The Baby Jackpot

by Jacqueline Diamond

  “Thanks.” Cole hadn’t expected to hear praise over the dinner table. At the only dinner table he’d regularly shared with anyone, Dr. Colette Rattigan—aka Mom—had analyzed the day’s mistakes and gone over how to rectify them.

  In other words, she’d given him constructive criticism.

  No wonder I’ve always preferred living alone.

  Being with Stacy was different. Cole wanted to move in with her more than ever, now that he realized emotional support could flow in both directions.

  “I hope you’ll reconsider,” he said as he set slices of tiramisu on plates for them. “Sharing quarters will have advantages for us both.”

  “Advantages?” She scowled at the layered, coffee-drenched cake. “Doesn’t this have rum in it?”

  Cole hadn’t thought of that when he chose the rich dessert. “It’s been baked. Surely there’s no alcohol left.”

  “Flattered as I am by your reference to sharing quarters, I’ll pass,” Stacy said. “On the dessert, too. I already feel the size of a barn.”

  Pregnant women had a reputation for being touchy, Cole recalled as he downed his slice of dessert and got started on Stacy’s. She didn’t say anything more, and his mouth was too full to talk.

  The door opened, and a little girl came bouncing in with excitement. “I’m getting a kitten!” she cried as she raced toward them. Catching sight of Cole, she paused for an instant, before she found something more worthy of her attention. “What are you eating?”

  “Cake, but Cole took it all,” Stacy grumbled.

  Fork in hand, he hesitated over the last bite. She’d refused once. How was a man supposed to know she hadn’t meant it?

  Mental note: When a woman refuses dessert, ask her again.

  “Sorry.” He held out the plate. “If you want it...”

  “She’s eaten more than enough sweets for one day,” Harper commented, coming through the door. “Mia, this is Dr. Rattigan.”

  “Oh, you’re a doctor!” the little girl said. “Don’t give me a shot, okay?”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  That seemed to satisfy her. Nevertheless, the presence of a child created a whirlwind atmosphere in the apartment. The girl displayed small toys from a goody bag while dancing around and chattering about the birthday party. It had featured a police theme dreamed up by the birthday girl’s stepmother, a former police officer. Each child had received a badge and an ID card with his or her own picture. They’d flown toy helicopters around the neighborhood while patrolling for crimes and arresting “criminals” that Harper explained were plastic golf balls painted with burglar masks.

  “It was like an Easter egg hunt,” Mia told them.

  “What fun.” Stacy gave the little girl a hug. “I’m glad you had a good time.”

  Feeling like the odd man out, Cole cleared the table and said goodbye. Did other men instinctively know what to say to children? Or did it get easier when you knew them better?

  On the drive home—he’d brought the car this time—he sorted through his turbulent emotions. While he’d enjoyed hanging out with Stacy, he wasn’t sure how to cope with her moods. Also, he experienced a touch of guilt. He shouldn’t have eaten her dessert, even after she’d refused it. A gentleman would have saved it to offer to her roommate, or her roommate’s child. But was it even appropriate to give sweets to a little girl who’d just filled up on birthday cake and ice cream?

  He should get some practice babysitting. That would give him a clearer idea of how one established rules and a routine. Except what would be the point, since he wasn’t going to be a father other than in the genetic sense?

  He wondered why he kept forgetting that fact. Was it possible he had paternal instincts?

  Cole recalled reading a study that showed men’s testosterone levels dropped after they became fathers. Researchers had theorized that this drop might be an evolutionary development to help men commit to their families and play a larger role in raising them by reducing aggressive behaviors. Perhaps being in the proximity of Stacy’s maternal hormones was altering his body chemistry.

  At home, Cole sprang up the outer stairs and stepped into his apartment, expecting his usual relief at finally being alone. Instead, he felt as if he’d entered a motel room. Aside from the electronics and the table lamp, nothing inside belonged to him. The place looked bland and impersonal.

  He’d never minded before.

  Cole switched on the TV. Watching the news tended to calm him. Even bad news made him appreciate his good fortune.

