past three years—conquer her infertility so she could have her heart’s desire: a child of her own.
There was another woman in the waiting room, and after a glance at Ella, the other woman took a compact from her purse and checked to see if there was lipstick on her teeth. Ella only had on lip gloss but suddenly wondered if something about her appearance had prompted the woman to be concerned about her own.
She didn’t want her insecurity to be broadcast, though, and since she’d come straight from court after filing papers in a case she was working on, she used her briefcase as a decoy, pulling it up onto her lap. Hoping it seemed as if she’d just remembered something in it, she opened the briefcase.
There was a mirror on the inside of the lid and she used that to take stock.
No, no lip gloss on her straight white teeth—it was all still on her pale-rose-colored, not-thick, not-too-too-thick, not-too-thin lips.
Her hair was in place, too. At least as in place as it ever got. It was curly. Very curly. Shirley Temple curly. So she kept it chin length—just short enough to wear parted down the middle and in a supercurly bob when she wanted it down, just long enough to pull up into a scrunchee at her crown when it was too unruly to deal with and needed to simply be contained. Like today. But none of it had escaped, so it wasn’t a stray corkscrew that had caused the other woman to worry.
Ella didn’t wear much makeup—only blush, mascara and a little eyeliner to enhance her light-gray eyes—and none of that had melted away. And there were no smudges on her slightly turned-up nose. No ugly blemishes had cropped up on her pronounced cheekbones or on her small chin or forehead to mar her normally clear, peaches-and-cream skin, so she decided it hadn’t been anything in that area that had alarmed her companion-in-waiting.
Maybe she’d spilled something from lunch down the front of her…
She tipped the briefcase lid forward just enough to reflect her clothes rather than her face, but there were no signs of salad dressing down the front of the white blouse that peeked from beneath her open suit front, and nothing dribbled down the lapels of the plum silk. A glance downward let her know that nothing had spilled into the lap of her slacks either, so she finally concluded that what had prompted the other woman to check for flaws hadn’t originated in Ella’s own appearance.
“Ella Gardner,” the nurse called out from the doorway to the right of the reception counter.
Ella straightened almost guiltily from behind her briefcase. “That’s me,” she said as she closed her briefcase, grabbed her black leather purse and stood.
“I’m Marta, Dr. Weber’s nurse,” the portly, older woman introduced herself as Ella reached the doorway. “How are you today?”
Ella didn’t want to admit she was tense, but her voice gave her away by cracking a bit when she said, “Fine, thanks.”
If the nurse picked up on her anxiety she didn’t show it. She merely said, “Since this is only your initial consultation I’ll have you go into Dr. Weber’s office. He’ll be with you as soon as possible.”
“Okay,” Ella agreed.
She followed the older woman past an area stacked floor-to-ceiling with files, then through another section where a countertop held medical equipment and supplies. Beyond that was a hallway, lined with exam rooms on both sides, all with file cubbies attached to the walls beside them. Marta took her to the very end of the corridor, where she motioned to the office visible through the already-open door there and stepped aside for Ella to enter without her.
“Go ahead and have a seat,” Marta advised, closing the door and leaving Ella alone in the room.
The inner sanctum of the beast himself.
Two women Ella worked with had had experiences with Dr. Jacob Weber—one of the paralegals and one of the research assistants.
The paralegal had actually recommended Jacob Weber to Ella even before the “Best of” article. The paralegal had heard through the grapevine that Ella was having trouble conceiving and had suggested she consider seeing the renowned infertility specialist, warning her, though, not to expect Mr. Personality. She’d said it had been worth it to her and her husband to overlook his crankiness because his treatments had resulted in a pregnancy after six years under the care of other doctors. She’d told her that Jacob Weber could definitely be a bear, though.
The research assistant, on the other hand, had said that after two visits with Weber, she and her husband had agreed they’d rather be childless than put up with him.
Now, standing in his office, waiting to see him, Ella could feel her heart beating rapidly, and she tried to slow it down by breathing deeply, steadily. She reminded herself that the paralegal was now pregnant and had returned to her regular doctor and that regardless of the poor social and personal skills of Jacob Weber, she would now have a baby. That seemed worth everything to Ella.
She set her purse on the floor beside one of two nondescript visitor’s chairs facing the big oak desk and opened her briefcase a second time. Not to use the mirror again, but to take out the file folder that contained copies of all her records from her last two gynecologists. Then she closed the briefcase, put it on the floor with her purse and placed the file on the edge of the desk just in front of the visitor’s chair.
But she was still too uneasy to sit, so she took a tour of the office instead, beginning with the bookshelves to the right of the desk.
Medical texts were all she found before she moved on, venturing behind the brown leather desk chair to the large window on that wall.
The window overlooked a lush green park shaded by tall elm trees. If this were her office, Ella thought, she would have placed the desk to take advantage of the view, and she wondered if Jacob Weber ever swiveled his chair around to do that. Somehow she doubted it.
Next she went to the left of the desk, stopping before the wall there that displayed framed diplomas outlining the educational history of the man she hoped could help her.
There was the diploma from Saunders University, identical to Ella’s own and a second one from Harvard Medical School, as well as a certificate that proclaimed he had satisfactorily performed a residency in gynecology and obstetrics, and another certificate of completion for his fellowship in reproductive endocrinology. Surrounding the diplomas and certificates were several awards given by the American Medical Association and various other professional organizations to Dr. Jacob C. Weber.
Apparently, he lived up to his reputation as an expert in his field.
Ella just hoped he didn’t live up to his other reputation.
Turning away from the display of the doctor’s accomplishments, she took stock of the sofa that lined the wall behind the visitors’ chairs, curious about why it and the coffee table in front of it were there at all. She could understand other medical specialties bringing entire families into the doctor’s office and requiring more seating, but infertility hardly seemed to call for that.
Although, by all accounts Jacob Weber was dedicated to his work, so maybe he sometimes slept in his office, Ella thought. She knew from the “Best of” article that he wasn’t married, but what about a girlfriend? she wondered, spinning on her heels again to survey the room in general in search of something that might give an indication of his personal life.
She didn’t spot anything, though. No family photographs or
