ПДД с фотоиллюстрациями и комментариями 2016. Отсутствует

      “I did as we agreed and invited a few extra people,” Jillian told Jake on Saturday evening, at just before six.

      She’d arrived at his newly rented house a little early, as she’d promised to do, bearing not only the agreed-upon chocolate mud cakes for dessert, but wine, napkins, extra silverware…most of the party supplies, in fact. She had to send him out to her car to bring in two more bags.

      “Great place,” she told him, when he returned.

      He’d rented a modern log home on a generous acre of land on the hilly outskirts of the city. The property had peace and space and warmth, as well as the easy freeway access to the hospital that he would need when racing to a delivery in the middle of the night.

      He’d rented furniture and hired a professional interior designer to add some finishing touches, and in forty-eight hours the place had gone from bare and echoey to fully furnished, before he’d moved his personal belongings in here on Wednesday. Despite the designer’s expert eye and attention to detail, Jake wasn’t totally happy with the result, however. Something was missing.

      “You didn’t have to bring all this,” he said to Jillian.

      “Well, I did have to, with all the extra people.” She shrugged and smiled, laughing at herself a little.

      “So just how many non-Logans did you invite?”

      She ticked them off on her fingers. “Brian and Carrie Summers. They adopted through Children’s Connection and it went so well for them that the birth mother, Lisa, is still a big part of their lives. She’s become a real friend, so she’ll be here, too. And Stacey, whom you know. She and her husband…ex-husband,” she corrected quickly, with a regretful expression, “conceived their twins through IVF treatment at the center. That’s not a confidence I’m betraying because she’s very open about it. And Eric and Jenny asked if they could bring…”

      But Jake didn’t hear who Eric and Jenny were bringing.

      Stacey and John had conceived through IVF.

      For some reason, he reacted to this news with a powerful surge of complex emotion. His thoughts whirled. He and Stacey had had no trouble conceiving by accident seventeen years ago. But then Anna’s birth had been so horrible. Stacey had bled too much afterward. They’d both been so upset and bewildered. She hadn’t realized her postpartum flow was greater than normal, and of course he had no medical knowledge at that point. Neither of them realized soon enough that she had an infection and needed antibiotics.

      “Want to help set out the glasses?” Jillian asked, and he nodded absently and set to work, needing only a fraction of his concentration for the mechanical task.

      Stacey had had to listen to some typically insensitive opinions from her mother after the birth—that the loss of Anna was “for the best,” that in future “maybe you won’t be so thoughtless.” He’d been rocked by the sense of a burden lifted warring with his genuine grief. They were both a total mess at that point. Had Stacey been scarred physically as well as emotionally by Anna’s birth and death? Was this why she hadn’t been able to conceive naturally with her husband?

      How long had they been trying before they’d resorted to IVF? Treatment for infertility could put an enormous strain on a couple’s marriage. The divorce made more sense to him, now.

      He looked up from the current task he was working on—arranging platters of crackers, cheese and dips; he didn’t even remember Jillian asking him to do it—and there was Stacey herself, following Jillian into the kitchen with a big, glass-lidded casserole dish in her hands. He wanted to confront her with a hundred questions about her marriage, the fertility treatment, the divorce, and almost had to bite his tongue to keep them back.

      He’d never felt such a powerful need to make sure that someone was all right. It stunned him that he could still feel so protective toward her, that he obviously at some level considered he still had, oh, visiting rights to her heart, the way Dr. Jake Logan, specialist in ob-gyn, had visiting rights to Portland General Hospital.

      “Hi, Jake,” she said, her eyes huge and bright and…yeah…aware. Nervous. It must show in both of them.

      She wore a short-sleeved cream top in some silky, lacy fabric that clung to every curve on her body. A full skirt in a light, patterned fabric swished around her legs and emphasized the swing of her hips when she moved. Her cheeks were pink from the cold outside air between her car and the house, and her honey-toned hair glistened with drops of rain like diamonds scattered over gold.

      “Hi.” His voice didn’t come out right. His body felt angular and awkward, and forbidden parts of it throbbed.

      “In the oven?” Jillian asked her, talking about the casserole.

      “Yes,” Stacey said, “because I made it this morning and it’s chilled from the fridge. Don’t make the temperature too hot, though.”

      “Jake?” Jillian gestured at the sleek stainless steel front of the wall oven, with its row of control knobs.

      “Do I know how to switch it on? No clue.” He stepped toward it just as Stacey put her casserole down on the countertop and did the same.

      They stood side by side, studying the situation. He knew he’d swayed too close to her, but he couldn’t help it. It felt right, standing close, where he could smell her sweetness and glance down at her pretty profile. He noticed she didn’t move away. Her skirt brushed his legs.

      Chemistry, again.

      Memories.

      Needs.

      “Hmm,” she murmured. “Five separate controls, and none of them have words on.”

      “This one?” He reached toward it.

      “Maybe.” She seemed skeptical, and tilted her head. At thirty-five, the fluted line of her neck was still smooth. “But which setting? Do we want plain rectangle, or rectangle with horizontal line near the top, or rectangle with—”

      “You’re right,” he agreed. “What happened to words? And what idiot designs these symbols?”

      “I’m going out on a limb, here. I’m going with rectangle with horizontal line near the bottom and Mercedes-Benz symbol in the middle.”

      “I think the Mercedes-Benz symbol must mean the fan, although I’m sure the car company is appreciative of the publicity.”

      Stacey laughed, then turned the control to the setting they’d agreed on.

      Nothing happened.

      She shrugged at him and smiled. Not the million-watt smile, but the crooked one with the dimple in one cheek. Her sarcastic smile. He remembered it very well. Only Stacey Handley produced dimples along with her sarcasm. “Any new theories, Sherlock?” she asked.

      Right now, he didn’t want theories. He didn’t care if it took their combined brainpower another hour to work out how to switch the oven on, as long as it meant they could keep standing close—flirting, remembering the good times instead of the bad—and he could watch her mouth as she spoke.

      More people had arrived. What was it about parties that made everyone crowd into the kitchen, when he had that whole professionally decorated great room through the doorway, where they were supposed to congregate? He heard greetings, including the voices of his brothers Ryan and Scott, but didn’t turn around.

      “This one must be the timer setting,” he said to Stacey, as if the oven controls also governed the whole solar system.

      “And this is the temperature control.