The Baby Miracle

by Rayner, Holly

  The Baby Miracle

  Holly Rayner

  Contents

  The Baby Miracle

  1. Kendall

  2. Chase

  3. Kendall

  4. Kendall

  5. Kendall

  6. Chase

  7. Kendall

  8. Kendall

  9. Chase

  10. Kendall

  11. Kendall

  12. Kendall

  13. Chase

  14. Chase

  15. Kendall

  16. Kendall

  17. Chase

  18. Kendall

  19. Chase

  20. Chase

  21. Kendall

  22. Kendall

  Epilogue

  Holly Rayner

  Fake Bride Wanted

  1. Julian

  Want More?

  More Series by Holly Rayner

  The Baby Miracle

  Copyright 2019 by Holly Rayner

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.

  All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  Kendall

  The bus trip from downtown Chicago to Applewood, Iowa, is only five hours, and I’m more than familiar with the journey. On each trip, I look forward to meeting whoever is my new seatmate. As a journalist, I’m trained to be curious about people. But sometimes, the person who sits next to me doesn’t seem like the talkative type.

  Thankfully, every trip I’m prepared for such a situation. This trip, I put my noise-canceling headphones on as soon as the bulky, bearded man with a perpetual scowl on his face took the seat beside me.

  On my last trip to Aunt Mariel’s, I was seated beside a sweet older woman who spent the ride knitting and telling me about her grandchildren. The trip before that, I sat beside a college student who was studying art history. I don’t know much about art, but I enjoyed listening to him talk about the paintings in his textbook. Usually, this bus ride is an opportunity to meet people I’d never have interacted with in the course of my day-to-day life.

  Not this time, though. And I can’t get up and change seats without making a whole production out of it, because he’s got the aisle. My strategy is to sit quietly and distract myself. We’ll be in Applewood soon enough.

  At least the bus has Wi-Fi. Maybe I can lose myself in some work. If I get a few assignments done, that will free me up to spend more time with Aunt Mariel.

  I’m glad to have a job that allows me to work remotely—it means I can visit my aunt more often than if I was required to be in an office—but it also makes it hard for me to take a day off. My bosses are so used to not seeing my physical presence that they don’t register the concept of me having personal time.

  I open my email account. Sure enough, there’s an email from Georgia Walsh, my editor.

  I shake my head. I told her I’d be unavailable all week.

  But it’s my own fault, really. Every time I tell her I’m going to be unavailable, I end up answering emails anyway. All I’m doing is establishing that I don’t really mean it when I say I’ll be away. Why would she bother taking me seriously? She knows I’m going to work.

  I click open the email, wondering if the assignment she has for me might at least be an interesting one.

  Kendall,

  At the gym last night, I overheard some women discussing an article: Top Ten Craziest Things To Do With An Avocado. They were excited about inviting their friends to a party to try all the ideas. Avocados are trendy right now, aren’t they? Let’s get on this. Give me a list of ideas for avocado pieces and we’ll pick one for you to pursue. End of day, all right?

  Georgia

  Avocados. Right.

  I should have known. Georgia gets all her ideas about what she thinks people want to read from creeping on conversations at the gym. I’m willing to bet I can think of at least five of the “crazy” things you can do with an avocado just off the top of my head.

  I bet one of them is making guacamole. Crazy.

  But I’m used to writing fluff by now. These are the kinds of pieces Georgia has me producing regularly, and I can’t really complain too much because she pays well for them. I can afford the rent on my downtown apartment, the occasional dinner at a nice restaurant, and bus trips to Aunt Mariel’s whenever I want to go.

  Part of me wants to write something meatier, though, something that matters. When I was getting my degree, writing about avocados wasn’t what I had in mind.

  By the time the bus pulls in at the Applewood station, I’ve come up with a list of ten article ideas for Georgia and emailed them to her. None of them are worth pursuing, but they all have clever clickbaity titles that she’ll love.

  One of these days, I tell myself as I return my laptop to its bag and sling it over my shoulder, she’ll give me an assignment that will challenge me.

  I hop in a taxi and lean back and close my eyes for the long ride to Applebrook Retirement Community. It’s located on the outskirts of Applewood. Aunt Mariel and I picked it out together, both of us excited by the beautiful gardens. I know she’s been happy there. I just wish I could get out to see her more, but every time I mention it, she waves me off. “I know you have your own life,” she says. I always laugh at that. She must imagine my life to be a lot more exciting and glamorous than it is.

  I tip the cab driver well when he drops me off outside Aunt Mariel’s condo on the Applebrook property. She’s outside, watering her evergreen shrubs, but she drops the hose and hurries over to embrace me. For a seventy-two-year-old woman, she’s light on her feet.

  I hug her back. “Your garden’s flooding.”

  “Hush. Let me get a look at you.” She holds me at arm’s length. “Is that boss of yours paying you enough? You look like you’ve lost weight again.”

