Together, they said, “Eww!”
“I’m sure the bedbugs have been out of the picture for hundreds of years,” Stacy said.
“Do you suppose that’s why Ellie hates the color?” Harper asked. “Or does she loathe anything purplish, reddish or violetish in general?”
“Violetish? Never mind.” Stacy pressed a number. A moment later, she said, “Ellie? What color is puce?”
Over the phone, which was on speaker mode, came, “It’s yellow-green.”
Stacy and Harper laughed.
“What?” squawked Ellie’s voice.
“I’ll tell you later,” Stacy promised. “What do you think of this dress?” She held up the phone so her sister could see. Harper twirled like a model.
“Ooh, cute!” said Ellie.
“You like the color?”
“You bet!”
They agreed to have one sent to her in her size. With Ellie’s and her mom’s needlework skills, they could tailor it as needed.
Stacy hung up. “I can’t believe we agreed on the bridesmaid’s dress and my colors. Purple and blue. How cool!”
“You still haven’t found a gown,” Harper warned.
Stacy indicated the remaining dresses. “If I don’t find one today, it won’t be the end of the world. We’ve got months and months.”
That turned out to be a good thing. None of the gowns caught the bride’s fancy.
Only later, after they’d purchased the bridesmaid gowns and Harper had been measured for alterations, did Stacy’s words come back to her. I felt as if the bottom had dropped out.
Before volunteering, she’d searched the web for comments by egg donors. Some did have regrets, but most reported immense satisfaction.
As she drove to Adrienne’s house to collect Mia, Harper reminded herself that she had a strong sense of who she was and what she wanted from life. Plus, unlike Stacy, she already had a child.
Whom she suddenly couldn’t wait to hug.
* * *
ALL WEEK, PETER NOTICED whenever Harper arrived to drop off or collect her daughter at sports camp. Mostly, he gave her a friendly nod from a distance, despite the temptation to walk over and chat. He was here to work, and she had tasks to accomplish, as well.
The Fourth of July holiday fell midweek. Usually, he joined his parents for a barbecue, but this year they’d flown to Maryland to see his sister and meet Betty’s new fiancé. Peter nearly asked Harper about her plans, except that would imply he wanted to be included. Instead, he volunteered to supervise a group of underprivileged children at an Independence Day festival.
On Friday, Peter missed seeing Harper. She must have been there, because Mia arrived and departed, but he got tied up with administrative matters. Thank goodness he had arranged to see her tomorrow.
Thank goodness? Peter’s thoughts must have a mind of their own. He missed Angela too much to get involved with anyone else.
The memory of his wife reminded him that he’d been neglecting her rose garden. As a result, he spent Saturday morning deadheading flowers, fertilizing and spraying for black spot.
Although he planned to tramp around Harper’s yard, he showered and changed into a fresh pair of jeans and a crisp, short-sleeved shirt. For good measure, he added a splash of aftershave lotion.
The address she’d provided was located a couple of miles across town, in a neighborhood of trim, one-story homes. He liked the clean lines of her house, while the bright flowers around the front steps welcomed him.
When the bell rang, footsteps pattered inside the house. Mia opened the door, her face shining with eagerness. “Mr. Gladstone!” She stepped back, tightening her grip on a black-and-white kitten, which responded by swiping her cheek with a closed paw. “This is Po.”
“As in Kung Fu Panda?” he asked as he entered. The delicious scent of baking filled the air. Not just baking—chocolate.
“Yeah!” She shifted her grip on the wiggly animal. “Want to hold him?”
“Cats don’t usually let strangers hold them,” he observed.
“Okay.” Swinging around, Mia bellowed, “Mom!” in a voice far too big for such a tiny sprite.
“I’ll be right there,” came the cheerful response. “I’m taking the brownies out of the oven.”
