lead to sex. Emotional intimacy—reestablishing that connection—was her goal.
She’d make one of his favorite meals tonight—maybe steak kabobs with onion rings—and light candles. Perhaps she’d write out a list of her ten favorite things about him, as a gift. Adding a quick grocery run to her to-do list, Sara then went to shower and dress for the day.
Sara was putting away the last of the groceries when her phone rang. “Hello?”
“Hey, Sara, sorry to bug you, but I’m wondering if you have time to check something out for the foundation,” Colby said.
“Depends. I need to head up to Portland for a three o’clock appointment.”
“This shouldn’t take too long. If I had time, I’d do it myself. I received a grant request from the Angel House and am curious to check out one of their locations. They’ve got a home in Happy Valley I thought you might be able to visit.”
“What’s the Angel House?”
“They service homeless women and small children, many of whom are either escaping abuse or trying to overcome addiction. From what little I’ve read, they put them up in residential homes to give the kids a normalized environment while the moms look for work and permanent housing. Sounds much gentler than having kids end up in a large, transient shelter.”
Sara glanced around her several-hundred-square-foot kitchen—outfitted in professional appliances, marble, and custom cabinetry—and beyond, to the nearly four-thousand-square-foot home she shared with Hunter. Just the two of them, rambling around this beautiful house that hugged the cliff above Lake Sandy. A privileged life—thanks to her husband—that she’d come to take for granted. One that also shielded her from seeing the plight of so many. “Of course I’ll go. Text me the address.”
“Thanks. And good luck with the appointment. How much longer until the retrieval?”
Sara preferred not to talk about the process, but Colby was the closest thing she had to a sister here. “Assuming things are developing on schedule, it should be any day.”
“I feel very optimistic.”
Sara laughed. “You’ve been ‘very optimistic’ for several weeks now, and I think it has more to do with Alec than with anything related to my fertility.”
A few months ago, Colby had hired Hunter’s childhood friend Alec as the head chef at her new restaurant. Not long thereafter, they’d become involved. After the difficult life Colby had had with her mentally ill first husband, who’d ultimately committed suicide, her family embraced this newfound love.
“Alec helps, no doubt.” Her sister-in-law chuckled. “Trust me, though. You and Hunter will have a family. I feel it.”
“I pray that you’re right.” Prayed every day, actually. “I’d better get moving. I’ll call you later with my impressions of the Angel House.”
“Great, thanks.”
Within seconds, Colby sent her a text with its address and phone number. Sara called the director, Gloria Crawford, who invited her to the home for a tour. She grabbed her keys, grateful for an opportunity to be vital and productive.
Sara pulled into the driveway of an older, Dijon mustard–colored split-level home. It reminded her of the Brady Bunch house she’d seen on those reruns years ago. Nothing on its exterior called attention to its purpose. An outsider wouldn’t think it anything more than an ordinary suburban family home. It probably had three bedrooms, maybe four if one was very tiny. She locked her car and strode up the driveway, curious to learn more.
Gloria greeted her at the door. The woman could’ve been her own mother—gentle eyes, silver hair, and a matronly build. She welcomed Sara with a warm smile.
“Thank you so much for coming by so soon after receiving our grant proposal. We’re in such need of help these days.” Gloria led Sara inside.
The home’s hardwood floors extended from the tight entry into the modest kitchen and dining room. Serviceable wall-to-wall carpet covered the living room and stairs Sara assumed led to the bedrooms.
She overheard conversation coming from the upper hallway and noticed a plump woman sitting at the small desk in the living room, studying a computer screen.
Gloria must’ve sensed her curiosity. “That’s Joan. Our residents use the computer to find jobs. Then we also prep them for the interview process. Because our facility is so small and there are so many women in need, we have a nine-month maximum residency term. Fortunately, many are able to leave before that.”
“I see.” When Sara had been a teen, her parents had made the family undertake service projects every summer. Working with the indigent had made her appreciate everything her family did have so that she hardly ever noticed what they lacked.
Since college, she and Hunter had never had time—or rather never made time—to give back in that same way. Hunter wrote checks. Lots of checks. While those were helpful, too, they didn’t feed the soul.
She glanced at Joan again, who was struggling to survive each day. With winter coming, she must have been getting desperate. A place like this would offer much-needed comfort, despite the uncomfortable-looking, utilitarian furnishings. There was, however, a toy box and plastic kitchen set in the corner for kids.
The small dining room held two tables of six, and the eat-in kitchen seated another four. Although homier than a shelter, it lacked the items that make a place home. There were no photographs. No knickknacks. Nothing of sentimental value anywhere on the walls or tables. And probably not much laughter. Who could laugh much with such tremendous pressure bearing down?
