nearly overrode Stacy’s common
sense, at the earnestness shining in his eyes. Then she remembered seeing that
same resolve when a surgery turned difficult and Cole had to do everything in
his power to save the patient.
This wasn’t an operation he could wrap up in a few hours. This
was their future they were talking about, theirs and the baby’s.
“It’s for the best.”
She tried to ignore the disappointment in his face. The urge to
please others might run strong in her blood, but she had to keep her priorities
straight.
To forestall further discussion, she got behind the wheel of
her car. Cole waited as she started the motor and backed out. In the rearview
mirror, Stacy saw him still standing there as she drove off.
Somewhere, she reminded herself, there was a couple suffering
for lack of a child. A couple whose empty arms she was going to fill.
That had to be enough.
* * *
S ATURDAY MORNING , after surgery, Cole put
together notes on the topic “What’s Killing Your Sperm?” Although he disliked
sensationalizing, perhaps the title would draw fifty or sixty people.
How fortunate that his listeners would never know the irony. In
reality, Cole was annoyed with his sperm. Two and a quarter drinks ought to have
sent the little swimmers to sleep for the night. Yet in defiance of all decorum,
they’d had the nerve to impregnate Stacy. Yesterday, she’d practically collapsed
at Una’s party, and sitting on the examining table, she’d looked heartbreakingly
vulnerable.
Why wouldn’t she let him help? He almost resented those friends
of hers. Without them, she might turn to him, which she should do anyway. This
was his child, too.
Would it be a boy or girl? he wondered. Would it have his
mother’s nose or his father’s eyes? Maybe it would be a little girl with Stacy’s
curly hair and elfin chin. If he saw her on the street someday, would he
recognize her? And all this had started with one overachieving cell shaped like
a tadpole and only a fraction the size of the period he’d just made in his
notes.
Cole had two offices, one in the medical building, where he saw
private patients, and the other designated for the head of the men’s fertility
program, in a ground-floor suite at the hospital. In his hospital office, he
found a sports jacket on a peg and carried it to the doctors’ lounge, which had
a full-length mirror. Putting it on, Cole examined his reflection. Too casual?
He replaced it with a white coat. Too pretentious? He felt ridiculous spending
so much time deciding what to wear, yet he rarely appeared before the general
public and wanted to make a good impression.
“I’d stick with the white coat.” From across the lounge, Owen
Tartikoff regarded Cole with amusement. Where had he come from? Whatever. On
this occasion, Cole could use a second opinion.
“You think?” He frowned at his image. “I don’t want to come
across like some TV doctor.”
“Image counts,” the fertility chief observed. “But only if you
get moving.”
Cole checked the clock. Ten minutes to two. “Damn. I’m running
late.”
“Never thought I’d see you flustered about giving a little
speech,” Owen said.
Instead of dignifying that remark with a response, Cole asked,
“Are you introducing me?”
“Got to babysit the twins.” The surgeon rolled his shoulders.
He’d been operating this morning, too. “Bailey has a rehearsal with the church
choir. Don’t worry. Jennifer Martin will warm them up for you.”
“Does she know any male fertility jokes?” Cole asked.
“Those might play better at a urology conference.”
“Good point.” Cole returned to his office, rehung his sports
jacket on its peg and hurried toward the auditorium. There were a lot of men
milling around in the corridor, and a couple scowled at him when he angled
between them. One large fellow made a move to block his path until he noticed
the white coat.
“Are you the speaker?” the man asked.
“That’s right.” Cole
sense, at the earnestness shining in his eyes. Then she remembered seeing that
same resolve when a surgery turned difficult and Cole had to do everything in
his power to save the patient.
This wasn’t an operation he could wrap up in a few hours. This
was their future they were talking about, theirs and the baby’s.
“It’s for the best.”
She tried to ignore the disappointment in his face. The urge to
please others might run strong in her blood, but she had to keep her priorities
straight.
To forestall further discussion, she got behind the wheel of
her car. Cole waited as she started the motor and backed out. In the rearview
mirror, Stacy saw him still standing there as she drove off.
Somewhere, she reminded herself, there was a couple suffering
for lack of a child. A couple whose empty arms she was going to fill.
That had to be enough.
* * *
S ATURDAY MORNING , after surgery, Cole put
together notes on the topic “What’s Killing Your Sperm?” Although he disliked
sensationalizing, perhaps the title would draw fifty or sixty people.
How fortunate that his listeners would never know the irony. In
reality, Cole was annoyed with his sperm. Two and a quarter drinks ought to have
sent the little swimmers to sleep for the night. Yet in defiance of all decorum,
they’d had the nerve to impregnate Stacy. Yesterday, she’d practically collapsed
at Una’s party, and sitting on the examining table, she’d looked heartbreakingly
vulnerable.
Why wouldn’t she let him help? He almost resented those friends
of hers. Without them, she might turn to him, which she should do anyway. This
was his child, too.
Would it be a boy or girl? he wondered. Would it have his
mother’s nose or his father’s eyes? Maybe it would be a little girl with Stacy’s
curly hair and elfin chin. If he saw her on the street someday, would he
recognize her? And all this had started with one overachieving cell shaped like
a tadpole and only a fraction the size of the period he’d just made in his
notes.
Cole had two offices, one in the medical building, where he saw
private patients, and the other designated for the head of the men’s fertility
program, in a ground-floor suite at the hospital. In his hospital office, he
found a sports jacket on a peg and carried it to the doctors’ lounge, which had
a full-length mirror. Putting it on, Cole examined his reflection. Too casual?
He replaced it with a white coat. Too pretentious? He felt ridiculous spending
so much time deciding what to wear, yet he rarely appeared before the general
public and wanted to make a good impression.
“I’d stick with the white coat.” From across the lounge, Owen
Tartikoff regarded Cole with amusement. Where had he come from? Whatever. On
this occasion, Cole could use a second opinion.
“You think?” He frowned at his image. “I don’t want to come
across like some TV doctor.”
“Image counts,” the fertility chief observed. “But only if you
get moving.”
Cole checked the clock. Ten minutes to two. “Damn. I’m running
late.”
“Never thought I’d see you flustered about giving a little
speech,” Owen said.
Instead of dignifying that remark with a response, Cole asked,
“Are you introducing me?”
“Got to babysit the twins.” The surgeon rolled his shoulders.
He’d been operating this morning, too. “Bailey has a rehearsal with the church
choir. Don’t worry. Jennifer Martin will warm them up for you.”
“Does she know any male fertility jokes?” Cole asked.
“Those might play better at a urology conference.”
“Good point.” Cole returned to his office, rehung his sports
jacket on its peg and hurried toward the auditorium. There were a lot of men
milling around in the corridor, and a couple scowled at him when he angled
between them. One large fellow made a move to block his path until he noticed
the white coat.
“Are you the speaker?” the man asked.
“That’s right.” Cole
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