Fourth Down Baby: A May-December Romance (14 page)

* * *

I
t's
Friday after I get back when I feel the first headache, and then a twisting, roiling knot that forms just below my stomach. It's been so long since I've had a stomach ache that I worry for a minute before another, darker thought drifts through my mind.

I didn't get a period in August, and I'm late for September too. While I haven't had hot flashes, I've heard not every woman does. Still, some of the other symptoms are there. A sudden increase in sex drive, crankiness, and mood swings. Since getting back from San Francisco, I've gone through plenty of mood swings between Trevor’s continuing to act like a little child and Cory’s calling me at night, where we talk for an hour or more. I can go from bitch to lovesick puppy in about three seconds flat. Thankfully, I'm mostly only bitchy with Trevor and a puppy with Cory, but that doesn't mean anything. Maybe I've just hit my time. After having a daughter twenty-four years ago and then going on an epic more or less dry spell that would qualify me for the nunhood in some areas, my body has decided that it's not going to hold out hope anymore. That's it, it's done. Menopause is here, and I'm never going to be able to give Cory what I have started to pray that I would one day be able to give him, a son as perfect as he is.

I look at my work schedule and see that I've got nothing major for the rest of the day, not until this afternoon at church. Forget it. It might only be eleven, but I don't really care. I shut down my computer and put the office phones on call forwarding. I stick my head into Trevor's office and see he's still here. “Trevor, I'm calling out. My stomach is all sorts of messed up, and I'm going to go see Dr. Baker.”

Trevor waves me off without looking up, not really caring. Some pretty bad words come to my mind as I leave the office and drive to my primary care doctor, who runs a clinic that's next door to the Silver Lake Falls Hospital. It's not that big of a hospital, but it does fine for basic care, and it can fly serious cases to Seattle if we need it.

“Good afternoon, Patricia.” Jenny, Dr. Baker's receptionist, greets me as I come in. I've been coming to Doc Baker since Whitney was in junior high, after our previous doctor retired to Florida, and while Jenny is relatively new, younger than Whitney, in fact, she's like all of Doc Baker's staff, friendly and relaxed. “What can I do for you?”

“Is Dr. Baker in today?” I ask. “I'm . . . well, I need a checkup and my stomach feels terrible.”

“Sure. He's seeing someone right now, but he's not too busy. I'm sure he can fit you in. Here, fill out the symptom sheet while you wait. You have your HMO card on you?”

“Here you go,” I say, handing it over. Working for Trevor does have one benefit—he has a great health insurance plan. Considering I'm the least risky in the entire company—an unmarried woman, not working around heavy equipment or explosives—he can afford a Cadillac plan for me.

I don't have to wait long before Dr. Baker calls me in, and I find him reading over my symptom sheet. “Well, Patricia, seems like you've got some cramping going on?”

I nod, and he has me lie down on the exam table. I hate exam tables, mainly because the paper sanitary cover always crinkles and crunches underneath me, and I feel like I'm about to be gift wrapped or something. “Tell me what you've been up to the past week or so. With your other symptoms, I have an idea, but I'd like to be sure.”

I run down most of what I can remember from the past week, telling Dr. Baker about my trip to San Francisco and the food I tried there. “But I didn't start feeling the stomach until just this morning, Doc. If I ate some bad kimchi in San Francisco, wouldn't it have shown up before now?”

“For sure,” Dr. Baker says with a smile, scribbling on his clipboard. “Although I'd never tag you for a kimchi lover. Okay, go ahead and pull your blouse up a little—just your stomach, if you don't mind. I'll try a little poking and prodding before we go on.”

I lift my shirt to just below my bra, and he takes a look. “Patricia, just one thing I want to ask before we really delve into this . . . have you been sexually active? Word is that you’ve been seeing Cory Dunham.”

“Yes,” I admit, not ashamed at all. Besides, he's my doctor, right?

“Okay, well I don't feel anything out of place. Tell me what you're worried about.”

