скачать книгу бесплатно
Bree nodded, her relief tinged with guilt. “Yes, of course, I’ll be glad to do that. Don’t worry, Marnie. We’ll find the right family for your baby.”
There didn’t seem to be much else to say after that. Marnie was clearly disappointed by Bree’s attitude, but what could Brianna do? What could she say? She was certainly in no position to raise someone else’s child.
They both went to bed early, Marnie complaining of mounting discomfort and exhaustion. Bree had a feeling the brooding girl just wanted to be alone to nurse her disappointment.
Sometime in the night Brianna heard a knock on her door. She sat bolt upright in bed and peered through the darkness as the door creaked open and Marnie peeked inside. “Bree, something’s wrong,” she said with alarm. “Something weird’s happening. I went to the bathroom and there was a gush of water. I…I think my baby’s coming.”
Bree threw back her covers and jumped out of bed. “Get dressed. I’ll wake my dad. He’ll drive us to the hospital.”
By the time Marnie was checked into her hospital room, it was nearly 5:00 a.m. Her contractions were coming five minutes apart.
“It’s too soon,” Marnie lamented as she paced the floor in her shapeless maternity gown, massaging her distended abdomen. “My baby’s not due for another month.”
The nurse, a lean, bony woman with short, gray hair, jotted something on Marnie’s chart. “Your baby’s eager to make his appearance, dear. But don’t worry. He has a good, strong heartbeat. Try to relax. You’re both going to do fine.”
Marnie kept pacing. “How long will it be?”
“Could be hours yet. But walking will help your labor progress. Dr. Packard will be in to check you shortly. And I’ll be back from time to time to monitor your contractions. Meanwhile, remember, no food, no water. Just ice chips.”
The next few hours crept by with an exhausting tedium. Bree finally sent her father home to catch a few winks of sleep. But she stayed by Marnie’s side, timing her contractions, massaging her shoulders and back, and walking the floor with her in a slow, strolling saunter—the awkward, agonizing dance of the laboring mother. When the contractions came, Bree held Marnie up, their arms entwined as they went through their paces. When the pains got too bad, she helped Marnie climb into the large hospital bed and reminded her to practice her breathing exercises. Hoo-hoo-hee! Hoo-hoo-hee!
At about 10:00 a.m., Dr. Packard announced that Marnie was dilated to nine centimeters and in transition. Two attendants helped her onto the gurney and wheeled her into the delivery room, while Brianna slipped a sterile gown over her clothes. With pounding heart, she entered the stark gray room with its pale moons of light.
“I’m so glad you’re with me,” Marnie whispered through clenched teeth as she gripped Bree’s hand. She was trembling, her hand cold as ice, her face and hair damp with perspiration. “Help me, okay? I’m not doing so well with the breathing.”
“I’m right here.” Brianna positioned herself by Marnie’s head. “I’m not going anywhere. We’re going to do this together.”
Marnie tensed. “Oh no, I’ve got to push!”
“It’s okay,” Dr. Packard assured her. “On the next contraction, give it all you’ve got.”
After pushing through several contractions, Marnie lay back, panting, exhausted, tears coursing down her cheeks. “I can’t do it. I just can’t!”
“Yes, you can,” said Dr. Packard. “Rest a minute, then we’ll try again.”
“I’m too tired.”
Brianna stroked Marnie’s forehead, gently smoothing back the damp tendrils of hair. “You’re doing great, Marnie. Almost there. Don’t give up.”
Dr. Packard moved in closer, working deftly, one hand pressing Marnie’s abdomen. “Okay, young lady, here we go. Push! That’s it. More. Come on. You can do it! Good, good, good! You’ve got it! The baby’s head is crowning. Okay, relax, take a deep cleansing breath, and then one more good push should do it.”
Marnie’s face turned red with pushing. She made a low, guttural sound and squeezed Bree’s hand until Bree winced with pain.
Suddenly a baby’s choking, gurgling, high-pitched squall filled the room. As a nurse suctioned the infant’s mouth and nose, Dr. Packard bent forward, his brown eyes crinkling above his surgical mask. “You’ve done the hard part, Marnie. We have the head. Now push that baby out.”