He waited with Mia in the living room, which was solidly furnished with a dark brown sofa and a large entertainment center. Angela had relegated their TV to Peter’s study, lining the front room with glass-front cabinets displaying decorative figurines and plates. Being surrounded by so much fragility made Peter feel as if he had to watch his step, but every couple compromised. He’d venture to guess that the large-screen TV had been more Sean’s idea than Harper’s.
She appeared with her short chestnut hair rumpled and her cheeks flushed from the heat of the oven. “Hey, Peter. Right on time. I appreciate this.”
“Glad to help.” He produced a pair of disposable cameras. “I had these left over from a science class and figured the guests could use them.”
“Great idea!” Harper set them on the coffee table. “I suggested on the invitation that the kids bring cameras, but not everyone will. Now, while the brownies are cooling, let me show you the yard.”
They cut through a large, modern kitchen and out via sliding glass doors to the patio. There, a slatted cover shaded a table, chairs and a glider. Beyond spread a lawn rimmed by bushes.
Mia released the kitten, which prowled across the lawn. The little girl followed, keeping a close eye on her baby.
“My brain’s working overtime on decorations and stuff,” Harper said. “I’m just not sure how to handle the bug hunt.”
Peter made a circuit of the yard, checking for spiderwebs, anthills and other signs of creepy-crawlies. Afternoon wasn’t the best time to look, since insects were more active in the mornings and evenings, but this was when the kids would be hunting.
As he pointed out activity, Harper took notes. “I have to fight my instinct to knock down that web,” she said when they spotted a large one stretching from the rear fence to a nearby bush.
“It’s huge!” Mia glanced protectively at Po, as if the kitten might wind up in the arachnid’s snare.
This was the kind of teachable moment Peter relished. “That’s an orb weaver web,” he said. “I doubt it will be there tomorrow, let alone next week, but there might be a new one. Orb weavers consume their webs late in the day, rest for an hour or so and then spin a new one in the same area. You can see there isn’t much detritus—old stuff like leaves stuck in it.”
As Harper and her daughter peered intently at the web, Peter noted their resemblance, from their sturdy stance—legs apart, as if braced to run from a ferocious spider—to the mixture of fascination and revulsion in their green eyes. Would he see the same reactions in his own future child?
Peter tore his attention away to concentrate on Mia’s next question, which was, “Are they poisonous?”
“Orb weavers do have venom,” he confirmed. “That’s how they paralyze their prey. But they don’t often bite people, and the venom isn’t nearly as strong as a black widow’s.”
“All the same, I can’t put the children at risk,” Harper said.
“It’s no greater a risk than getting dehydrated in the heat or being bonked by a soccer ball.” Growing up intrigued by such critters, Peter had never worried about the danger. “You’re lucky I’m not your kid. I used to freak out my mother by bringing home snakes.”
“Ick! Ick!” Mia jumped around as if a real snake had appeared.
“Nonpoisonous ones.” Peter chuckled at her antics. “But for the party, you should advise the kids not to touch anything.”
“Like we would!” the little girl cried.
“Most bugs are harmless,” he advised.
“Ick!” Th
at seemed to be her favorite word.
“You wouldn’t mind if a butterfly landed on you, would you?” When she shook her head, Peter went on. “Some creatures just need better public relations. However, I agree about not touching spiders. There are dangerous varieties in Southern California gardens and sheds, like black widows and brown recluses. You should never turn over rocks or poke around a garage without heavy gloves.”
“What if an orb weaver did bite you?” Harper clearly hadn’t lost track of their subject.
“You might experience localized pain.” Such facts stuck in Peter’s brain because he found biology fascinating. “You’d feel some numbness and swelling, possibly a blister. If there’s nausea or dizziness, you should go to the emergency room, but usually the symptoms pass within twenty-four hours.”
“Gee, that’s reassuring,” Harper drawled, and shut her notebook. “Mia, you can help me tell the other kids what Mr. Gladstone said, but don’t scare them unnecessarily.”
“Can I scare them necessarily?” she asked.
