Chapter Five

Rue

What are you supposed to wear when you are going to meet with people hoping they choose you to carry their baby?

The letter that I had written to the potential future baby was still laying on my dresser the next morning while I stood in front of the full-length mirror hanging from the back of my bedroom door and evaluated all seventeen of the outfits that I had picked out for the day’s meeting. Considering the spectacular ensemble I had worn for the first meeting, I didn’t know how I was going to make any more of an impression, but I felt that I needed to at least put some effort into it.

The truth was that I was on the brink of obsessing over what I was going to wear, how I was going to do my hair, and which lipstick color to put on. It was like I was getting ready for the strangest and most foreshadowing-filled date that has ever been.

I want to look super pretty so that we can chat for a bit and then I can get pregnant and not have anything to do with you or the child after the baby’s born. Sound like a plan?

I straightened the hem of the hip-length jacket I had paired with a pencil skirt, twisted side to side to look at myself from all angles possible, and then tore off the jacket and tossed it aside so I could try a cardigan on instead. How formal, exactly, was a surrogacy interview? Was this executive assistant to the CEO with my own office, or was this secretary with a desk on the main floor? I tried not to think about the job that that comparison brought to mind. I had worked hard to get the position that ensured I could stay out of Whiskey Hollow and in the city where I had gone to college on a partial scholarship. I had carried the rest of the expense of school on my own back, working whatever jobs I could get to pay it knowing full well that Daddy would have helped me if he could, but it just wasn’t in the cards for him. Not a lot of people leave Whiskey Hollow at all, but they certainly don’t leave to go off to the city to go to college and start a career. So, I did it myself. I worked harder than I knew that I could, and I got through school then landed the first position I applied for.

Now I had left that behind.

They didn’t know it yet, since I was fully intending on continuing to collect the benefits of the extremely generous leave of absence policy that the company had until the very last moment that they were available to me, but I was never going to walk back into that office and sit behind my desk. I had even smuggled home the potted plant and framed picture of Mama and Daddy that I kept on display to perk me up during difficult days. Those had come with me on my very first day on the job. It felt like an obligation. Every movie that you ever see when a girl gets her first job in the big city, the first thing she does is sit down at her desk and put out a potted plant and a picture of her family. That was when I was just in a little cubicle squished up into a honeycomb of dozens of other cubicles where it was hard to even hear myself think over the voices of all the other people working around me.

As I rose through the ranks of the company, though, so did they, and when I finally made it into my own tiny little office, that potted plant and picture got first dibs on the desk space even before the paperweight and my name plaque. The picture even got an upgrade to a silver frame. I felt like the pinnacle of success even though I was still only just barely able to stay comfortable paying for my apartment and bills and all of those other pesky expenses of adulting. That in itself was pretty comfortable, though. Having a lot of money was something else that people from the Hollow just didn’t do. We weren’t scraping around in the dirt, but we also weren’t driving around in the long, shimmering cars I constantly saw in the office parking lot or eating at restaurants that cost two weeks’ worth of groceries for dinner.

Now my potted plant and picture of my parents had had to take up new real estate on the side table in my living room, never again to oversee my work. Giving up the career that I had cultivated over the years was the most difficult decision that I was having to make in this situation. I was having to give up all that I had committed myself to and all that I had accomplished so that I could return home and get this situation fixed. The money that they were offering would be plenty to carry me through for a while. I honestly didn’t know what I was going to do after that. I would figure it out when the time came.

I took off the cardigan and tossed it over to join the rapidly growing pile of discards that were telling me that I either needed to get rid of a lot of clothing or buy more. I wasn’t sure which. I tugged a turtleneck sweater on and immediately tore it off.

Why the hell do I have a turtleneck?

I looked at myself in the mirror, standing in just the pencil skirt and bra.

I’ll just go like this. Show them what they’re working with. Baby-birthing hips and ribs ripe for the kicking.

Finally, I grabbed a pale pink shell and black wrap-around sweater and put them on. They settled into place around me and I felt like I had landed on the right look. It had a bit of a ballerina vibe going, yet still looked immeasurably more presentable than my sweat suit. It was a win-win. I checked the clock and realized that it was only twenty minutes until I was supposed to be back at the building. Swirling my hair up onto the back of my head in a bun that I hoped would continue the ballerina look and not bring back memories of my untamed bedhead, I wriggled into my shoes, grabbed my purse and keys, and ran out of the apartment.

By the time that I reached the office building I had a greater appreciation for why ballerinas wore legwarmers. I hadn’t gotten my coat on the way out and the weather had decided that it was very determined in its downward slope, leaving me shivering as I walked into the lobby. I felt like my heels were skittering across the floor as I walked across the gleaming lobby, and the sudden appearance of Ellery from the week before did nothing to help me feel calmer or more at ease. I was hoping that I wasn’t going to have to deal with him anymore. I got bad feelings from him and really didn’t want to think that he was going to be extensively involved with this process.

As I crossed to him, he met my eyes and by his expression I could tell that he was just as happy to see my return as I was to see his.

At least we’re on the same page. Equal opportunity disdain going on here.

I pasted on as big and bright a smile as I could and walked right toward him.

“Ellery!” I gushed. “So lovely to see you this morning.”

“Rue,” he said by way of super-abbreviated greeting. “Are you nervous?”

