"We want to offer our birth moms variety. You tell us what's important to you, what you envision as the perfect family for your baby. And we find them for you."
The perfect family, Julianna thought with a wistfulness that surprised her. The one she had dreamed of for herself as a child. The one she had hoped for with John.
She looked up and found Ellen's gaze sympathetically on hers. Julianna thought of her confrontation with the other waitresses and of the word they had used to describe her. Pathetic.
Was that how this woman saw her, too?
Julianna stiffened her spine. Nobody needed to feel sorry for her. Whether they could see it or not, she had everything going for her. Everything.
"How do I pick them? Is it like an interview or a lineup, or something?"
A smile tugged at the social worker's mouth. "You can meet with the couple you choose, but that comes much later. Our couples complete extensive questionnaires. About their likes, dislikes, views on love, marriage, raising children. About their background, their families and childhoods. They put together a photo album of themselves and their family.
"From all that, we put together a packet about each couple. Each includes the couple's photo album, their essays and our synopsis, if you will, of the drier, more factual information about them. No identifying information is exchanged, and by that I mean last names, addresses and so forth. When you're ready, we select the couples who fit what you've told us you're looking for and give you their packets. You can take them home, study them, think it over. We won't rush you to make a quick decision. We know how important it is and above all, we want you to feel comfortable and happy with the family you choose."
Julianna thought for a moment, finding herself being drawn into the idea. "What if none of the couples you choose-"
"Seem right? You can look at all the packets, of course."
She went on to explain open and closed adoption. Julianna was stunned to learn it was she, not the adopting couple or the agency, who made the decision of how much interaction there would be between her and the adoptive couple-anything from an initial visit or two before the baby was born, to continuing visits with the family after placement and for years to come. She could even choose a totally closed adoption, one that allowed no contact of any kind, not even the exchange of photographs and letters. It was completely up to her.
Of course, the couple would have to be comfortable with whatever arrangement she preferred, but Ellen assured her that if one couple didn't feel comfortable with a certain level of openness, another would.
"Perhaps you want to think all this over?" Ellen suggested, smiling gently. "I know it's a lot to absorb."
"No, thanks. I'm ready to do it."
"It's a big step. The emotional repercussions-"
Julianna looked her dead in the eyes. "There's nothing to think over. Getting pregnant was a huge mistake. I have no desire to be a mother. None. And it's too late for me to have an abortion."
"I understand."
"Good." Julianna took a deep breath, feeling completely in control now. "One more question. Dr. Samuel said the agency would be able to help with my medical expenses?"
"Absolutely. If you're without insurance."
"I am."
"We want, insist, really, that you have the best medical care. Whether you give your baby up for adoption or decide to parent, if you're in our program, you're guaranteed medical care. If you liked Dr. Samuel, you may continue seeing him. He's one of our regular obstetricians."
"I liked him fine." Julianna cleared her throat. "He also said you…the agency sometimes helps with living expenses."
Julianna had thought the woman would balk at the question, that she might look at Julianna as a greedy opportunist. But she didn't. She answered the question as if she had been asked it many, many times before.
"We're able to help with living expenses, although to what extent and in what ways is not as clearly delineated as with medical assistance. Why don't you tell me what's going on with you in that area, then I can tell you what we might be able to do."
Julianna did. "I have no family to help me. Right now, I'm working as a waitress at Buster's Big Po'boys downtown. It's okay, I'm getting by right now. But some days I'm so tired. I'm afraid when I get farther along, I won't be able to keep up. And there's no way my boss is going to cut me any slack. He told me the minute I can't cut it, I'm out."
Ellen Ewing smiled at her. "If everything you've told me checks out, I don't see any reason we won't be able to help you. That's what we're here for, Julianna. We care about you and your baby."
Julianna smiled, feeling almost carefree. "So, what do we do next?"
8
Washington, D.C., January 1999
Only those of the stoutest constitution had braved the outdoor café today, a collection of nearly deserted wrought iron tables huddled together just off Georgetown's busy Thirty-fourth street. Though the sun shone brightly, the breeze was stiff, cold and damp.
Condor made his way to where Tom Morris sat, sipping a latté. A benign-looking man, with round spectacles and balding pate, he reminded Condor of his slightly daffy uncle Fred. In actuality, as director of the operations branch of the CIA, the arm of the Agency responsible for all covert maneuvers including clandestine intelligence collection and covert paramilitary operations, Tom Morris was one of the shrewdest, most powerful and feared men in Washington.
"Morning, Tom."
The man looked up. Condor saw himself reflected in the other man's Ray●Bans, ones that were near replicas of his own.
Morris motioned to the chair across from his. "Have a seat." Condor did, and the man didn't waste time getting to the point of the morning's meeting. "John Powers has become a problem."
"How so?"
"He's a loose canon. The Agency's at risk." Morris added a packet of artificial sweetener to his latté. "We have to be able to control him."
"Then keep him busy."
"Easier said then done."
Condor made a sound of disgust. "The man's a trained hunter, you can't expect him to suddenly become a lapdog. It doesn't work that way."