“Let’s sit in the kitchen. May I offer you coffee?” Gloria asked as Sara followed her.
“No, thank you.” Sara’s attention snagged at the sight of a young mother and toddler on the swing set in the backyard.
The little boy, outfitted in a too-small, ratty orange coat, must’ve been about two. His skin looked as rich and warm as a cup of latte, although his mother was fair enough to be of Nordic descent. She was frail—so thin and short she looked like a preteen from behind.
“Pam and Tyrell.” Gloria beckoned for Sara to move away from the sliding glass doors.
“Do you strictly enforce the residency time limits with women with small children?” Sara rubbed her arms, chilled by the thought.
“We’ve been lucky that, in almost all cases, our residents find work or alternative placement within the stated period. I’m not sure what we’d do if a child as young as Ty were at risk for being back on the street. Let’s hope we don’t need to find out. A bigger question is how can women like Pam, for example, who doesn’t have a family support system, get affordable, safe childcare once she finds work.”
Sara blinked, her thoughts racing to how she and Hunter could be doing more to help others. How shamefully easy it was to get caught up in one’s own life and turn a deaf ear to the struggles of strangers in the community.
“Well, let’s see how the Maverick Foundation might be able to help.” Sara took a small pad from her hobo bag, making herself a note to talk to Colby about looking into giving financial support to day-care centers for the working poor or setting up some kind of fund to underwrite those costs on an individual basis. “Tell me a little more about your needs.”
“We use the bulk of donations to keep the lights and heat on, and pay for groceries and such. The local churches help out with clothing and shoe drives a few times each year. Occasionally, women from the neighborhood will drop off toys their kids have outgrown. But this year we’d like to offer a little more support for the young kids like Ty.”
“How so?” Sara resisted the urge to stand and glance out the window at the beautiful little boy.
“Sadly, we’re seeing more displaced single moms and kids. Many of these women have struggled with addiction, which contributes to the difficulty in keeping any kind of stable work. If we could hire extra staff to help with the kids so we could make sure these women attended support groups and got some job training, it might make a difference.”
“So the funds would pay for babysitting? Can’t some of the women who are staying here pitch in when they aren’t on an interview or at a meeting?”
“Some of these kids born to addicts, like Ty, can be difficult or struggle with developmental delays and attachment issues. Generally, kids like him aren’t easy for others to handle. Plus, the residents here have their own worries and concerns. Giving them additional responsibility isn’t best.”
Just then, the door slid open, and Ty toddled inside with his mother on his heels. The cold breeze had tinged his cherubic cheeks with a rosy hue. Steely-gray eyes, round as Oreos, were deeply set above a perfect button nose and pouty mouth. A living, breathing Gerber Baby.
He stopped cold when Sara smiled and waved. “Hello there. I’m Sara. What’s your name?”
He stared at her, unmoved. Pam hiked him up on her hip without introducing herself or smiling, then opened the refrigerator to get some milk. “He don’t talk much.”
Sara chuckled. “Well, little one, that makes you like most men I know. Not big talkers, are you?”
He stared at her, eyes not blinking.
Pam wasn’t nearly as interested in Sara as Sara was in Pam and Ty. In fact, Pam barely acknowledged her and didn’t even say anything to Gloria. “Come on, Ty. Nap time.”
Sara didn’t follow them, even as something about Ty dredged up every mothering instinct she had. Once they were out of sight, she asked, “Is his lack of talking one of the developmental delays you mentioned? Can you get him help while he’s here?”
“We have a contract with local social services organizations, and we call them in to evaluate whether certain kids are entitled to any state-provided disability programs.”
“I see.” Sara knew nothing about developmental disabilities or difficult children, and yet she couldn’t stand the idea of Ty, or other children in need, going without the kind of support and intervention that could change their lives. “I’m sure the Maverick Foundation will be happy to assist you with funds earmarked for helping these children. In the meantime, I can volunteer some of my personal time to babysit or offer career counseling. Whatever you need.”
That had come out of nowhere, but for the first time in a long time, Sara felt a sudden sense of purpose. A pop of the passion she’d been missing in her life.
“That’s a kind offer, but we have a strict vetting process in order to protect the residents.”
Sara wrote down her name, birth date, address, and phone number. “This should be enough to get a background check started. I can sign whatever waivers or other documents you might require.”
“I’ll be in touch, thank you.” Gloria stood. “Why don’t I show you the bedrooms and talk a bit more about our mission, and then you can get on with your day.”