“Arm them with the facts,” Peter suggested. “That’s what teaching is about. Giving people knowledge so they can draw rational conclusions.”
As the three of them returned to the house, Harper said, “So—just for the sake of argument—you don’t think it’s your role to shape young minds? I heard a school board member say that was the purpose of education.”
“Only to shape their minds in terms of being logical and informed,” Peter told her. “Okay, I guess my moral values get involved, too, but I would never usurp the role of a parent. I’d hate if someone tried to indoctrinate my child in a way I disagreed with.” He amended, “If I had a child.”
Harper didn’t appear to notice the wistful note in his voice. Or, if she did, she tactfully refrained from commenting.
Mia dashed ahead of them. Peter assumed she was chasing the kitten, which had slipped inside through the partly open glass door. When they entered, though, she reappeared with a squiggly green invitation.
Holding it out, she said, “Will you come to my party, Mr. Gladstone? There’ll be cake and ice cream.”
“Honey, Mr. Gladstone is doing us a favor today,” Harper cautioned as she picked up a pizza cutter and sliced the brownies into squares. “Of course, you’d be more than welcome,” she added.
To cover his hesitation, Peter read the details. The party was next Sunday afternoon, which didn’t conflict with any of his plans. And it would be much more fun than weeding Angela’s herb garden, which was what he ought to be doing. “I accept with pleasure.”
On the kitchen table, Harper set out plates and glasses of milk. Peter observed a few cookbooks wedged between canisters on the counter, and a spice rack filled with bottles. Otherwise, the kitchen was uncluttered, with simple, tan curtains—but then, this might be a rental.
Peter was still savoring his brownie when Mia finished wolfing down hers, drained her milk and jumped up. “Can I look for bugs? I won’t touch them.”
“Sure, go ahead,” her mother said.
“You won’t mind, Mr. Gladstone?”
Her politeness impressed him. “Actually, that’s a great idea. And when we’re away from sports camp, you can call me Peter.”
“Okay. Thanks, Peter!”
The little girl raced out. Through the glass door, she and Po could be seen peering into the bushes. Peter wasn’t sure which he liked most, the antics of the little ones or Harper’s doting expression while observing them.
“You have a terrific little girl,” Peter said. “She’s quite intelligent.”
“You’ve inspired her.” She turned toward him.
“I live to inspire,” he joked.
“Honestly, I think you do.” Having quartered her brownie, Harper nibbled on a section. She didn’t need to diet, but Peter had learned never to correct a woman about her personal regime. Even easygoing Angela had set him straight about that.
“How many people are coming to the party?” he asked.
“We invited ten kids.” Harper reached to brush back her hair, and seemed disconcerted not to encounter any long strands. “Stacy and her fiancé are helping with the food. Adrienne’s on the outdoor team. I’m not sure if any other parents will stay.”
“No grandparents?” He assumed that his own parents would be involved in all important events for his future children. It wouldn’t surprise him if his mother was already planning the baby’s first Christmas.
“We’re out of luck in the grandparent department.” Harper stretched, and her long legs bumped his. “Sorry.”
“No problem.” Peter rather enjoyed the contact. “No grandparents at all?” It occurred to him that, while her profile indicated no known genetic problems, it had stated that neither of her parents was living.
“My dad died in a car crash when I was sixteen,” she said. “My mom had a fatal stroke five years ago. She’d been a heavy smoker.”
“That’s too bad.” How terrible to have lost even one parent, let alone both. “If you don’t mind my asking, what about Sean’s family?” Peter wasn’t sure what prompted his curiosity, since Sean’s background didn’t affect Harper’s role as an egg donor. He just wished Mia had at least one grandparent in her life.
Harper rolled her eyes. “After his parents divorced, his dad remarried and moved to Alaska. With him, it’s out of sight, out of mind. I’m not complaining, though. He’s never been difficult like Sean’s mother.”
“Difficult in what way?”