"Times have changed. You know that." Morris frowned into the distance. "Besides, we're beyond that."
"He's been freelancing a long time. Why the sudden concern?"
Morris took an manila envelope out of his briefcase and handed it to Condor. "Take a look."
Condor opened the flap and slid out two eight-by-ten glossies. Full color. A man and a woman. Very dead. Blood and other assorted gore sprayed across the wall and bed.
"Senator Jacobson," Morris supplied. "And his lover."
Condor studied the photos. "A professional job?"
"It appears so."
"Powers?"
"Possibly."
"Who ordered the hit?"
"I don't know. Maybe nobody."
Morris had his attention now. "I don't follow."
Morris sipped the coffee, made a sound of appreciation and set down the over-size cup. "There's a connection. Powers and the woman were once involved."
"Could be a coincidence." Condor dropped the photographs into the envelope.
"True. But there's more. Russell's dead. A blow to the back of the head, the kidneys and larynx. Definitely professional."
"Powers?" Morris lifted a shoulder. "Shit." Condor looked away, then back. "What's the connection?"
"Woman and Russell were also once…involved."
Condor frowned. "You think this is personal?"
"Yes. But we need to know for sure. A United States senator is dead. So is one of our division chiefs. If it was a hit, we have to know who ordered it. If it wasn't, and Powers was involved, we have a problem to be taken care of."
"What do you want from me?"
"Find him. Find out what we need to know. If need be, explain the Agency's position to him." He met Condor's gaze evenly. "Make certain he understands."
Condor nodded. "Whereabouts?"
"Unknown."
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"Any specific instructions?"
"Your choice. Keep it low key."
"Of course." Condor stood. "By the way, I met with your friend, Luke Dallas."
"And?"
"I like him. Writes a hell of a book."
"He's a good guy."
"Can he be trusted?"
"I think so." Morris took a sip of his coffee. "You going to talk to him?"
"Maybe." Condor tossed the envelope onto the table. "I'll be in touch."
9
Sunlight spilled through the breakfast nook's bay window, falling over the antique oak farmer's table, warming its weathered top. The January day was brilliant but cold; the sky a postcard-perfect blue.
Kate sat at the table, one leg curled under her, hands curved around a mug of freshly brewed coffee. She brought the mug to her lips but didn't sip. Instead, she breathed deeply, enjoying the aroma almost as much as she would her first taste.
The beans were African, from the Gold Coast region. The roast was dark, the brew strong. The flavor would be bold, bright and complex. If it lived up to the roaster's claim.
She tasted, paused and tasted again. Smooth as well, she decided. She would add it to The Uncommon Bean's menu.
"Morning, gorgeous." Richard came into the kitchen, still straightening his tie. He crossed to her and she lifted her face for a kiss, then restraightened the knot of his tie, patting it when she had finished. "There. Completely presentable now."
He smiled. "I hate ties. A damn nuisance, I say."
"Poor baby."
"I'll bet our old friend Luke doesn't wear one of these boa constrictors." He went to the carafe and poured himself a cup of coffee, then popped a couple pieces of seven-grain bread into the toaster. "I went into the wrong line of work. I should have chosen something artsy-fartsy. Like writing."
Kate ignored his sarcasm and took another swallow of her coffee. She sighed with pleasure. "There's nothing quite as wonderful as a cup of hot coffee on a cold morning." She glanced over at him. "I'm trying out a new bean. Tell me what you think."
He took a sip. "It's good."
"Just good?"
"Really good?"
"How would you describe it?"
"Hot. Strong." He sipped again. "Tastes like… coffee."
She wagged her spoon at him in a mock reprimand. "Tomorrow you're getting instant."
"Okay." He laughed at her obvious dismay. "Sorry, sweetheart, I'm just not a coffee connoisseur, it all tastes about the same to me."
He carried his toast and cup to the table and sat across from her. Kate slid him the sports section of the Times Picayune.
"I read in the money section that Starbucks coffee is thinking of moving into New Orleans in a big way." She drew her eyebrows together in concern. "I hope they stay on that side of the lake. I don't need any more competition for this community's coffee dollar."
"How are things at the nuthouse?" he asked, unfolding the paper.
"Nuthouse?"
"The Bean."
"I don't know why you insist on calling the The Uncommon Bean a nuthouse. We're all quite sane."
He spread a bit of whole fruit jam on his toast. "You're sane," he corrected. "I'm not nearly so confident of that crew you have working for you."
She laughed. Her crew was a bit unconventional; she couldn't deny that. "A coffeehouse is not a law office."
"No joke."
"My customers expect a bit of creative license. Besides, they're not nuts, they're characters. There's a difference."
"If you say so."
"I do." Kate poured herself a bowl of muesli, sprinkled on some fresh berries, then covered it with half 'n' half. "I also say you're a stuffed shirt and need to loosen up."
"I'm sure my clients would love that. Being a stuffed shirt is a good thing for lawyers. Inspires trust." He cocked an eyebrow as she dug into her cereal. "Cream?"
"Mmm." She licked her spoon, teasing him. "What's the matter? Jealous?"