  “You always say that,” I say, chuckling. “My weight’s been the same for five years, Aunt Mariel. I’m fine.”

  “Hmm. Well, I say you need some more meat on your bones. Get that hose for me, would you? And come inside. I have a lasagna in the oven.”

  I turn off the hose and wind it up on its holder, then grab my bag and follow her inside.

  My aunt lives on the first floor of the condo, an open plan space that includes a kitchen, a large living room, and a dining nook. Her bedroom and the bathroom are down the hall. I toss my bag on the couch and join her in the kitchen.

  “What can I help with?” I ask as she bends over to take the lasagna out of the oven.

  “You can sit down right there and tell me all about the trip.” She points to a dining room chair. “Did you make any friends on the bus this time?”

  She loves to hear about my social life. If only I had more to tell her.

  “Not this time,” I say. “The man who sat next to me was not the chatty type.”

  “So picky.” She carves out a slice of lasagna and sets the plate in front of me, then sits at the table. “Always so picky with the men.”

  “You didn’t see him, Aunt Mariel. Besides, he was too old for me.”

  “All right, all right. What about back in Chicago, then? Any special gentlemen there?” She rests her chin on her hands and regards me eagerly, as if I’m her favorite soap opera.

  “No one lately,” I tell her. “Work’s been so busy.”

  The truth is that I haven’t been on a date
in months, since before my thirtieth birthday. I’m not sure what it is, exactly, but there’s something about officially being in my thirties that’s making me feel reluctant about dating in a way I never was before.

  All through my twenties, I was happy to be set up by friends, hopeful each time that I’d be meeting The One. But it never seemed to pan out. Some of the dates I went on were just plain boring, and even the best of them resulted in relationships that seemed to lose momentum after a few months. Nothing ever stuck.

  Maybe my aunt is right. Maybe I am picky.

  She nods sagely. “I know your job keeps you awfully busy,” she says. “I saw one of your articles on the world wide web. The one about treatments for dry hair. I printed it out and showed it to everyone at trivia night. Everyone thought it was wonderful.”

  I love that she keeps up with my articles. For a woman of her age, Aunt Mariel is surprisingly adept online, even though she does call it the “world wide web.” I just wish I had something more impressive for her to pass around.

  “Thanks,” I say, “but the truth is, it’s not real news, what I’m doing. I wish I could get some real reporting work instead of just writing puff pieces about hair and avocados.”

  “Oh, are you writing about avocados?” she asks. “We should get some and do a tasting party.”

  I can’t help smiling. “That would be fun, actually.”

  “And don’t worry about your career,” she says firmly. “You have plenty of time. You’re still so young. It takes time to get where you want to go.”

  “I know,” I sigh. “I just wish I could be there already.”

  “What you need to be focusing on is your love life,” she says. “That clock runs out much earlier, you know.”

  “I know, Aunt Mariel. But I don’t know if marriage and kids are in the cards for me.”

  She taps the back of my hand lightly. “Bite your tongue. Of course it will happen for you, if you want it to. You’re a smart, funny, beautiful young woman. All you need is to put yourself out there a bit more. Open yourself up to the possibility of love.”

  “You know what I think?” I say. “I think you’re just hooked on playing matchmaker.”

  “And what would make you think such a thing?”

  “Let’s see.” I pretend to think about it. “There’s your friend from water aerobics. Didn’t you fix her up with someone a couple of weeks ago?”

  “I was barely involved,” she protests. “All I did was introduce Ruth and Saul. They were perfect for each other. Really, it was a crime they hadn’t met already. It had to be set right.”

  “Sure, sure. And what about your neighbor? What’s his name again?”

  “George? Oh, now, I had nothing to do with his getting together with Susan.”

  “Aunt Mariel, they got together at your fondue night.”

  “Oh, honey.” She rests her hand atop mine. “I just want to see people happy. I want to see you happy. You know, I’m not going to be around forever.”

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  “It’s the truth, sweetheart. Your mother was always so lonely after that no-good father of yours ran out on her. But at least she had you. I know you were a comfort to her. I hate to think of you up in that city all by yourself. I worry.”

  “You don’t need to worry,” I tell her. “I’m all right. I have my friends.”

  “Yes, but friends aren’t the same thing,” she says. “You know, you’re going to face a lot of challenges in your life—I know you’ve faced plenty already, especially losing your mother at such a young age. And you’re going to have plenty of wonderful moments, too. I want you to understand that with a partner by your side, those moments of joy can be so much sweeter, and your struggles will be made easier.” She gives my hand a little squeeze.

  “Oh, Aunt Mariel.” I squeeze her hand in return. “I know you really miss Uncle Harvey.”

  My aunt and uncle are my role models when it comes to romance. Because I never knew my own father, they’re the relationship I looked up to as a child, and they gave me a perfect example of what a marital partnership should be. The two of them met in college, and Uncle Harvey proposed on their graduation day.

