directed Claire to the doctor’s office.
LaRoy was standing at the window, talking on his cell phone, and indicated for her to take the chair across from his desk. LaRoy was a thickset fifty-nine-year-old New Yorker, who’d graduated from Harvard. He had white hair and an air of sweet, gentle grumpiness. He finished his call, took his seat.
“Hello, Claire. We’ve got some results. I need to show you something before we talk.”
LaRoy began pecking at his keyboard that faced two monitors. He swiveled one toward Claire and showed her a series of images and graphs. For the next several minutes he reviewed the goal of the previous tests and procedures Claire had undergone. As LaRoy went over every detail, pointing to the monitor and explaining other images, Claire felt her pulse quicken.
“This is all good, right?” she said.
“It’s very good. Claire, this means you are receptive to the new drug and new cycle therapy. I’ll need you to sign some paperwork and take some literature home and read it.”
“Then what?”
“We’ll start you in a few weeks.”
“And then?”
“Within a few months you’ll be pregnant.”
“I’ve been pregnant before.”
“Yes, but I’m quite confident that this time you’ll give birth to a healthy baby.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“Really?”
“We’ve checked your results carefully. All the indications are strong, Claire.” LaRoy passed her a tissue. “Really strong.”
5
Van Nuys, California
Pilot Robert Bowen eased the Gulfstream jet into the corporate hangar for ExecuGlide and cut its twin engines.
He liked the G200. It had a smart design and flew evenly no matter what the conditions were. Taxiing and landings were fluid.
God, how he loved to fly—loved the rush of power and control, to rise above everything on earth.
“That was a nice touchdown, Tim. Good to be home,” he said to his copilot, switching everything off and unbuckling his belts.
After bidding farewell to the eight TV producers they’d flown on a multi-city charter to Seattle, Vancouver and San Francisco, Bowen collected his bag and signed off on the flight. Heading for his SUV in the parking lot, he turned on his phone to text Claire, to let her know he’d returned.
A text from her was waiting for him.
Wishing you a safe landing. Dr. LaRoy’s office called me in this am. No appt—wouldn’t say why. Have to scramble. Good news maybe??? Talk later.
Love C.
Bowen responded.
Good landing. Good trip. Good luck with doc—any word?
He waited several minutes.
When no response came he figured Claire was driving, or with the doctor.
After placing his bag in the rear he got into his SUV. Nothing was out of place. No disturbed maps, take-out wrappers or filthy commuter cups. It was spotless, showroom clean and still smelled new. Bowen insisted on order. The leather seats squeaked as he buckled up. He flipped on the radio and listened to traffic conditions, then decided to take Ventura to the 101, rather than swinging over to the 5.
Joining the freeway traffic, he considered Claire’s text to him. He was hopeful her sudden call to see Dr. LaRoy would result in good news. How many times had they had their hopes raised only to be disappointed? It was not fair to Claire. It hurt him to see her anguish. She ached to have a baby, he wanted one, too, for her. It had cost them thousands, but he didn’t care. He loved her and would do anything for her. He didn’t want to lose what he had with her, the way he’d lost what he’d had with his first wife.
Cynthia.
Like Claire, Cynthia was beautiful and so giving. In his quieter moments he still thought of her. They had been so in love. At that time he was flying commercial, his schedule was brutal and he was rarely home. Cynthia began to change. She complained, grew jealous and started imagining terrible things.
It shouldn’t have ended the way it did, but they couldn’t continue and that was that. Why dwell on it? Sometimes, even after all these years, he’d felt something was unresolved and wished he could talk to Cynthia, to tell her he was sorry about the way it had turned out for them. But he had a new life now, a good life, and you can’t go back in time.
Bowen left Ventura and got on the 101 southbound. There was more traffic, but it was moving at a good speed. He’d gone less than half a mile when something blue rocketed by in the left lane, startling him.
He cursed.
The thing must’ve been doing one-thirty. Looked like a pickup truck. He couldn’t tell the model as it knifed through the lanes ahead, leaving a wake of brake lights and angry horns.
That idiot’s going to kill somebody.
The distraction passed, and with it, Cynthia faded from his mind.
He repositioned his grip on the wheel, maintained a safe speed as his thoughts had drifted back to the first time he’d met Claire. The scene with her and her husband. Bowen shook his head slowly until the images of that day dissipated. Since that time all he’d wanted to do was protect Claire, let nothing hurt her again. But how do I protect her from heartbreak—from forces that are beyond my control?
He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. He was forty-five, and some days he couldn’t see what Claire told him she’d seen and liked: The small crinkles around his eyes, his chiseled jaw, his thick salt-and-pepper hair. He was six-one, about one-eighty. His workouts gave him an athletic build. But he didn’t see the strong, decisive, capable, kind man that Claire saw. He saw a man who’d failed too many times, a man constantly at war with himself, a man unworthy of her.
At times he would steal glimpses of her when they were at home, or while he waited for her at her office. He liked how her hair curtained over her eyes when she studied her notes, or the way she slid her small silver cross back and forth on her necklace chain when she was on the phone with a patient. She was devoted to them—compassionate and caring, never allowing her own heartache to interfere.
He didn’t deserve her.
As he drove, Bowen massaged his temple. A million things rushed through his head. He was tired from the flight and stressed over those rumors of looming cutbacks at the company.
He couldn’t go back to commercial. He couldn’t face those hours again and that kind of strain at home. He just couldn’t. Look at the toll it had taken with Cynthia. He couldn’t go through that with Claire.
But that was the least of his worries.
There was more,