  The screen zeroed in on a car crash, with ambulance lights flashing and firefighters struggling to free someone from the wreckage. Who was inside? Had any children been hurt?

  What was with this surge of empathy? Maybe his testosterone levels really were dropping.

  He switched channels, stopping when he came to a report of a new earthquake study. Since it dealt with probabilities and scientific projections rather than any specific event, Cole found the drone of the announcer soothing. He left the TV on while he went to change into pajamas.

  From the bedroom, he heard the name Safe Harbor jump out of the broadcast, as if it were his own name. But wait, that was his name being pronounced—in a tone of doom.

  Cole shot into the living room. There, on the screen, loomed his white-coated image on the stage of the hospital auditorium. “We hear reports from around the globe that sperm counts are dropping,” he was saying. There was a quick, almost imperceptible cut, and then: “The man’s condition is involved in about sixty percent of infertility cases.” Followed by: “Toxins in our food, our air and our water.” Another cut. “We could be in trouble.”

  “That was the prediction today from men’s fertility expert Dr. Cole Rattigan,” the anchorwoman informed viewers.

  “No, it wasn’t!” Cole snapped, outraged that someone had stitched his words together to create what sounded like an alarming prophecy.

  Annoyed, he changed channels again. Flipping past a hamburger commercial and a man touting used cars, he landed on another newscast. “Is mankind’s future in doubt?” a jowly male reporter queried from the screen. “According to Dr. Cole Rattigan of Safe Harbor Medical Center...”

  Cole turned off the news. Preoccupied with his personal life, he’d put this afternoon’s events out of his mind. He’d certainly never anticipated such sensationalism.

  Remembering that he’d set his phone on silent mode before visiting Stacy, he scooped it up from the coffee table and checked for messages. Since the number was private, he didn’t expect any calls from the press, and there weren’t any. Only a message from Jennifer Martin.

  “If you haven’t seen the news yet, I’m sure you will,” said her recorded voice. “Don’t let it bother you. The media love to blow things out of proportion, and Saturdays are notoriously slow news days. By Monday they’ll move on to something else.” During a short pause, he thought he heard her mutter, “I hope.” In a louder voice, she said, “Keep a low profile. Call me if you have any questions, and enjoy your evening.”

  Keep a low profile? How, exactly?

  Despite his rising frustration, Cole reminded himself that there was nothing he could do about this. Anyway, compared to his concerns about Stacy and her pregnancy, this fuss struck him as the proverbial tempest in a teapot.

  Mankind’s ability to reproduce was not even close to being in danger. And he was the living proof.

  Chapter Nine

  Stacy fell deeply asleep at eight o’clock and awoke in the middle of the night with ideas buzzing in her brain. Pulling a pad from beside the bed, she began writing a notice for the bulletin board.

  “Surgical nurse seeks roommate. Must be quiet, reliable, kind, funny, sweet, good in a crisis and empathetic.”

  She tapped the paper with her pencil. What kind of list was that? It sounded like a description of Cole, except for the empathetic part.

  She wished she hadn’t been so angry with him last night. Her snappishness about the tiramisu ha
d obviously caught him off guard. True, Andrew would have plied her with dessert until he’d talked her into eating it, which was what she really wanted. But that had been in their early days.

  Yet these were her early days with Cole. And most likely these were all the days they were going to have. No way on earth would she let him move in with her, although she appreciated his offer to pay rent.

  Stacy crossed out the adjectives, jotted down the price of rent and the convenient location two miles from work, and set down the pad. She must have gone to sleep again, because the next thing she knew, morning light was filtering through the blinds.

  From the living room came the blare of an animated video. High, squeaky cartoon voices didn’t usually bother her, but today they set her nerves on edge.

  There was a tap on the door, and Harper came in with a tray of toast and tea. “We’ll be leaving for church soon. I thought you might need this.”

  “Thanks,” Stacy said, nearly adding, “I’ll miss you when you move.” But she didn’t want to pile any more guilt on her friend.

