“That’s another thing,” she cried. “Why is it every girl from the south has two names? Why can’t we call her Tammie without the Lee?”
“It’s her name, Jacqueline.”
“It’s ridiculous.”
Reese studied her as if he was really noticing her for the first time. “Why are you so angry?”
“Because I’m afraid of losing my son.” Paul and her close relationship with him was the only consolation she had in a life that brought her little joy. Now she’d done something stupid and insulted her son.
“Call him back and apologize.”
“I intend to,” she said.
“You could order flowers for Tammie Lee.”
“I will.” But the gesture would be for Paul’s sake, not his wife’s.
“Why not go to the flower shop on Blossom Street.”
Jacqueline nodded. “I plan to do something else, too.” She prayed it would be enough. She hoped her son realized she was making an effort to accept his wife.
“What?”
“I saw a sign in the window of that new knitting shop. I’m going to register for a knitting class. The sign says the beginning project is a baby blanket.”
Reese so rarely approved of anything she did that the warmth of his smile moved all the way through her.
“I might not like Tammie Lee, but I will be the best grandmother I can.” Someone had to provide the appropriate influences for Paul’s child. Otherwise her grandchild might grow up eating deep-fried pickles. Or going through life as Bubba Donovan …
3
CHAPTER
CAROL GIRARD
Carol Girard had never imagined that getting pregnant could be this difficult. Her mother obviously hadn’t had any trouble; Carol and her brother, Rick, were born two years apart.
Before they were married, Doug and Carol had talked about having a family one day. Because of her high-powered job with a national brokerage firm, he wanted to be sure she was as interested in a family as he was. Doug had asked if she’d be willing to put aside her career for a few years in order to have children. The answer had been an unqualified yes. Babies were a given with her. She’d always pictured herself as a mother, always saw kids as an important part of her life. Doug would be a wonderful father and she was deeply, passionately, in love with her husband. She wanted to have his children.
Heating her lunch in the microwave, Carol glanced around the kitchen of her sixteenth-floor condo overlooking Puget Sound. She’d quit her job only a month ago and she already felt restless and impatient. She’d left the brokerage firm with the sole intention of allowing her body to relax, to unwind from the demands of her routine. Doug had convinced her that job-related stress was the reason she hadn’t conceived, and her obstetrician conceded that it was possible. A barrage of humiliating tests for both her and Doug had revealed that in addition to her age, thirty-seven, she had to contend with something called ASA or antisperm antibodies.
The phone rang and she leapt on it, grabbing the handset before it had a chance to ring twice.
“Hello,” she said cheerfully, eager to talk to anyone, even if it was a sales call.
“Hi, honey. I wondered if you were still at home.”
A momentary panic attacked her. “Am I supposed to be somewhere?”
Doug chuckled. “I thought you said you were going for a walk this afternoon.”
That was something recommended by one of the books they’d read. As a result, Carol had decided she should exercise more, and now that she was home during the day she had plenty of opportunity to spend time outside. This was all part of the program they’d discussed and agreed upon before she’d left her job.
“Right. I was just getting ready to head out.” She eyed the microwave and turned her back on her waiting lunch.
“Carol? Are you okay?”
Her husband recognized her mood, her depression and anxiety. Doug had been right to suggest she quit work. They were both frightened, since there was a very real possibility that she might never carry a pregnancy full-term. It didn’t help that they had one last shot with in vitro fertilization. The insurance company where Doug worked had its headquarters in Illinois, where state law mandated that company health coverage could pay for three attempts; their first two had failed. IVF was the very end of the technological line, the ultimate procedure the fertility clinic had to offer in the quest for a biological child. July would be their last attempt, and after that they were on their own financially. At the start they’d agreed to limit in vitro to the three attempts. If she wasn’t pregnant by then, they’d begin the adoption process. In retrospect, it had been a wise decision. The emotional devastation of the two failures proved she couldn’t endure this process indefinitely. Twice a fertilized egg had been implanted and twice she’d miscarried. No couple should repeatedly face this kind of heartache.
Carol and Doug never mentioned that this third IVF attempt was the end of their hopes, but the fact loomed in their minds. It was vitally important that she get pregnant—and stay pregnant—this time.
Carol was willing to give it everything she had. Willing to forsake the job she loved, willing to be poked and prodded and humiliated. She was willing to withstand all the doubts, confront the emotional highs and lows of their attempts at conception, all for the sake of a baby. Doug’s baby.
“I love you, sweetheart.”
“I know.” Although she said it flippantly, Carol did know. Doug had been with her through this entire process, through the doctors’ visits, the testing, through the tears, the frustration, the anger and the grief. “One day you’ll hold our child in your arms and we’ll both know that everything was worth it.” They’d already chosen the names. Cameron for a boy and Colleen for a girl. She could clearly see their child, could feel the baby in her arms, and see the joy in her husband’s eyes.
Carol held on to that dream, and the image of a baby in her arms helped her endure the most difficult aspects of the IVF process.
“What time will you be home?” It had never concerned her before, but now she regulated her life by her husband’s comings and goings. His routine shaped her own, and his return from the office was the highlight of her day. Several times each afternoon she checked her watch, calculating how many hours and then minutes until Doug was home.
“Usual time,” he promised.
Her husband of seven years worked as an insurance underwriter. Carol was the one who earned the big bucks in the family. It was her income that had enabled them to make a substantial down payment on the condo. When they got married, her wise and frugal husband had insisted they adjust their lifestyle to live on his income alone. He feared that otherwise they’d come to rely on her salary and defer having a family. They’d waited three years after marrying, not expecting problems, building up their savings. It was a good thing because even with insurance, the cost of infertility treatments was staggering. And now that she wasn’t working …
“Have I mentioned how dreadful daytime television is?” she asked.
“Turn off the TV and go for your walk.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied in military fashion.
Doug laughed. “I’m not that bad, am I?”
“No. It’s just that staying home isn’t anything like I thought.” Life at home wasn’t supposed to be endless hours of boredom, desperately searching for ways to amuse herself until Doug came home. She was used to frequent meetings, adrenaline-fuelled decisions, constant busyness. Being at home alone was a new experience and not one she enjoyed.