On the next contraction the baby’s shiny body slipped out effortlessly. The child raged in the doctor’s sturdy hands—the most beautiful music Brianna had ever heard—followed closely by Marnie’s laughter. “I did it, Bree. What a hoot! My baby! Look, my baby!”
“It’s a girl! She’s a little one, but she wants the whole world to know she’s here.” Dr. Packard placed the slick, squirming infant on Marnie’s chest and proceeded to cut the umbilical cord. Both Marnie and Bree stared transfixed at the bawling baby.
Marnie wept. “She’s gorgeous, isn’t she, Bree?”
Suddenly Brianna was laughing and crying, too. “She’s a little angel. Absolutely perfect!”
The baby was more than perfect. She was like a miracle. Tiny, yet plump and pink, with round, red cheeks and silky blonde hair on the top of her adorable head. And, flailing her taut little arms and legs, she was bursting with marvelous energy and life.
“I’m calling her Charity,” said Marnie breathlessly. “Because I want her life to be filled with love.”
“It will be,” said Bree. “Who could help but love her?”
The baby began to gasp and sputter.
“Time to weigh her in, warm her up and get her in her Isolette,” said Dr. Packard.
A nurse swept the infant up in her arms and took her to a table across the room.
Marnie leaned up on her elbows, her face pale, her blue eyes blazing. “Where are you taking my baby? Is she okay?”
Dr. Packard placed a soothing hand on Marnie’s arm. “She’s small and may need some extra attention. As a precaution, we’ll put her in an Isolette and send her to the intensive care nursery, where the pediatrician can examine her.”
Moments later, as an attendant wheeled the portable crib out of the room, Marnie looked urgently at Brianna. “Go with her. I don’t want my baby being alone. Stay with her. Watch over her.”
Bree hesitated. “I can’t leave you yet, Marnie.”
“Yes, please, go! Make sure my baby’s okay.”
Dr. Packard nodded. “Go ahead. We shouldn’t be much longer.”
Brianna felt an odd reluctance to go—but Marnie had insisted, so what else was she to do? She leaned over, caressed Marnie’s face and kissed her cheek. She drew back, startled. Marnie’s skin felt strangely clammy, her forehead feverish. Her face was pallid, her eyes glazed. “Are you okay, Marnie?”
“Never better,” Marnie mumbled thickly, her eyelids heavy.
“I love you,” Bree whispered. Gently she squeezed Marnie’s hand, then crossed the room to the door.
“Tell Charity…her mommy loves her,” Marnie murmured with a weary smile. Her voice was faint, her breathing labored. “Tell her…”
Dr. Packard broke in. “Marnie, I need another push. I’m delivering the placenta. That’s a girl. We’re almost done.”
Brianna lingered by the door, watching, as Marnie laid her head back and closed her eyes. She was trembling so fiercely that her teeth chattered. “I don’t feel well,” she whispered. “My chest hurts. And I’m so cold.”
“Her pulse is rapid,” warned the nurse.
Dr. Packard’s voice erupted in a strangled bark. “Confound it! She’s hemorrhaging!” He sprang into action, kneading Marnie’s abdomen as another nurse joined them. “Massage the uterus! Come on! Vigorously! Don’t stop!”
“It’s not helping, Doctor.”
“Try bimanual compression!” Dr. Packard muttered something under his breath about the placenta separating prematurely. His voice was urgent, shrill. “She’ll need a transfusion!”
“Doctor, she’s going into shock.”
“Get a cardiologist in here! We need help!”
“Doctor, what’s wrong?” Brianna broke away from the door and crossed the room to Marnie. “Is she okay?”
Dr. Packard looked at Brianna as if he had forgotten she was there. His face ignited with vexation. “Get her out of here! Now!”
Before Brianna could protest, an attendant—a tall young man in green scrubs—swiftly ushered her out the door and pointed the way to the critical care nursery.
Bree held her ground, her gaze riveted on the closed double doors of the delivery room. “What about Marnie? Will she be all right?”
“They’re doing all they can.” The attendant looked as shaken as she. “Go look after the baby,” he said miserably, as if he already knew the news would be bad. “That’s what she wanted, isn’t it?”