I pull my shirt down and sit up, trying and failing to control the wave of emotions that swells inside me. “Doc, since the first time he and I were . . . okay, since the first time we had sex, I've had dreams about the idea that I'd like one more time to be a mother. I mean, I haven't been actively trying to get pregnant, but I've still had the urge—really, even before that, when I met Laurie face to face and realized I loved being with a child again. But with this . . . I'm afraid that my time really has passed.”

Doctor Baker hums and taps at his chin. “And you and Cory . . . has he worn protection when you two have had sex?”

“Not every time,” I admit. “I mean, I haven’t been actively trying to get pregnant, just . . . I don't know, I just figured it was a fantasy.”

Baker hums and turns around, rummaging around in his supply cabinet. “I've been in private practice for a long time. You'd be surprised at what I’ve seen. Never mind. In any case, your stomach ache could be plenty of things, Patricia, but I seriously doubt that it's you becoming menopausal. On the other hand . . .”

I look at what he's holding out and realize it's a pregnancy test. “No way.”

“Way,” he says with a small smile. “It's not the only potential cause, but it's one I can determine one way or another in about five minutes. Can you use one right now?”

I nod and go down to the bathroom with numb fingers, opening the package before squatting and taking care of things. I cap it and take it back without reading or looking for a result, handing it back to Baker. “I'm too nervous to check myself.”

He gives me a sympathetic look, then takes the test out of the box. He looks, and then he smiles. “Well, Patricia, it looks like you and I will be seeing each other on a regular basis. From what you've told me, I'd say you're about six to eight weeks pregnant.”

“I am?” I ask, and Baker shows me the test. “It's . . . it's blue.”

“Which means pregnant,” Baker says with a patient chuckle. “Congratulations, Patricia. You're going to be a mother again. Now, let's talk a bit about what we can do to make sure you have a healthy baby and a healthy pregnancy.”

When I walk out of Doctor Baker's office forty-five minutes later, I'm still stunned. I have in my hands a list of things I need to do, mostly in the realm of looking after my health. After all, I'm over forty . . . and pregnant.

“Oh, dear God, what did I just do?” I ask my reflection as I sit in my car. I think about things, and I want to call Cory, but he's certainly still at work, and with his job still being so stressful . . .

My phone goes off, and I jump, startled. I pull it out and realize I'm running late. I'd promised Bill Moss I'd come by around four to talk about plans for the Sunday School program, and I've only got twenty minutes to get over to New Harvest. I get into gear, rushing to make it on time—Bill hates when people are late.

I get to the church with two minutes to spare and rush inside, leaving Dr. Baker's papers in the car. Bill's in his office, and he looks up with a smile when I knock on the door. “Hey, Patricia. How're you doing?”

“I . . . I . . .” I start, before the tears come. “I'm terrible, Bill. I'm so scared!”

“Shh, shh, what's wrong?” he asks, coming around and giving me a friendly pat on the back. “Come on, let's sit on the sofa and you can tell me what's going on. We'll discuss Sunday School later.”

It takes me ten minutes to try and get it all out, and I know he’s confused as I tumble and mumble through most of it, but finally, he stops me. “Patricia . . . take a deep breath. Now, what's the problem?”

“Bill . . . I'm pregnant,” I whisper, blotting at my eyes. “I'm pregnant, I'm hormonal, and I'm scared.”

I thought he'd be supportive. He's been my pastor for nearly a decade, and I was one of his first big supporters in the church after he took over for Pastor Lindbergh, who went back to his home church in Tennessee. I was one of the first to actively say that New Harvest should have him as our next permanent pastor, and while I know that I've not been able to contribute financially to the church the way that some members such as Trevor Bana or some of the upper crust have, I've still given my ten percent tithe every month.

Instead, though, his eyes go frosty and he shakes his head. “Oh, Patricia . . . that's so regrettable.”

“Excuse me?” I respond, confused. That's not the word I would have come up with, but Bill's not a man to choose words lightly. “Regrettable?”

Bill nods. “You know, when you showed up with Cory Dunham that one weekend, I'd heard the rumors, but I still prayed that you'd be able to resist the temptation to indulge in the same sins that you did before.”

“Before,” I repeat, getting a little angry. “You mean when Brad White got me pregnant with Whitney and took off like a scared rabbit.”

