The Heart Doctor and the Baby. Lynne Marshall
and a bottle of wine in each hand. Along with his usual salt-and-pepper-brown closely cropped hair, he sported a new beard tracing a thin red-tinged line along his jaw, and wore a black fleece vest, long-sleeved gray shirt and jeans. When she let him in, he smelled good, like sandalwood and some exotic spice, and it struck her that she’d never noticed his cologne before.
“Wow,” he said. “You’ve really done a lot with the house. It looks great.”
He’d helped her do a walk-through when she’d first considered buying it, and had given his nod of approval. After his divorce two years ago, she wasn’t sure how to handle their mostly business relationship and, not wanting to send the wrong message, hadn’t invited him back again. He’d struck her as a recluse since then, avoiding anything that smacked of social interaction. In fact, she’d been pleasantly surprised when he’d accepted without protest her invitation for dinner.
Had it really been that long since he’d been here? She thanked him and gestured for him to sit while she opened the wine, but instead he followed her into the kitchen.
“I thought I was the high-tech guy,” he said, “but look at you, going all stainless steel.”
“Yeah, I upgraded,” she said with a laugh as she popped the cork out of the bottle, splashed some wine into the glasses and walked him back to the living room. Small talk had never been a problem with Jon, but they’d never ventured deeper than that, and definitely had never come close to what she needed to discuss with him tonight.
“We should probably let the wine breathe,” she said, wishing she could catch her breath, too. The moment she’d seen Jon her heart started tapping out odd beats, and right this minute it felt as if someone was juggling in her stomach. What she was about to ask him was the craziest idea she’d ever had in her entire life.
“Dinner smells fantastic,” he said.
“I hope you’re hungry.” She did her best to appear nonchalant, as if her future didn’t depend on the outcome of tonight’s meal. “Let’s sit for a bit, and…uh, talk. I’ve got some cheese and crackers to go with the wine.”
Long and lean, Jon settled into the hardy wood-and-earth-tone upholstered chair that went so well with the style of the house. Come to think of it, he looked as if he belonged there. She sat in its mate so they could both share the small table where she’d already laid out the appetizers. He tossed a couple of crackers topped with the nutty cheese-ball spread into his mouth before he sampled the wine.
When was the appropriate time to bring up the subject? Surely there wasn’t any etiquette for when to broach the topic of artificial insemination amongst friends. She took a long swig of the wine and felt her mouth dry up. “I need some water—can I get you any?”
By now, with her uneasy behavior, he’d gotten that suspicious glint in his eyes, the one she’d often seen him give a patient fudging about their diet or medicine. She’d been way too skittish, and Jon could tell something was up.
“You seem really anxious.” His eyes brightened. “Is it me?” He snapped his fingers. “It’s the beard, isn’t it?”
She swiped the air. “Gosh, no. Jon! The beard?” If she’d given it any thought at all, she’d admit the beard complemented his carved features, but beards were the last thing on her mind tonight. She took another sip of wine, then headed straight to the kitchen to gather her thoughts, soon emerging with ice water for both of them.
He waited with a thoughtful expression, brows faintly furrowed. “The beard was my daughters’ idea.” He scratched the triangular swatch beneath his lower lip, and straightened in his chair as if uncomfortable with the added masculinity.
“It’s a nice addition. Really.” Why did she need to say “really” if she’d meant it in the first place? Oh, if only her jitters would go away she might act like the normal person he knew from the clinic, instead of a nervous, stammering mental job.
He grew serious and shifted on the cushion, as if his curiosity had reached its apex. “There’s a reason besides eating dinner that made you invite me tonight, isn’t there?” His narrowed, probing stare made her spine straighten. “And I’m fairly sure it isn’t to talk about my facial hair.”
She needed another glass of wine and quick. “There is something I’d like to talk about, Jon.” Oh, God, how was she going to do this? “But let’s do it over dinner, okay?”
“Oh-kay.” If he had an inquisitive look before, now he bore the expression of a sleuth about to solve the crime of the century.
She stood and he followed her to the table. She couldn’t stand still and made a dash for the kitchen.
“Can I help with anything?” he asked through the door.
“Just sit. I’ll be right back.”
Thankful for the distraction, she swept through the kitchen, put the pasta on to boil, flung open the refrigerator for the salads and, gathering up the basket of bread before hitting the door, delivered the icy cold plates, dressing and bread all in one swoop.
The two of them became miserably bad at small talk as they ate, especially since she’d hinted at a much bigger topic. He glanced at her and her gaze flitted away, suddenly finding the bread of interest. She snuck another look at him; he chased a grape tomato around his plate. The mounting awkwardness made her grateful when the pasta timer went off and she rushed back into the kitchen to serve up the main course.
Jon tore the bread apart and dipped it into the sauce. “This is great, just great,” he said after his first taste.
“I’m glad you like it.” Normally she loved to watch a man enjoy his meal, but this time around all she could do was nod and smile, and try not to break out into welts over what she was about to bring up.
Deep breath. Swallow.
“So the thing is…Jon…I was, uh, wondering…” She nibbled on bread and twirled her fork around in the noodles, over and over again, no appetite whatsoever.
Jon leaned against the slated straight-back chair. She saw the wheels turning and the cogs meshing in his genius-level mind and knew she couldn’t stall another second.
“You know you’re driving me nuts, right?” he said, planting his fork into his pasta.
She closed her eyes and blurted. “What’s your take on artificial insemination?”
His fork stopped midbite. He shut his mouth and dropped a look on her that said she’d potentially lost her mind, every last bit of it. “In general? Or for some specific reason?”
She swallowed what felt like a paper towel, a large and grainy paper towel. “Let’s start with…in general.”
“For someone who has fertility issues or no partner…” He began in his typical professorial manner, then narrowed one eye. “Is this pertaining to you?” he asked, an incredulous gaze on his face.
It was indeed pertaining to her and now was the time to get serious. No more skirting the issue. This tack was making her come off foolish and flaky, and on the topic of artificial insemination, she was anything but.
She’d done her homework, had read with interest about the local donor bank, no doubt supplied by multiple university students in need of extra cash. Wondered if she could go through with choosing an anonymous donor based on her list of specific requirements and qualities. Though it would serve her purpose, twenty-first century or not, how cold was that? Images of immature, beer-goggled university boys flashed through her mind, and a firm twist in her gut had kept her from logging into the Web site. Then she’d thought about her list of requirements and one particular face had popped into her mind.
She finished off the last few sips of wine and carefully placed the glass on the table. “I’m seriously considering it, Jon. I’m not getting any younger, and I don’t see Mr. Right walking in my front door anytime in the near future.” She grabbed his hand, didn’t realize she’d done it until