Brianna nodded, her thoughts reeling. “I’ve got to call my father. He needs to be here.” They were all going to need him…his presence, his comfort, his prayers.
The baby was in trouble. Marnie was in trouble. And Brianna couldn’t imagine losing either one of them.
Chapter Five
“I’m sorry, Miss Rowlands. We did everything we could.” Dr. Packard’s small dark eyes glistened starkly in his lean, blanched face as one corner of his mouth twitched. He was still wearing his surgical greens, but he seemed slighter—his frame more diminutive, his manner less commanding—than Brianna had perceived him during surgery an hour ago. It struck her suddenly that he was as shocked and unnerved as she.
“Marnie’s…dead?” Bree repeated numbly, as if she might somehow prompt a different response. It couldn’t be! Baby Charity was hardly more than an hour old, and already she had lost her mommy. Bree swayed, the air sucked from her lungs, the fluorescent lights glaring against her rising tears. How could her dear Marnie, the girl she had nurtured and laughed with and loved as a sister, be gone so swiftly, so senselessly?
“We’ll need to contact her next-of-kin,” Dr. Packard was saying. “I understand she was living in your home. Perhaps the call would be less painful coming from you or Reverend Rowlands. Would he consider making a personal call on the family?”
Brianna nodded stiffly. “Yes. I just phoned my father. He’s on his way over.”
But how could she tell the doctor that she had no idea how to contact Marnie’s relatives? Marnie had refused to confide any pertinent information about her family’s whereabouts. Bree wasn’t even sure Smith was Marnie’s real last name.
Bree should have made it a point to learn more. She would have to go home now and search Marnie’s room for clues to her family background—a driver’s license or an address book, perhaps. Surely there would be a clue among Marnie’s things.
Within the hour Brianna’s father arrived, talked briefly with the doctor, then drove Bree home. Neither of them spoke until her father pulled into the driveway. He stopped the car, swiveled in his seat and gave her his most benevolent smile.
“Honey, I’ll go with you to break the news to Marnie’s parents. I don’t want you facing them alone.”
Fresh tears flooded her eyes. “Thanks, Daddy, but first we’ve got to find them.”
Once inside the house, Bree went directly to Marnie’s room and began her search, riffling through her closet and drawers. A wave of nausea attacked as she touched Marnie’s familiar garments, her toiletries and cosmetics, her personal possessions. There wasn’t much to go on. Marnie had arrived with virtually nothing and had accumulated few belongings during her two-month stay. A Bible, a few books and favorite CDs. And, of course, the dog-eared photograph of her handsome brother, Eric, smiling that special smile of his. Brianna winced. Wherever Eric was, he had no idea he had just lost his sister.
As Bree blinked back a fresh stream of tears, she noticed Marnie’s backpack lying beside the bureau. Marnie had forgotten it in their haste to get to the hospital last night. Tentatively Brianna picked it up and opened it—the simple brown canvas bag that still had the feel of Marnie about it. Amid the tissues and toiletries, Bree found a wallet and opened it with awkward fingers, fighting a twinge of guilt. She had worked so hard to build Marnie’s trust, and now she was trespassing, invading Marnie’s private world. What if Marnie walked in and caught her? She would feel wounded, betrayed. But no, Marnie couldn’t walk in. Marnie was…gone.
That was the grim reality that would take ages to accept.
Seizing Marnie’s driver’s license, Brianna anxiously scanned the name and address. Just as she had suspected, Marnie’s last name wasn’t Smith. The license read Marnie Wingate and listed a Solana Beach address. Bree flipped through the wallet, looking for additional clues. There were several creased photographs…smiling strangers…people who must have known and loved Marnie…friends…relatives. A distinguished older couple, surely Marnie’s parents. Also, several more photos of her brother (even better looking than in the faded snapshot). And one exceptional color portrait of Marnie and Eric when they were children: he stood as tall as a little soldier, the proud older brother with his arm protectively around his baby sister.
If only he could have protected her this time!