I was briefly confused by the question then realized that he probably saw my shivering.

“No,” I said. “I’m cold. It’s cold out there.”

“Oh,” he said, apparently disappointed that I wasn’t quaking in my boots to be facing him again.

No boots. No quaking.

“Am I late again today?” I asked.

He glanced down at his watch. It still took me aback a little when I saw someone wearing and actually using a watch.

“Three minutes,” he said dryly.

“Getting better,” I said, still forcing my smile so hard it hurt in my cheeks.

“This way,” he said, and we started our path through the lobby, through the glass doors, and into the waiting room.

There was a far smaller group of women in the waiting room this time and I settled into the same seat that I had the first time. We went through the same basic process as we had before, filling out questionnaires with even more invasive questions, waiting for our names, getting whisked back into the examination room. The same nurse as the week before came in and took my vitals. I wasn’t sure why she was doing it, but I figured if the couple chose me I would be undergoing a far more extensive selection of pokes, prods, and tests, so I was going to see this as my warmup.

When I got out of the examination room I was ushered back to the waiting room.

Hmmm. Plot twist.

I sat back in my chair. No point in breaking the streak. There seemed to be fewer women now, even after the last one came back out of the door and settled into a seat. I didn’t know where the others could have gone and had a brief sense of doom, wondering not for the first time if I had somehow wandered into an episode of the Twilight Zone and wasn’t going to be the contract mother, but zapped down to embryo size and turned into a contract baby.

I really needed to stop the late-night TV marathons with Christopher.

Nearly half an hour passed before the door opened again. This time it wasn’t the nurse who peered out with her clipboard. Instead, it was Ellery. He looked out at the waiting room and scanned the remaining women. He called a name and the woman across from me hopped up and scurried toward him like she had been called to spin the big wheel. This went on for the next half an hour, with each of the women returning and leaving before the next was called back. Finally, everyone had left but me and I sat waiting, wondering if I had either been forgotten or if someone else had already been chosen and they decided that there wasn’t any real point in even talking to me. That must be it. One of those other women who had sat here in this room with me, none speaking a single word to each other, had somehow caught the attention of the couple and was going to be the one that was going to carry their baby for them.

I thought of the letter that I had written the night before and felt an unexpected flutter of sadness. Which one was it?

The one with the thicker hair?

The bigger boobs?

The smaller waist?

The one who hummed the entire time that she walked into the back and then out of the room as if there was some sort of mechanical mechanism inside of her that was powering her along?

I was about to just go ahead and leave, save myself the misery of seeing the look on Ellery’s face when he dismissed me, when the door opened and his face poked out. The sour expression in his eyes and his pursed lips told me that maybe I wasn’t done after all.

“You can come with me,” he said, not even bothering with the formality of saying my name.

I stood and crossed the waiting room to him with a touch of swagger.

“Saved the best for last, did you, Ellery?” I asked as I swept past him.

Despite my bravado and sass, my stomach did a few turns of nervousness as we made our way toward the office where we had had our interview the week before. I was about to meet the people who could very well change my life, and whose lives I could change even more. Ellery opened the door and I took a breath, stepping inside. I lifted my head from where I had been focusing on the carpet a few feet in front of me and felt my smile melt when I saw the desk.

Instead of a smiling young couple sitting there, I saw a stern-looking man looking through papers spread across the surface of the desk in front of him.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hello. Please, come sit.”

It was one of those times when saying ‘please’ actually made what the person was asking sound less polite. Ellery left the office and closed the door behind him without saying anything. I crossed the room and sat down in the same chair that I had before.

“Good morning,” I said, not really knowing what else I could say to ease the stuffy feeling in the office.

“Good morning. I’m Mr. Lawrence. I’ll be interviewing you today.”

I cocked my head at him, confused by the introduction.

“I thought that I was here to meet the couple who is looking for a surrogate,” I said.

Mr. Lawrence shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I am a family lawyer specializing in surrogacy law. My client is a prominent figure and does not want others, including the media, to know about his surrogacy plans until he is prepared to release such information. To protect his privacy and the privacy of his girlfriend, he has asked that I handle this stage of the interview process and provide legal information and details to those who have been shortlisted.”

“Girlfriend?” I asked, slightly surprised by the word.

The bulbous lawyer looked at me over the rim of his glasses.

“Yes,” he said. “My client is not yet married. Do you have some sort of moral objection to that?”

His pen was poised above the pad of paper in front of him, ready to jot down anything that I said and, likely, to eliminate me as the proper choice because I had a problem with their lifestyle choices.

“No,” I said. “No moral objection. I’m just surprised. Don’t most people get married before they start thinking about children and go through all of this to have one?”

I probably shouldn’t have asked that. It wasn’t really any of my business and the last thing that I needed was for the lawyer, who was probably actually some sort of mole hidden in the process to evaluate me, to think that I was difficult.

“My client has an extremely high pressure, tightly scheduled business and personal life. He must make arrangements for any and all pursuits in his life, including his desire to have a child, according to the time that he has available. A recent business success has ensured that he has time now to begin this process.” He looked at me again, his eyes sharp as though he wanted to make sure that I was listening very carefully to every word that was coming out of his mouth. “But I assure you, he has every intention of marrying his longtime partner in the near future.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean? What did he think I was, some sort of gestational homewrecker?