  After positioning the tray on Stacy’s lap, Harper picked up the notepad. “I’ll print this up for you and do that fringe thing so they can pull off your email address.”

  Her mouth full of rye toast—her favorite—Stacy mumbled, “You don’t have to...”

  “It’s no trouble. I’m glad to help.” Tearing off the sheet, Harper scooted out.

  “I meant...” What? That she felt reluctant to post the notice? It was the quickest way to find a roommate. Besides, she didn’t have to accept someone just because he or she responded.

  When she got out of bed half an hour later, Stacy found sections of the Sunday newspaper scattered between the living room and the kitchen. As she collected the ones that interested her, she wished she had someone there to rub her feet. Did Cole do that sort of thing?

  During their courtship, Andrew had given her wonderful massages.... Why did she keep thinking about him?

  Because I still don’t understand why he fell out of love with me.

  Figuring it out might help Stacy prevent the same thing from happening again with a new man. Except, of course, she had yet to meet someone who’d cherish and adore her forever, and she wasn’t likely to in her condition.

  It seemed like a million years ago, instead of nine or ten, that she’d first seen Andrew—at a student rally at Cal State University, Long Beach. He was an impressively built guy, and he’d been surrounded by friends. Stacy had felt his gaze flick over her, but didn’t believe he’d noticed her particularly.

  A while later, when the crowd grew rambunctious—to this day, she couldn’t remember the cause they’d been protesting—she’d lost her footing. A strong hand had grasped her arm and pulled her to safety.

  When she looked up into Andrew’s green eyes, she’d felt a jolt of electricity. The spark had been instantaneous and intense. The man had bowled her over, taking her to dinner, asking about her life and dreams, sharing his past as a high school football star and the difficulties of adjusting to a less exalted role as a college student in business administration.

  Soon they were spending all their spare time together. Starstruck, she’d encouraged and admired him, and he’d been enthusiastic about her plans to become a surgical nurse. Andrew had a gift for making romantic gestures, for anticipating her needs and for saying the right things. Stacy had found it hard to believe she’d discovered such an ideal guy, and that he’d fallen for her.

  He’d graduated a year ahead of her. Although she’d feared they might drift apart once he began working, he’d proposed. Right after her graduation, they’d had a storybook wedding.

  Over the next few years, his heavy schedule of traveling for his employer and her long hours as a nurse had made it difficult to maintain their closeness. Yet just when Stacy would start to feel concerned, Andrew would surprise her with a romantic getaway or a thoughtful gift that restored her confidence. He had exquisite taste in jewelry....

  She’d worried that he might meet other women when he was out of town. Her mother had advised her to trust him, warning that nothing drove a man away faster than a nagging, suspicious wife. Ironically, it wasn’t some glamorous businesswoman who stole him but a former high school girlfriend who worked in town as an ultrasound technician.

  Stacy had been putting in extra shifts at the hospital, since they’d agreed to start a family once their savings reached a certain level. So she hadn’t realized he was seeing someone else until the evening Andrew presented her with the divorce papers. He told her he’d fallen back in love with Zora. She made him happy in a way that Stacy no longer did.

  He hadn’t left any room for discussion. No counseling, no attempt to save their marriage. He wanted out.

  Numb with shock and pain, Stacy had agreed. She still couldn’t figure out where she’d gone wrong. She missed those early years, that uplifting sense of being deeply loved and cherished. How could their bond have dissolved so completely without her realizing it?

  She tried to picture Cole madly in love. All she could visualize was him crouching in the parking garage retrieving her lipstick from behind a tire. Even a casual stranger would do that.

  In the kitchen, Stacy put the kettle on to boil. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the lingering scents of pesto sauce and garlic. What a delicious dinner he’d brought last night. She wished she hadn’t been so rude about the dessert.

  What was Cole doing this morning? she wondered.

  When the tea was ready, she settled in to read the paper. On the bottom half of page one, folded so she hadn’t seen it before, was a picture of Cole, his eyes keen and his lips parted as he spoke into a microphone.