And there was a business card. It read: Eric Wingate, Attorney-at-Law, and also listed a Solana Beach address. She turned the card over in her hand, then gazed again at Eric’s photographs spread over the bureau. So this is the man with whom I’ve felt such a strong emotional connection these past few weeks—the man I’ve fallen in love with in my fantasies!
I’ve got to see Eric first, Bree decided. I’ll break the news to him, and then together we’ll tell his parents.
Brianna quickly showered, applied a touch of makeup and changed into a sedate pantsuit, a pale charcoal gray, as bleak as the news she was delivering. She ran a brush through her long straight hair, then twisted it into an austere chignon. She was the bearer of bad news and might as well look the part.
On her way out the door, her father stopped her and enquired where she was going at a time like this. She told him, and shook her head when he again offered to drive her. “No, Daddy, I’ve got to do this myself. Marnie was my friend. Her family deserves to hear the news from me, not from some anonymous voice from the hospital, and not even from you.”
“I’m not saying you can’t go and break the news yourself,” he protested. “Just let me drive you, honey.”
“No, Daddy. I’ve got to keep busy and keep my mind off Marnie. I’ll feel better driving myself.”
She wasn’t even sure that was the truth; she just knew she had to carry out this mission alone. Having her father drive her would make her feel like a little girl again, too soft and helpless. She was going to need all the grit and courage she could summon to face Marnie’s family.
It took her less than a half-hour to drive to the oceanfront business plaza where Eric Wingate had his office. It was a modern three-story complex of stucco and brick, with a red tile roof and expansive floor-to-ceiling tinted windows. Flanking the parking area was a manicured lawn studded with graceful palm trees and colorful flower boxes. An appealing place to work.
Brianna entered the lobby and found the appropriate office at the end of the hall on the second floor. The sign on the door read, CRAWFORD, WINGATE AND ASSOCIATES. So Eric was already a partner in the company—a successful man by anyone’s standards.
She entered gingerly, her breath catching, heart pounding. What would this man be like that she had met only in her dreams and forged solely in her imagination? How could she break this terrible news to him? What could she say to ease his grief?
“May I help you?” asked the receptionist, a sophisticated woman in her late twenties. Bree’s face warmed with embarrassment as she realized she had been standing there for several moments lost in thought. “I’d like to see Mr. Wingate.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but I need to speak to him. It’s very important.”
The receptionist looked at her appointment book. “I can schedule you for tomorrow at nine-thirty.”
“No, you don’t understand,” Bree rushed on miserably. “I’ve got to see him now. It’s a…a personal matter.”
The receptionist was obviously well-trained in screening clients and fending off peddlers and solicitors. “What did you say your name was?”
“Brianna Rowlands. But he doesn’t know me. Please, I have some important information for him.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Rowlands, but whatever you’re selling—”
“I’m not selling anything!” Bree exclaimed, too loudly.
An office door opened suddenly, and a tall young man in a three-piece suit stepped out and flashed a quizzical glance.
Eric Wingate! She would know him anywhere! The same riveting eyes and sculpted features that she had memorized from Marnie’s photographs.
“Is there a problem, Natalie?”
“No, Mr. Wingate. This lady wants to see you, but she doesn’t have an appointment.”
As Eric Wingate turned his gaze on Brianna, she felt her knees weaken. She reached out for the corner of the desk. Eric Wingate was far more than his photographs. Easily the handsomest, most imposing man she had ever seen. With the tanned, ruddy glow of a California surfer, he looked as if he had stepped from the pages of a sports magazine. Yet intelligence and sensitivity were etched in his strong masculine features…a solid jaw, patrician nose, and dark brows crouching over intense mahogany-brown eyes. His thick dark hair was stylishly cut, but looked tousled, as if he had a habit of raking his fingers through it while perusing a contract or brief.
“You want to see me?” he enquired in a deep, resonant voice.
“Yes, Mr. Wingate, I do. I…I’m Brianna Rowlands.” Still clutching the edge of the desk, she felt light-headed, woozy. The room was warm and the events of the day were catching up with her. When had she last eaten? She couldn’t recall. Was it really just this morning that she had lost her cherished friend?
Brianna’s knees buckled.