“Sure.” Sara followed Gloria back to the small bedrooms, each of which had multiple beds and a crib. She barely heard Gloria’s spiel because her mind kept jumping from thought to thought.
She tried to imagine having no friends or family to turn to in a crisis—frankly, imagining being in true crisis seemed impossible after spending almost fourteen years with Hunter.
How did it feel to have so few possessions that one could carry them in a bag? Would she feel safe sharing a room (and those precious few possessions) with strangers?
Distracted, she peered through the crack in the door to the bedroom where Pam and Ty were staying. Ty stood at the crib railing while his mom lay on her bed, legs dangling over the edge. Ty noticed Sara, his luminous eyes intently staring at her, almost the way Hunter’s did, yet more warily. She smiled, waving a few fingers at him again.
He promptly plunked onto his little bottom and turned his head, suddenly shy or afraid. Her heart squeezed at the prospect of that little one being sent back to the streets.
“Gloria, what’s the recidivism rate with the addicts? Do these women end up back here often or at other shelters? Does social services ever take the kids from them and put them into foster care?”
“We’ve never had anyone come back, although that doesn’t mean they haven’t fallen down and ended up elsewhere or on the streets. We’ve only called DHS if we’ve suspected child abuse or neglect. So far, that’s been rare. Most of these women are trying to do better.”
That should have comforted Sara, yet an unsettled feeling wove through her body and balled up in her stomach.
“Thank you for the tour. My offer to help out personally is sincere. In the meantime, I’ll speak with our director about rushing through your grant request.”
“So nice to meet you, Sara. Have a blessed day.” Gloria waved her off at the front door.
Sara glanced at her watch to see how much time she had for lunch before having to drive up to Portland. On her way home, Hunter called.
“Babe.” He hesitated. “I can’t make the appointment this afternoon. My dad’s called a meeting of the executive team to discuss whatever the hell Pure Foods proposed on Friday while we were at Berkeley.”
“Can’t you ask him to reschedule for tomorrow morning? If he knew why you needed the out, I’m sure he’d agree.”
“That just gives Jenna more ammo and another day to work on him and others to get them on her side. She’d paint me as ‘distracted’ by my family obligations, which wouldn’t help me convince anyone that I can take over if my dad retires.”
“I really need you there, Hunter. What if I get bad news? I don’t want to be alone.” When he didn’t immediately respond, she added, “This is our family. Isn’t that at least as important as the meeting? It’s not like you’re voting on anything today. And even Jenna wouldn’t be so insensitive to our situation as to take advantage of it.”
“It’s not that simple, and you know I’ll never trust Jenna . . .” His sigh came through the phone. “Can’t Colby or my mom go with you today?”
“Your mom isn’t back from her long weekend with Rusty, and Colby’s so busy she asked me to go cover a foundation meeting, so I doubt she’s available.”
“Gentry’s always available. Maybe you could ask her.”
“She’s not exactly one for hand-holding.” Sara thought about his baby half sister, whose favorite pastime was provoking her family. “If I get bad news, she’s likely to shrug her shoulders and suggest we do shots or get a tattoo.”
He chuckled, but she found no humor in the situation. He sighed. “I’m sure you won’t get bad news at this stage. Every visit in this round has been very positive. I’m sorry to miss out, but it’s a tricky time for me at work. Please give me a pass today.”
“Fine. I’ll call Gentry.” She punched off the phone before he could say more. She’d give him what he wanted, but she didn’t have to like it.
Her earlier determination to make this week better between them tickled her conscience, but she squashed the guilt. Why did she always have to bend? Why did his goals matter more than hers? She blew out a breath and refocused, then scrolled her “Favorites” for Gentry’s number.
Gentry. She could be sweet and amusing when she set aside the chip on her shoulder. Chip? A boulder, really. One that kept her from getting on with her life in any meaningful or productive way. Perhaps Sara should make Gentry go with her to the Angel House so she’d appreciate her easy life more.
“Hey, Sara,” Gentry answered. “What’s up?”
“I need a favor.”
A heartbeat passed, as if Gentry anticipated some kind of trap. “What kind of favor?”
“Hunter can’t make our doctor’s appointment at three, but I’d like some company in case I get bad news. Are you free?”
Another moment of silence ensued. “Let me guess. Colby and Leslie aren’t available.”
Although true, Sara chose to respond with a technically honest response to spare Gentry’s feelings. “I didn’t ask them, actually.”
“Oh.”
“Come on. I haven’t seen you since you got back from Napa. I’ll pick you up for lunch, and you can tell me all about your trip.” That, at least, would be entertaining. Gentry’s vacations usually involved at least one outlandish adventure.