"Not at all."
"Liar."
Richard was spartan in his tastes; she was excessive. He worked out religiously, ate low fat and whole grain and still had to fight acquiring a paunch. Kate ate sweets and fats and kept her workouts confined to long brisk walks along the lakefront-and still managed to remain slim and taut, her blood pressure and cholesterol ridiculously low.
It irritated him no end and he continually warned her that her life-style would catch up with her, that middle age would hit and she would have to suffer right along with the rest of the world. Kate laughed off his warnings. She came from a long line of people with uncommonly healthy hearts and in-the-cellar cholesterol and blood pressure. And if genetics failed her and Richard's predictions came true, well, she would cross that bridge when she came to it.
"Poor Richard. Want just a tiny taste?"
He eyed her bowl longingly, then shook his head. "I'm perfectly content with my toast."
"I can tell." She grinned, took another bite and washed it down with a sip of coffee. "I almost forgot. Last night you got in so late from your meeting, I didn't get a chance to tell you. Ellen called." He looked up from the sports page, obviously not following. "Ellen, from Citywide. It seems we get an A plus." Kate laughed. "We were the first couple in our group to get all our paperwork in."
"The first?" His lips twitched. "Leave it to us, type A overachievers."
She pushed her hair behind her ear, ignoring his sarcasm. "Determined. Enthusiastic. No way am I going to miss an opportunity due to procrastination."
"I'm just glad it's done."
Kate agreed. The adoption program's paperwork had been grueling. It seemed there had been a form that covered every aspect of their life: their family's history, their personal health, their financial and educational backgrounds. They'd even had to get fingerprinted and have a police background check done.
But by far the most difficult part of the packet to complete had been the personal profiles. The questions had been probing, requiring each of them to delve into their most intimate thoughts and feelings-about their marriage, about adoption and parenting.
They had been asked to search their hearts and souls, then spill their guts on paper. All the while knowing that a potential birth mother would read what they had written-knowing the words they chose would influence whether that birth mother would select them to parent her child.
The process had been made all the more nerve-racking for Kate because they had been told that the profiles were the most important component of all they would do. For the great majority of the birth moms, Ellen had explained, giving up their baby for adoption was an emotional decision, not an intellectual one.
So, Kate had sweated over her profile. She had poured out her heart and soul and longings-praying the whole time that something she said would strike a chord in one of the birth mothers. Praying that somehow, she could make the other woman see how much she longed to be a mother. And how much she would love her baby.
"The only thing left is our photo album. I finished it last night and planned to run it across to Citywide in the next couple of days. No chance you're heading to the south shore today or tomorrow?"
"No chance. Although I may go over on Friday."
"I'll keep that in mind, though I didn't want to wait that long."
"Type A," he teased.
"You think?" She laughed. "I just want it done."
"Ready to sit back, relax and wait for a baby to fall into our laps, huh?"
"Relax?" She cocked an eyebrow. "Maybe you can, but not me. I'm more excited and anxious than I was when we had all that paperwork stretching before us. Now it's real. Now it could actually happen, anytime."
"Take a deep breath, sweetheart. Remember what Ellen said? It could take a year. Even longer. That year's going to pass pretty damn slow with your panties in a wad the entire time."
He was right. She knew that. But knowing it didn't change the way she felt. Kate sighed. "I know, Richard. I remember what she said. It's just that I've…tha
t we've-"
"Waited so long already." He reached across the table and covered her hand with his. "I know, sweetheart."
She curled her fingers around his, grateful for his understanding. "Love you."
He smiled. "Love you, too."
From outside came the squeal of the school bus's brakes, coming to a halt at the stop at their corner. It came every day at 8:10 sharp. Richard looked at his watch and swore. "I've got to go. I'm late."
"Me, too." They both stood, carried their dishes to the sink, grabbed their things and hurried for the door. There, Richard kissed her. "You haven't forgotten our dinner with Sam Petrie and his wife have you?"
"Of course not. Dakota's, 7:00 p.m."
"You got it. Why don't you wear your red silk? I love that on you."
She laughed. "That's a pretty sexy choice for a weeknight, counselor."
"And Sam Petrie could be a major supporter in my run for D.A." At her shocked expression, he grinned. "Just kidding. You're beautiful in anything. Wear whatever you like." He kissed her again, then stepped out onto the lower gallery. "I'll call you later."
She watched him go, then grabbed her coat and purse and headed out after him.
10
One of the many pluses of owning her own business, Kate had decided within her first month in operation, was the location she had chosen. Just three blocks down Lake-shore Drive from their home, most days she was able to walk to work.
Once upon a time the structure had been a guest house for the large home on the adjoining property. Both had been built well before air-conditioning or the Causeway, when wealthy New Orleanians had escaped the stifling heat of summer by trekking to the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain and the fabulous homes they had built along the lake.
She had found and fallen in love with the dilapidated cottage, and bought it-despite Richard's argument that it would cost too much to build out, that a location more on the beaten path, in one of the shopping areas or strip malls, would attract more patrons.
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