Where on earth were their salads? “I met her once. They were Parent Portal clients.”
“You want to do this.” Olivia had gone still. Was studying her closely.
“I told him no way.” She’d told him to get out of her office. She cringed every time she thought about it. “But that, even though we aren’t a surrogacy clinic, I would help him find his surrogate. I’ve got people I can call. I can act as his proctor without steering the clinic someplace we don’t want to go, or putting us at risk.”
Still no salad. Her one glass of wine wasn’t going to last through dinner if she didn’t hurry up and get some food.
People came and went around them. Someone from another table cackled loudly. Pop music played softly in the background. She felt like she could hear Olivia thinking. Hear every breath she took. Because she feared that her friend was seeing more of her than she was ready to have discovered. Deciphered. Analyzed and picked apart and contemplated.
Some things were best left to wilt and fade away. It just took time.
And yet, she’d blabbed.
Holding her friend’s gaze, she searched for words that would defuse the firecracker she’d just figuratively lit on the table between them.
“Here you go! Sorry for the wait.” Christine didn’t recognize the young woman who arrived and placed their salads with speed and ease. The waitress added, “Someone else took your order, and then delivered it to the wrong table so it had to be remade. She’s new and I do apologize...”
Christine, putting her napkin in her lap and picking up her fork, was happy to have her rattle on. Anything to distract her from Jamison’s request.
* * *
“You want to be the surrogate.”
Christine had eaten most of her salad. Was taking small sips of her wine to make it last longer. Had thought the conversation was done. At least the part that included Olivia. Or anyone else.
“I want to help him. The man’s a genuinely nice guy. He and his wife... I wish you could have seen them together. They’d been best friends since they were eight years old...”
She hadn’t needed the emergency room story to see the connection between Emily and Jamison Howe. But that piece of history had been replaying itself in her mind ever since the man had left her office. She kept picturing that little girl who, at eight, had been so in tune that she’d received an otherworldly message. Or even just willing to be open enough to reach out when her soul mate arrived in her sphere. Whether or not she’d known that was what Jamison was to her, clearly she’d felt something. And had been trusting enough to believe in that feeling.
Children generally were trusting.
Until they learned through painful lessons to harden the sensitive walls that encased the human heart.
“It’s okay, you know.” Olivia’s gaze was always filled with intelligence and usually compassion. But the empathy...
“What’s okay?”
“You wanting to have this baby for him.”
“I didn’t say I wanted to. I said no way.”
“I know. And I know you. If you didn’t want to do it, you’d have let it go already. You’d go to work in the morning, make your calls, get the ball rolling to proctor his surrogate search, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“With a fee from being a surrogate, I could get all of the renovations done on the house, including a new dishwasher and garbage disposal, new kitchen countertops, electric garage doors...without taking any higher salary from the clinic.”
“You need to pay yourself more than you do, but you aren’t sidetracking me with that discussion now,” Olivia said.
Maybe she told the other woman too much. She had lots of friends. She needed to spread her news around more. Some to one. Some to another.
It was just that she trusted Olivia in the same way she’d trusted Gram and Gramps. Like she’d trust a sister...
“He’s willing to pay living expenses for the duration of time I’d be involved, including recovery, which is somewhat common in the surrogacy world. That would mean my entire salary for all those months would be freed up.”
Maybe she could get her bathroom updated. Have new tiles put up in the shower. The colors of the old were so faded she couldn’t even be sure someone would recognize the pattern if they hadn’t been looking at it for thirty-plus years.
The wooden floors throughout the house were solid, but could stand to be buffed and resurfaced.
“And in addition to that, he’s going to make a contribution to the clinic—not a surrogacy fee, just a donation...”