The Fertility Factor. Jennifer Mikels
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said I am?” Derek asked, certain someone had put the idea in Joey’s head.
“Mommy says so.”
He should have known. Leave it to Rose. Despite the divorce three years ago—because he and Rose had parted amicably, she never hesitated to voice her opinion about his love life or, in her words, “lack of it.”
“Mommy’s going on a date,” Joey added.
Derek had heard, wished her well. But he understood now what was happening. Rose figured if she was dating, it was time for him, too. They needed to talk. “What else did Mommy say?”
“She said she’s going on a vacation before she clapses.”
Derek chuckled. “Before she clapses.”
“That’s what she said.”
“I believe you, Joey.” He checked his watch, promised himself he wouldn’t do that again while with Joey, but mentally he calculated time. With luck, before he had to leave for appointments, he’d manage to watch two innings of the ball game with his son.
“Mommy said you need a date.”
Was he really having a conversation about his lack of female companions with his five-year-old son? You need a life, Doc, he mused. “Come on. Let’s play ball.”
“Do you know a girl, Daddy?”
Plenty of them. But if he could pick and choose, he already had a candidate, his nurse. A tall, willowy knockout with a flawless, fair complexion, long blond hair and green eyes. “I know some, Joey.” Like Lara Mancini with the bright, pearly white smile and delicate features. “Don’t worry about me.”
Chapter One
“Y ou’re such a natural with them, Lara.”
Lara Mancini cradled the six-week-old girl in her arms and smiled. “I’ve had a lot of practice. Last count, I had ten nieces and nephews.”
Standing beside her, the beaming mom and dad of the triplets each held one infant.
In the three years since Lara had volunteered as a nurse at Manhattan Multiples, a center for multiple births, she’d held many babies, but she never lost interest or felt too tired to hold one. While still in her teens and baby-sitting for every neighbor on the block, she realized how much she loved being with children.
“You should be a mother, Lara,” the woman said.
“Someday. Your next appointment is in six months unless you need to see Dr. Cross sooner,” Lara said while placing the little one in an infant seat.
“No, I’m feeling great.” The young woman shot a meaningful look at her husband as they bent down to place the other two babies in car seats.
Lara assumed the silent exchange carried a definite message of intimacy since they’d received the all-clear to resume relations.
“Come on,” her husband urged. “Lara has other patients to care for.”
“I always enjoy being with these three,” Lara assured them. She smiled, watched them leave. The daddy carted out two infant seats, while his wife managed one and an oversize pink-and-blue diaper bag. Lara cast a look at the gallery clock on the half wall behind the appointment counter. The appointments on this Saturday morning had been lighter than usual.
Having promised to meet co-workers downstairs in the reception area a few minutes before noon, she hurried into the staff lounge, and rushed to her locker to change out of blue-colored scrubs. She slid on a deep-green, V-necked, sleeveless top and an ankle-length, silk floral skirt, released her hair from the tortoiseshell clasp and fluffed it. After snatching up her shoulder bag from her locker, she dashed to the elevator.
On the way down to the first floor, she attached small, gold hoop earrings and a gold chain to dress up the outfit. She thought about what the couple had said to her. Everyone said the same. She was a natural with babies.
You should be a mother. Her stomach knotted. She wasn’t one, might never be. Depressing thoughts had started at seven that morning. Over the phone a friend, fighting tears, had told her terrible news. Sadness had shadowed Lara ever since Gena’s call about her appointment at her gynecologist.
As the elevator doors swooshed open, Lara fought her sad mood. In the lobby she saw Eloise Vale, Manhattan Multiples’ director disappear into her office. Another nurse, Carrie Williamson, was waiting beside Josie Tate’s desk.
The center’s receptionist, Josie, was a cute, petite brunette with an abundance of blond streaks, who favored denim clothes. Her bright smile was the first thing people saw when they entered Manhattan Multiples.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Lara said to both of them from a few feet away.
“No problem.” Carrie, a tall brunette with a slight build, led the way to the center’s entrance. “I’ve been telling Josie about my latest dating fiasco,” she said while pushing open one of the double glass doors. A man bumped shoulders with Carrie, as he plowed his way through the crowd. “I’m looking for a prince among frogs.”
Lara knew where there was one—Dr. Derek Cross. Handsome, rich, charming. She kept the thought to herself. Never had he indicated interest in her, but from day one, she’d felt a tightness in her chest whenever he was near. Her secret crush was her business, no one else’s. She liked her job, wanted to keep it.
“I can’t believe how hot it is,” Josie said.
“Neither can I,” Lara agreed when they stopped at a curb for a red light. A summer heat wave for the past two days had left New Yorkers cranky.
“That’s a great outfit, Lara.”
Josie nodded her agreement of Carrie’s comment.
“Thanks. I didn’t think scrubs would play well today.” For the upscale restaurant near the center’s Madison Avenue address, she and Carrie had changed outfits.
It was their splurge week. Instead of the deli nearby, the three women strolled to a pricey restaurant with rosewood paneled walls, crystal, linen and enormous flower arrangements. Inside, the buzz of conversation and the clink of silverware filled the room.
Even after they were seated at a table for four, Carrie continued to rattle on about her date two nights ago. “He bought me a hot dog. That was his idea of a big date. Then we took a taxi to the theater. He was out of money. I ask you. Why did he suggest the taxi if he couldn’t pay for it? Because he knew he couldn’t. How insulting.”
Lara sipped her water and absently listened to Josie offering sympathetic words to Carrie about her tale of woe.
Josie poked a fork into the shrimp salad just delivered, but paused with the fork in midair. “Lara, are you sick? You’re awfully quiet.”
“I’m in trouble,” Lara answered, frowning at her Caesar salad.
As if playing a child’s game of Red Light, Green Light, they both froze.
“You’re pregnant?” Carrie mumbled, her mouth full.
“You would have told us if you were, wouldn’t you?” Josie asked.
“I’m not pregnant,” Lara said, “and that’s what’s really wrong. Time is running out for me.”
“To get pregnant, you mean?” Josie asked.
Lara nodded. “I used to believe that I had plenty of time to think about a husband, about tying myself down, about children. But I’m thirty-eight. I feel pressure now to get pregnant soon, before it’s too late.”
Carrie shook her head. “Oh, you’ll be okay.”
Did they really understand? Lara wondered. Carrie perhaps did. She was thirty-two and divorced. But Josie might not understand her desperation. Often Josie had scoffed at the idea of having children. But then Josie was only twenty-five.