“Critical and disapproving, even when we were in high school, although Hedy didn’t object to our marrying once we graduated from college,” Harper said. “Then she moved back to her home state of Georgia with Sean’s two sisters. She pushed for us to move there, too, and blamed me when we didn’t. It was as much Sean’s decision as mine.”
“Surely she doesn’t hold that against her granddaughter.”
“I’ll let you be the judge.” Harper’s mouth twisted. “One of my sisters-in-law has children a little older than Mia. Last Christmas, Hedy sent Mia their castoff clothes and a few used toys as her present.”
“Were those expensive clothes and gently used toys?” Although most people expected new items for their kids, Peter sympathized with reusing special items, such as a classic dollhouse or favorite books.
“We’re talking about jeans that were too small and stuffed animals with the fur worn off.” Harper wrinkled her nose. “This week, for Mia’s birthday, she sent a faded doll and a pair of old slippers.”
That was ridiculous. “Do you suppose she has dementia?”
“It’s hard to tell. She’s always been self-centered and stingy.” At her seat, Harper gathered their plates and glasses. “I don’t believe in lavishing piles of gifts on children, but choosing with care, even if it’s a pair of pretty socks, shows love.”
“What did you tell Mia?”
“The truth,” she responded. “That some people aren’t generous or loving. And that having to deal with them helps us empathize with others who have even less than we do.”
What a great response, Peter thought. “She must miss her dad.”
“Sometimes, although his memory’s starting to fade.” Harper rose to clean up. “I try to keep him alive for her through videos and talking about things he used to say or do.”
“She seems to be thriving.” He wished all his campers were as cooperative and patient as Mia. Her friend Reggie, although basically a good kid, had thrown a couple of temper tantrums.
“It helps having you pitch in.” Harper cast him a quick smile. “Your presence at the party will mean a lot.”
“I’m sure I’ll enjoy it as much as she will.” When he didn’t have to deal with discipline or lesson plans, being around kids was fun.
After thanking her for the snack, Peter hit the road. Dri
ving home, he wished these upbeat feelings could last. Instead, he had to face the downside of liking them so much.
There was no way he could raise her biological child or children without telling her. True, knowing where they came from and seeing Harper’s positive traits in them would relieve Peter’s concerns about using eggs from a stranger. And there might be advantages to having them meet their biological mother and half sister.
But the situation would be fraught with danger. Emotions were unpredictable. If he and Harper were to get involved and then break up, the consequences for the kids could be devastating.
Although she appeared the best match for him at Safe Harbor’s egg bank, the director had assured Peter that he could also access the registries of other banks in the region. And that, he concluded reluctantly, was what he had to do.
Chapter Four
Steam from the outdoor whirlpool transformed the enclosure, with its mesh safety fence, into a secluded hideaway, an impression enhanced by the border of rosebushes and hibiscuses. Peter leaned back and let the heated swirl of water soothe his muscles.
“Worn-out from all that heavy-duty exercise?”
He cracked one eyelid in response to his father’s sarcasm. Rod Gladstone was grinning, white teeth and silver hair a marked contrast to his tanned skin.
“Some of us try to actually move around and hit the ball when we play Ping-Pong,” Peter retorted. “Which might explain why I beat you four-one.”
“If I didn’t have a bum knee...”
“I’d have beaten you four-one at tennis instead of Ping-Pong,” Peter finished. “However, I’d be willing to adjust the score in deference to your great age and infirmity.”
“Sixty-eight is not a great age. I can still do this.” With the heel of his hand, Rod sent hot water spraying over Peter.
Spluttering, he was about to respond in kind when his mother’s voice broke in. “Children, children.” Widening her eyes with mock horror, Kerry Gladstone set down her tablet computer on the small glass table near the spa.
Peter refrained. “Grow up, Dad.”
“Guess I’d better, considering I’m about to be a grandfather.”
His Baby Dream (Safe Harbor Medical) Page 4