“Okay. But we need to go someplace that serves alcohol. I’ll need a drink with lunch if I’m going to be stuck with an image of your legs in stirrups for the rest of my life.” While Gentry snickered, Sara wondered if this might be a mistake.
“I’m so bloated and crampy. Some days I worry my ovaries will explode,” Sara groaned while waiting for the doctor, lying back on the exam table.
“Fewer details, please.” Gentry shuddered and wandered around the small room, fiddling with everything in reach. How she didn’t topple off the stilts she called boots, Sara didn’t know.
“Oh, please. I’m still trying to block out the TMI you shared about your exploits with ‘Smith’ in Napa.” Sara especially wished she could unhear the specific details of Smith’s substantial anatomy.
“What can I say? He was beautiful. I couldn’t resist.”
“How can you describe his ‘package’ in vivid detail yet not know his full name or if Smith is even any part of his real name? Hunter would kill you if he knew you spent the night with a stranger. You’re almost twenty-six. Isn’t it time to start using better judgment?”
“Maybe it wasn’t my wisest decision, but his voice . . . his eyes.” Gentry’s hands flittered in the air. She made quite a picture standing there, auburn hair in wild layers, knee-high boots, and micro miniskirt with some kind of green metallic top skimming the curvy lines of her figure. “Let me have my fun before I’m too old for guys to want me.”
Sara propped herself up on her elbows. “Being wanted—truly wanted—isn’t about youth and beauty. Of course, there’s that superficial kind of desire, but real desire sparks from who you are, what you think, and your passion for life. Those are the things that make us uniquely attractive to others, and luckily they tend to improve with age.”
“Whatevs.” Gentry shrugged as Dr. Barletta entered the room.
“Sara, sorry for the delay.” He smiled at Gentry. “Well, hello. You’re not Hunter.”
“His sister, Gentry,” Sara said.
Sara caught Gentry eyeing Dr. Barletta in a predatory manner as she shook his hand. Granted, the man had appealing Roman features, but Dr. Barletta was older than Sara would have thought Gentry would find appealing. Then again, maybe her sister-in-law was planning to work out her daddy issues by dating someone older. She supposed that would be preferable to the Smith situation.
Sara cleared her throat. “I’m hoping for good news.”
“Me too. Blood work is perfect, so let’s look at the rest.” Dr. Barletta lubed up the ultrasound wand and began exploring her ovaries and uterine lining. Using a keyboard and mouse, he carefully marked off coordinates on the screen to measure each of the egg follicles.
Gentry stared at the screen with a sort of morbid fascination, which provided Sara a much-needed distraction from the significance of this appointment. Eventually, Dr. Barletta pushed back and removed his latex gloves. “Everything looks great. Eight eggs ready to go. I want to bring you back in two days for the retrieval. Schedule that on your way out.”
Although grateful that Gentry had accompanied her, she wished Hunter had been here to share the moment. She felt they should experience all the little wins together and be there for these would-be children from the get-go. Warm tears filled her eyes. “Thank you, Doctor.”
He smiled, probably very accustomed to teary women. “You’re welcome.” He then launched into detail about the preprocedure instructions. “So I’ll see you on Wednesday.”
Once he left them alone, Sara dabbed her eyes and sat up. Without a word, Gentry handed over Sara’s clothing.
“I’m glad you got good news, Sara.” Gentry’s ruddy cheeks set off another wash of emotion. It wasn’t often one got a peek beneath her defenses.
“Thanks for being here. It’s nice to share the happy moment with someone.” Sara squeezed Gentry’s hands. With nine years between them, she and Gentry had never developed the sort of sisterly bond Sara shared with Colby. Hunter’s poor relationship with Gentry’s mother made for another easy excuse as to why they weren’t closer, which wasn’t fair. She would do better. Gentry deserved that from her.
“I’ll step out so you can change.” And then, as if needing to restore the balance of her own emotions, Gentry added, “And to avoid a second look at your human pincushion of a belly.”
Sara dressed and then located her phone, which contained a text from Hunter. He’d likely be in the midst of the big meeting now, so she texted back rather than call.
Great news. Retrieval on Wednesday. Please clear your calendar.
He’d disappointed her today, but she wouldn’t let it spoil her excited anticipation. The Angel House had reminded her to appreciate her blessings and the beautiful lifestyle Hunter provided. Besides, for the next few weeks, only positive karma would do.
She’d drop off Gentry and then start on dinner. A spontaneous celebration of hope that, by summer, they might finally have a child—or two or three—of their own. A grin tugged at the corners of her mouth as she imagined his delighted surprise when he came home to homemade onion rings.