  Throughout their forty-five years of marriage, they remained best friends. They did everything together, whether it was traveling to Europe or staying home and working on crossword puzzles. When Uncle Harvey died, I was afraid Aunt Mariel would drown in her grief, but she showed a strength like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Once again, she gave me someone to look up to.

  “I do miss him,” Aunt Mariel says. “And I know I always will. He brought sunshine into my life every day.”

  “I’m so glad that you found your one true love in Uncle Harvey.”

  “You can find yours too. I just know he’s out there waiting to meet you.”

  “I’m having a hard time finding someone I even have things in common with. And there hasn’t been chemistry with any of the men I’ve dated since college. I haven’t felt a spark. That should be there, at least. I really don’t want to force something that doesn’t feel right just so I can say I have a husband.”

  “It’s not that you shouldn’t have high standards—God knows you’re a wonderful girl, and you deserve the best. You deserve love. But to find happiness with someone, sometimes you have to be able to see past their flaws.”

  Aunt Mariel gets a funny smile on her face. “Your uncle was a loud snorer, for example. Kept me up at night. And he was allergic to pet dander, so I could never have a dog. I had to look past those things, though, because the person behind them was someone I loved very much.”

  “But that’s the thing,” I say. “You were in love with Uncle Harvey. That’s what makes it easy to overlook the things that bothered you.”

  “But I never would have been able to fall in love if I hadn’t kept an open mind,” she says. “So promise me you’ll keep an open mind next time you meet a man.”

  “I promise,” I say. “But are you sure you aren’t just anxious for grand-nieces and nephews?”

  She swats my hand again. “I told you, this isn’t about me. And if you ever come to me and tell me that you truly want to live your life solo, I’ll support you one hundred percent. But I don’t believe that’s what you want. Is it?”

  I sigh. “No, not really. I’d like to have everything you’re talking about. A partner to share my life with. It sounds pretty wonderful, actually. I saw how you and Uncle Harvey were. I’d like to have that.”

  “Then go out and get it.”

  I shake my head. She’s from a different era. She doesn’t understand what it’s like to be dating nowadays.

  “I would if it were that easy,” I say. “But I’ve tried, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep telling myself there’s some happily ever after in my future. I think it’s time for me to content myself with the reality that I’m going to be single. And really, that isn’t so bad.”

  The look on Aunt Mariel’s face speaks volumes, but she doesn’t argue. She squeezes my hand again and takes my plate.

  “I’ll get you more lasagna. I have to feed you while I’ve got you.”

  Chapter 2

  Chase

  “Mr. Harker?”

  I glance up, jerked out of my thoughts by the voice of the flight attendant. “I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

  “Would you like a drink refill and a warm towel?” she asks.

  Another flight attendant is standing behind her with a notepad, taking down drink orders, and she has a covered dish that I know from experience contains the hot towels.

  “Sure,” I say. I’m never one to turn down a perk.

  I hold out my hands and she places the towel across them using a pair of bamboo tongs. Immediately, the smell of aloe hits me and I start to relax. I love to travel. It’s such a good opportunity to unwind.

  “What can I get you to drink, Mr. Harker?” the woman with the notepad asks.

  “Scotch. Neat, please.”

>   She nods and the two of them move on down the aisle.

  I relax into my seat, passing my towel from hand to hand and letting the scent of it waft up to me. It’s such a relief not to have to report to photo shoots every day, not to have to be camera-ready all the time. I take pride in my appearance—I work out, and I keep myself well groomed. But since my retirement three years ago, I’ve been able to let the little things go.

  I’ve grown a little facial hair, which my modeling agent always forbid, telling me it wasn’t “my look.” I suppose whatever image he was selling didn’t include facial hair.

  I’m also free to dress however I want now. Working as a model, there was always the chance my picture would be taken in public, and my agent was adamant that there shouldn’t be any images out there of me looking underdressed. That doesn’t matter anymore. I’m free to travel wearing faded jeans and a T-shirt featuring a joke from my favorite TV show.

  My drink arrives, and I thank the flight attendant and take a sip, thinking back to my family’s reaction when I told them I wanted to become a model. My mother, sitting on the couch and looking perplexed, protesting “but you’re so smart, Chase.” My father, storming out of the room and slamming the door of his study.

  He worked all his life to build the dealership up from the ground, I’ve always known that. But nobody ever asked me if I wanted to sell cars for a living. I wanted to make my own way. And if my looks would help me do that, I saw no problem.

  But I guess my mother was right, because modeling quickly became tiresome. I could have kept going. I’m still young for a male model. But lately, I haven’t felt up to being in the spotlight.

  You know why that is, the annoying little voice in my head tells me.

  I shake it off. This isn’t because of Ashley. I’m over Ashley. It’s been three years. And as for what happened…