“Regardless of Brad's sins—I've never met the man—you also engaged in sin. Nobody’s perfect, but—” and I cut him off.

“You mean like my boss and your deacon, who I know has done a lot more than me, including breaking at least a few of the Ten Commandments?”

“Don't throw stones, Patricia,” Bill warns me, his voice growing hard. “A woman who has once again been irresponsible enough to get pregnant outside of marriage has no footing to throw stones.”

“You coldhearted bastard,” I seethe, the word out before I can even stop it. I don't care though. “You heartless, condescending hypocrite!”

Bill's face flares with anger for a moment before he purses his lips and nods, accepting what I've just said. “Patricia, I don’t think that a woman of your moral standing should be engaged in teaching Sunday School to our children any longer. I'd hate to endanger their . . . innocence.”

“And just what do you mean by that?” I hiss, getting to my feet. “You might as well put it plainly.”

He leans back and spreads his hands, like he's blessing a crowd in church or something, but his face is etched in stony condemnation. “Fine. You spread your legs like a common whore for one of your daughter's classmates. From the rumors that I've heard in the past few months, you may have done it as far back as when Cory was in high school! I'm sorry, Patricia, but I must ask you to step down from the Sunday School committee.”

“You can have more than that,” I growl, grabbing my purse. “I’ll find somewhere else to go. I won’t go to a church that condemns me but keeps Trevor and who knows how many others as good members simply because of the amount of money they put in the offering plate.”

I turn and storm out, anger fueling me as I get in my car and drive home. “Fuck him,” I hiss as I think about it. I think it's the first time I've said that word since high school. “Fuck him. I'll find a different church. Something I should’ve done a long time ago.”

Still, as I drive, a nagging question keeps burning in my brain. I know I want a baby . . . but does Cory? We just talked yesterday, and things are going so well for him. I know I was a bit dismissive. I was feeling bad then, and his promotion means more work, but I’m happy for him. But now, I have a bigger question on my mind.

Is Cory ready to be a father too?

I
've never had a harder
time going into work on a Thursday than I do two days after I give Patricia a hug and watch her go through security at the airport on the way back to Silver Lake Falls. I've slept poorly, most because I keep waking up in the night to realize she’s not there.

So I'm slightly sleepy when I get to the office Thursday, especially since I'm still going caffeine free. It took me longer to get into my workout, and I get in with only minutes to spare, riding the regular elevator up today. I think even if Dylan were around this morning, I'd have taken the regular elevator. Like I said, I just feel cleaner that way.

When I get to my desk, I see there's a note on it.
Come to my new office- JI

I've got fewer than two minutes until markets open, but with this week being week one of the regular season, retirement investments are the last thing all of the pro football clients are thinking of.

Not that I'm uninterested in this weekend's slate of games. In fact, Sunday is a bit of a homecoming for Troy as Jacksonville opens up their season on the road in Seattle. Last year, during week fifteen, Troy nearly singlehandedly crucified his former team, and he definitely drove the final nail in Larry Kardarelli's coffin for the disastrous trade. The Seattle fans nearly ran Kardy out on a rail after Troy's performance. Now, with more offensive weapons and a gelled defense, I'm looking forward to seeing what happens this weekend.

I'm still thinking of the game when I reach Jackie's new office. She has been given a spot commiserate with her position at least, and it's even a prime one. Since Dan Bremmington left so close to the Labor Day holidays and the end of the fiscal year, there wasn't enough time in the corporate calendar to have the other division presidents jockey around for better offices, so Jackie inherited Dan's.

“Good morning, Jackie. You look . . . at home.”

She looks around at her new immense teak desk and mahogany bookshelves with rich, heavy carpet and shakes her head in disagreement. “Three days, and this still seems like I'm just visiting. Thanks for coming up so quickly. You're missing the opening of the market though.”

“I don't have any changes with my clients right now. It's all about monitoring and research today. The players are all focused on Kickoff Weekend, so they're in pause mode for quite a while. They won't be making any major changes to their investment plans until maybe their bye weeks, which don't start for at least another month.”

Jackie gives me a little smile and gestures to the seat across from her desk. “Well, I can see the appeal of your client list then. Bust your butt for six months and chill out for six while they bust theirs. If I were still worried about my client portfolio, I'd be looking for baseball players. Their season is longer.”

