Praise for

JUDY BAER

and her novels

“[A] cute continuation of Baer’s The Whitney Chronicles revisits Whitney and her husband, Chase.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on The Baby Chronicles

“Fans of Baer’s The Whitney Chronicles will enjoy this lighthearted Christian romance.”

—Publishers Weekly on Norah’s Ark

“Million Dollar Dilemma is sophisticated in structure and story, but sweet and accessible.”

—NBC10.com

“Just like Bridget [Jones]…chick-lit readers will appreciate all the components of a girl-friendly fantasy read. Quirky characters…flashes of genuine humor keep even the poignant segments…from becoming too heavy. The results are genuinely enjoyable.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Whitney Chronicles

“Baer has created fascinating characters with real-life problems and triumphs that show readers the details of living out faith daily. Full of humor and infused with God’s truths, this book will allow readers to come away with a happy heart and increased faith.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on

The Whitney Chronicles

Oh, Baby!
Judy Baer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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For Connie G. and Nancy L., because you’re special.

Acknowledgment

Thanks to doula Tracy Repasky for her input.

Jesus called a small child over to him and put the child among them. Then he said, I assure you, unless you turn from your sins and become as little children, you will never get into the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, anyone who becomes as humble as this little child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.

—Matthew 18:2-4

BIRTH PLAN, Couple #1—

This birth plan is intended to make known our preferences and desires for and during the birth of our child as long as it is a normal, uncomplicated birth.

• I want to move around and change position during labor.

• I prefer dim lights and soft, calming music.

• I prefer intermittent fetal monitoring to continuous monitoring.

• Offer medication only if I am uncomfortable.

• I want my baby placed on my stomach immediately after delivery.

• I would like my husband to cut the cord.

• I want to breast-feed in the recovery room. Do not offer my baby a bottle, even of glucose water.

• Do not offer the baby a pacifier.

• I want a video recording of labor and birth.

• I want my husband and doula present during labor and delivery.

BIRTH PLAN, Couple #2—

Assuming that we will have a normal, uncomplicated birth, this plan is intended to make our wishes known for and during the birth of our child.

• I want to be unconscious as much of the time as I can.

• Rap music. Definitely rap.

• Medication—as much and as fast as possible.

• And massage. I love massage.

• No interns, residents or other Lookie Lous.

• If my husband tries to use his video camera, I want him kicked out of the room.

• Don’t offer my baby a pacifier to suck on. That’s what thumbs are for.

• I want my husband and doula to be present during labor and delivery.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

“Be careful, Molly. Dr. Reynolds’s bite is worse than his bark.”

I spun around to see my friend Lissy Franklin hurry past me pushing a med cart. “Tiptoe softly,” Lissy mouthed before turning into one of the birthing rooms on the third floor of the Bradshaw Medical Center.

I took a deep breath and recalled all I’d heard about Dr. Reynolds in the few short weeks he’s been at Bradshaw General. It isn’t pretty, at least not from my professional perspective.

He’s a great ob-gyn physician, no doubt about that. His reputation preceded him from his former position at a large hospital in California. He’s only been practicing medicine in the Twin Cities of Minneapolis-St. Paul for three months and already women are booked weeks in advance to be his patients. I, however, hadn’t had a client who was his patient until today.

He’s cute, too. Gorgeous, actually, with dark hair, impossibly blue eyes and a trim physique that, it’s rumored, comes from running and working out two hours a day. Where a doctor gets time like that, I don’t know, but maybe it helps take the edge off his temper. It’s his personality that gets low points from all the nurses. He demands perfection and settles for nothing less. Felicity, or Lissy as I usually call her, says he can make them cry with a look.

Maybe not all the rumors are true. Fortunately, at least one of my personal experiences with him has belied that opinion.

“I’m so glad you agreed to come to this visit with me,” new mother Tiffany Franks had told me several weeks ago as we sat together in the waiting room of her pediatrician’s office. “I didn’t want to go to the baby’s first doctor visit alone. My husband said he couldn’t take time away from work and no one else was available. I’m still so nervous with the baby.” The baby in question was a solid sleepy lump in my lap, hardly a reason for Tiffany’s anxiety.

A week or two of experience would resolve that. “The doctor will tell you little Max looks great and you will feel a hundred percent better in no time.”

We were examining Max’s chins—all four of them—when a man strode into the office and up to the receptionist’s desk. “Is Dr. Harley in?”