  Pride surged through Stacy. Then she read the headline, “Man’s future in doubt? M.D. cites low sperm counts.” While he’d mentioned speaking on the subject, she doubted he’d done so in such an inflammatory fashion.

  The article began with the same provocative angle as the headline, but the rest sounded more like Cole: calmly informative. Stacy considered clipping it to give to him, until it occurred to her that the public relations office would no doubt secure plenty of copies.

  Moving to the sports section, she saw that an Orange County gymnast was in an international competition to be aired in about ten minutes. She switched on the TV in the living room.

  A newscaster was droning on about a bill scheduled to come before Congress that week. Then she heard the anchorwoman say, “If you’re worried about our budget problems, here’s even scarier news. In another generation or two, there might not be enough young people to pay taxes, according to a California fertility expert.”

  Cole appeared, broad-shouldered in his white coat as he faced the camera. “We hear reports from around the globe that sperm counts are dropping.” An almost imperceptible blip was followed by: “We could be in trouble.”

  Back to the anchorwoman. “That’s the word from Dr. Cole Rattigan at Safe Harbor Medical Center. He cites statistics that show...”

  The words blurred as Stacy realized that this was no longer a local story. It had made the network news.

  Whether Cole liked it or not—and he probably hated it—anything he did was likely to be broadcast. Such as revealing that he’d impregnated his surgical nurse. That was all Stacy needed, for her parents to see her embarrassing situation played up like some cheesy reality show. Her father would be horrified. Both her reputation and Cole’s would be dragged through the gossip mill.

  Until this moment, she hadn’t realized how much she’d been hoping that somehow, despite her protests, Cole would wind up as her new roommate. Glumly, she faced the fact that, for both their sakes, she couldn’t let that happen.

  * * *

  “REFUSE ALL INTERVIEWS and don’t post any comments online unless Jennifer or I approve them first,” Owen Tartikoff warned Cole on Monday afternoon. The fertility chief, fresh from surgery judging by the strong smell of antiseptic, had stopped by Cole’s office in the medical building.

/>   “Too bad. And here I was planning to write a blog about the imminent end of the human race,” Cole deadpanned.

  “You may think this is funny, but the media will twist anything you say.”

  “They already have,” Cole pointed out. He had no intention of writing or saying anything about the Daddy Crisis, as some hyperventilating reporter had called it. Somehow, even on a Sunday, the fearmongers had dredged up a few experts to comment pro and con. Each time, the TV stations reran clips of Cole’s remarks.

  He clung to the hope, as Jennifer’s email had suggested, that today would bring fresh news to fill their gossip-casts. Never before had Cole wished so hard for a senator to commit some deadly sin or a celebrity to get caught shoplifting.

  “I’m just offering friendly advice.” Owen tried his most intimidating stare on Cole. “Keep it low-key.”

  “You sure you don’t want me to give any more lectures?” Cole asked. “How about one called ‘Teach Your Sperm to Do the Conga’?”

  “You’re enjoying this,” Owen growled.

  Only the part where I’m having fun at your expense.

  “If you light a fire, don’t complain when it gets too hot.”

  “Point taken.”

  Nurse Luke Mendez, who went by the nickname Lucky, glanced meaningfully through the partly open door. They had a waiting room full of patients, with several prepped in examining rooms.

  “I’ll let you get to work.” With that, Dr. T. departed, his aura of power fraying around the edges.

  That day and the next, Cole arrived early and stayed late, treating more patients than usual. The publicity had inspired a flood of calls. Lucky referred many of the men to other urologists for preliminary workups. However, they tried to squeeze in those patients whose infertility had defied diagnosis.

  Cole had nearly forgotten about Peter Gladstone, until Tuesday around 6:00 p.m., when he picked up the day’s final chart and recognized the name of the biology teacher who’d fended off the reporters. A check of the man’s records and medical history showed that his previous doctor had ruled out the usual problems. Neither his age—thirty-one—nor his medical history waved any red flags.