“And fewer days off during the season,” I joke, sitting down in the leather chair.

“What's up?” I ask, confused. I sit up straighter in the chair, realizing for the first time that I'm talking to a senior executive and not just a slightly higher person on the food chain. “I mean, I can toot my own horn if you want me to, but I doubt that’s why you called me in here.”

“Well, you're going to need to more when you start passing these out,” Jackie says, sliding a business card across her desk. “Go ahead, take a look. Just got them back from the printers this morning.”

I pick up the card, and at first, I'm tempted to go off on a Patrick Bateman-esque monologue. My God, it has a watermark and all that. Then the text hits my brain, and the card tumbles from my fingers. I'm so surprised. “V–Vice President?”

“You've earned it, and I got the board to agree to let me name my own replacement. I know Xander was giving you the carrot and stick approach with it when he came by your office, but you probably figured he was full of shit.”

I lean over and pick the card up off the floor, reading it again. “Cory Hamilton Dunham, Vice President, Investments . . .” I read aloud softly, then look up. “So what happened? You're right. I figured Xander was full of shit, but I wanted to make sure Dylan didn't get slotted in too quickly. I know what you told me last week, but I still don't trust that guy.”

“Neither do I, and I trust his father even less,” Jackie replies with a smirk. “Which is why when the board let me name my shortlist for the folks to elevate to my old job, you were one of them. Lin was the other. I don't think they were ready to have another woman in VP after bumping me up, so they went with you.”

“Too bad for Lin,” I reply, thinking about her. She's smart, a Harvard grad, in fact. “She'll get one soon, I'm sure.”

“She will. I already spoke with her about it yesterday evening, right before she left for the night. She says she's cool with it, but that she's going to be shooting hard for the next slot that opens up.” Jackie takes out another piece of paper and slides it over. “So are you going to sign or not?”

I look at the paper, which is a simple memorandum that says I am accepting the job and outlines my new compensation scheme. “Hey, it says that I'm losing my client portfolio.”

“Comes with the territory. You're moving to salary plus points based corporate-wide. That's not just investments, but every division.”

“And my guys?” I ask. “Who takes them over?”

Jackie shrugs. “That's up to you, Vice President Dunham. You can divvy out any that you want, or you can keep some. If I were you, I'd go through your client list with a fine-toothed comb and pick out only the ones that have real meaning to you. You're going to be too busy otherwise, and you'll start dropping balls. Besides, it's a nice way to let some of those folks underneath you get a bit of a boost.”

I nod, remembering the few clients that Jackie did prime my portfolio with, then look over gratefully. “Thank you, Jackie.”

“Don't thank me. Remember what I told you last week,” Jackie says, turning away and dismissing me with a glance. “But you're welcome.”

I go back to my office and sit down, looking at the new business card. The word spreads quickly, and I get a constant line of people who come by to offer their congratulations, including Lin, who I thank personally for her understanding.

When Lin leaves, I make my way to the executive washroom and pull out my phone and dial the one person I’m itching to tell. Might as well start using my perks now.

“Cory?” Patricia asks, and she sounds less happy to hear me than I thought.

“Hey, Patricia. How're you doing?”

“Busy, what's up?” she asks slightly brusquely, and I feel a little bit of air come out of my day. Seriously, she sounds like she doesn't want to talk right now.

“Ah, nothing, I guess. Just . . . I got a promotion at work. They tagged me to take my new boss’s old slot. I guess it's not that important.”

Patricia stops whatever she's doing on the other end of the line and takes a second to reply. “Actually, that's a great thing, Cory. I'm happy for you. Really.”

“Thanks. Uhm, maybe we can talk tonight? I mean, you do sound busy.”

“I'd appreciate that. But I might not be available. I haven't been feeling well the past couple of days. Headache, and I feel something's just a bit . . . off.”

I stop, concerned. “Really? Do you need me to come up? I can make it this weekend and return the favor for what you did for me.”