The receptionist looked up at him and her eye-lashes began to flutter like hummingbird wings. “Why…uh…who?”

“Dr. Harley,” the insanely handsome Dr. Reynolds said. “Your boss?”

“Oh, yes.” She blushed. “Do you have an appointment?”

“Do I look like I should?” he snapped impatiently as he opened his hands to show that there was no baby in them.

His legs, however, told a different story. A blond toddler with lemonade curls and sapphire-blue eyes had glommed onto his left leg. She held her teddy bear in one hand and clung to his calf with the other. On his right leg, a little boy proceeded to run a Matchbox car up and down as if his expensive trousers were a vertical racetrack. Two or three other children were creeping closer to get a good look at the man.

“I’ve never seen anything like it!” Tiffany whispered. “He’s like the Pied Piper. The children don’t seem to have any fear of him at all.”

He appeared accustomed to being a human jungle gym.

“I’m Dr. Reynolds,” he told the starstruck receptionist. “We’ll be working closely since I deliver babies and he picks up where I leave off. I need to talk with him.” His words were clipped.

“Of course. I’ll just…” The woman’s voice trailed off. She seemed to have lost track of her job description under his expectant and impatient gaze.

“Now.”

That woke her up. She jumped to her feet and trotted toward the examining rooms.

As she did so, Dr. Reynolds picked up the blond cherub. “Hi, baby girl. How are you?”

The child gurgled gleefully and patted his cheeks with her little palms. “Where’s your mommy?”

A young woman in jeans stood up and came forward.

“She’s beautiful,” he said as he handed her the child.

The woman flushed with pleasure. Dr. Reynolds might have said more, but the little boy with the toy car held his arms out to be picked up.

“He’s a kid magnet,” Tiffany whispered. “They aren’t the least bit afraid of approaching him even though he snapped at the receptionist. Remarkable.”

I’d thought of the incident several times since. Dr. Reynolds has subsequently put a number of Bradshaw employees in their places for minor infractions and he has the personnel tiptoeing on eggshells. What did little kids know about him that the staff didn’t?

As I pondered the question, a nurse’s aide walked by. Her eyes were wide.

I caught her arm. “What’s going on?”

“Dr. Reynolds, that’s what. He just kicked everybody out of the birthing room because they were in the way. He said no one but the baby’s father could stay. The family is up in arms, and he won’t budge. He’s stubborn, that one.”

She looked at me appraisingly. “All I can say is that I’m glad I’m not you. When you come in with one of your clients, he’s going to chew you up and spit you out.”

That’s not a rosy prospect. The kid thing at the pediatrician’s office must have been an anomaly. Too bad.

What is a driven man like that going to do with me, an innocent doula, whose client unfortunately insists her baby be born at this hospital, with this attending physician? Bradford is a private hospital that hasn’t experienced a lot of birthing coaches in the past, and from what I’ve heard of Dr. Reynolds, that pattern won’t be changing anytime soon. I’m not too eager to be the bomb-sniffing dog who is first to go in and check for booby traps.

So far I’ve chalked his negativism toward my profession up to lack of sleep, pressure and the fact that he’s not yet settled into the routine at the hospital, but those justifications are wearing thin.

I walked into my client’s room. Brenda Halbert’s face cleared and her shoulders relaxed, but she still kept her telephone to her ear. She patted her belly, which looked like a gigantic haystack hovering under the bedding.

“You have got to cover for me on the Smyth case. We were supposed to meet today at three, and there’s no way I’ll make it.” She scowled at the response from the other end of the line. “I’m having a baby, not getting my hair done! It’s not as if you can expect me to drop by the hospital and then hurry back to work. Besides, you’ll do a great job. It’s just a deposition, after all, but we can’t take any chances….”

She gestured at me to sit down and mouthed, “I’ll be off in a minute.”

I see more and more women already in the hospital tying up loose ends so they can have a baby without worrying their cell phones might ring during delivery. Well, maybe it’s not that bad, but it is getting ridiculous. More than once in my acquaintance with Brenda, I’ve feared she’d bring a briefcase to the delivery. Then I glanced around the room and spotted a suspicious looking attaché case in the corner. Oh, my.

“There you are, Molly Cassidy.” She greeted me as if I were the one who’d been on the phone. “I don’t want to do this without you, you know.”