Patricia chuckles lightly, but I can hear in her voice the rejection even before she says it. “I wouldn't want you to get in trouble, Cory. We should probably take a pass. I was thinking of hitting the sack early tonight. Maybe that'll help.”

“Okay, I guess. Well, I'll let you get back to work. Talk to you tonight, Patricia.”

“See you, Cory.”

Patricia hangs up, and I look at my phone for a minute, questions creeping into my mind. Have I waited too long to tell her how I feel? I mean, I've told Patricia how special I think she is, but I still haven't said the three simple words.

I make up my mind. Even if Jackie isn't happy about it, I'm going to fly up to Seattle this weekend and tell Patricia face to face that I love her. I have to lay it out, even if she possibly says it’s too late.

I go to get up when I hear the door to the washroom open, and Dylan's voice comes in. What the hell is he doing? He doesn't have privileges to this washroom. “I'm telling you, Dad, it'll net us millions. Easily.”

Another set of footsteps enters, the door closing behind them. “Will you please shut up in public about this?” Xander says, hissing. “No fucking wonder you're still stuck at the desk you are, Dylan. Can't figure out how to play the fucking game.”

“Oh, come on, Dad,” Dylan whines, and I start to breath shallowly through my mouth, trying to be silent. Whatever these two are discussing, I don't want them knowing I'm here. “Sure, the SEC would shit their pants, but it's not like we haven't done this before, and we've still got plenty of fall people if we get caught.”

Oh hell. I don't move, hoping that neither of the Roberts wants to use the toilet. Thankfully, I hear them both walk toward the urinals and then the splash of at least one of them taking a piss. “Dylan, Jackie Ibrahim is nowhere near the soldier that Bremmington was. Especially with her golden boy now under her.”

“Who, Dunham? He's so obsessed with that bitch he's laying that he's barely focusing at work,” Dylan sneers, and I almost come out of the toilet just to beat his ass right there.

“If he's barely focusing, I'd hate to see what he'd be like if he were really focused then,” Xander verbally slaps his son, sneering. “Because he's kicking the shit out of your numbers. And I'm not talking dollars. I'm talking percentage growth. But if he is distracted, then maybe we can slip this by.”

“That sounds a lot better,” Dylan tells his father, and I hear him slap Xander on the shoulder. “Come on, strange shit happens in biotech all the time. That we can capitalize on it is good luck.”

The two wash their hands and leave the bathroom, and I wait another minute or two before making my exit. Just what the hell were they talking about? Biotech, setting up Jackie or me? Whatever it is, I'm not happy about it, and I know that I need to cover my ass.

As I leave, I see Dylan give a glance toward the executive washroom, and he watches me as I head back to my office. I wait ten minutes, then call Jackie on her office phone. “Jackie Ibrahim.”

“Jackie, it's Cory. I think we need to talk, but I need it to be private,” I say, keeping my voice low.

Jackie hums on her end of the line for a minute before answering. “Okay. Where were you thinking?”

I think, then come up with an idea. “Union Square.”

“Good thinking. Six?”

“Six. I'll meet you in the lobby,” I say. “Thanks, Jackie.”

I hang up my phone and think. Xander Roberts . . . just great.

* * *

U
nion Square is
its normal funky mix, and as Jackie and I make our way through, I observe some of the uniqueness that must have touched and worried Patricia, now that I think about it. It took me six months to get used to San Francisco after growing up in the Marine Corps and Silver Lake Falls.

“So you heard them talking something about biotech?” Jackie asks as we round a corner. “And the SEC?”

“Yeah,” I say, stopping at a street vendor and looking at what's available. “And one of us being the fall guy if the SEC catches wind of it.”

“I think she'd like the hat,” Jackie says, changing subjects quickly and pointing to a wool knit cap with flaps on the side. “From the quick look I got of her, anyway.”

“That reminds me. I think I screwed up, Jackie. I haven't said those magic words to her yet.”

“Then get a move on,” Jackie advises me as I take the wrapped up hat and tuck it under my arm. “In the meantime, cover your ass. If Dylan saw you coming out of there, he probably suspects that you overheard him and his father. I'll see what I can do . . . but there isn't much to go on. Go incognito and take a few days to cover your ass. That's my advice.”

“I plan on it.”