The room was sunny and welcoming. The necessary medical equipment for a healthy birth was still stashed away behind closed doors. The room looked more like a comfortable efficiency apartment than the delivery room it would become. Bradshaw is known for its upscale amenities. I vaguely wished my own house looked this good.

“No need to worry about that.” I plumped the pillows behind her back and handed her fresh ice chips. I felt honored to be trusted by a woman who, in her ordinary, everyday life is a highly capable trial attorney. “I’m stuck to you like glue unless you tell me otherwise.”

She smiled beatifically at me and leaned back against the pillows. That lasted for only a moment before she began chuffing and huffing like the Little Engine That Could.

“Another contraction?” I moved closer to put a comforting hand on her arm. “Focus, just focus.”

She glared at the gigantic orange lollipop I’d taped to the wall on the other side of the room, concentrating so deeply on the brightly colored sucker that nothing else mattered but her breath and the baby preparing to be born.

I love my job. Being a professional labor assistant is the greatest occupation in the world. Better even than my former occupation as a preschool teacher, which was a pretty exciting and entertaining job. Talk about never knowing what will happen next! I always kept a change of clothes in my car while I was teaching because I never knew when I was going to be splatter painted, thrown up on or hugged repeatedly by little ones with sticky hands.

As a doula I provide emotional support, loving touch and comfort to a woman in childbirth. It is the best of both worlds. Not only do I get to soothe and cheer for the mom, I am present for the miracle of birth. I’m useful, too. Having a doula present at birth tends to result in shorter labors, fewer complications and less requests by the mother for pain medications.

That’s why it puzzles me that Dr. Reynolds is rumored to be so against doulas and barely tolerates medical midwives. Gossip has it that he came to this post saying he wanted as few people as possible involved with his patients’ births and has so far discouraged clients from hiring the likes of me. Most doctors don’t pay much attention to who is there to support the mothers as long as they aren’t causing trouble. Reynolds, however, appears ready to campaign actively against my profession.

It’s no wonder I’m nervous. In such a state, Lissy’s warning did not help one bit.

He can’t do much about it if a mother requests a doula in her birth plan, but he certainly doesn’t encourage anyone to do so. A birth plan is devised by a mom and her husband to let their preferences for their labor and delivery be known in order to make it the experience they want. It’s not guaranteed to work out exactly as planned—babies choose to come when and where they want and come in very small and very large sizes, both of which may change the birth plan in a heartbeat. Still, it allows the people supporting the parents to know their ideal and to strive for it.

It also makes the new parents feel heard. I insist on having scrambled eggs when I eat breakfast in a café, not over easy, not poached. If I’m that careful to express my needs about something as simple as eggs, surely I should get some input on one of the most momentous days of my life.

My own grandmother thinks it’s ridiculous, but she’s of the “just wake me up when it’s over” school. To each her own.

His “bite is worse than his bark.” That doesn’t bode well for me or my dream of introducing an actual doula-and-parent-education program into Bradshaw General. Obviously his bark is plenty nasty unless one is under four years old. Then he’s putty in your hands.

“Is Dr. Reynolds here?” Brenda wondered impatiently. “I thought he would have been in to check on me by now.” Ever the professional, she had no doubt worked out a schedule of her own. I just hope she hasn’t made any appointments for tomorrow.

“He’s in the building.”

“Don’t you just love him?” she asked as another contraction subsided. “He is so adorable.”

“Adorable?” I’d never heard him described like that. Abhor-able, maybe, or just plain horrible. Never adorable.

“Actually, I’ve never worked with him before. Bradshaw General hasn’t seen as many doulas as some of the other hospitals.” Although Bradshaw is one of the smaller private hospitals in the city, it is also one of the best. “Usually Dr. Reynolds doesn’t recommend doulas to his patients.”

Brenda waved a dismissive hand. “That’s only because he’s so protective of us. He says he doesn’t want anyone around who might disrupt the labor and delivery. My friend Sheila had a baby here last month, and she couldn’t say enough good things about him. He’s a bit of a fanatic about it, but I told him that there’d be no labor and delivery at this hospital for me if I couldn’t have you, so he gave in.”

So that’s how I’d gotten here. It wouldn’t make me any more welcome in Dr. Reynolds’s eyes, I’m afraid. I might as well add to my business card

Molly Cassidy, Certified Doula,

Nuisance, Troublemaker and

Unwelcome Guest.

Oh, well, women have crossed picket lines, gone to the North Pole in dogsleds, climbed Mount Everest and flown into outer space. I can certainly attempt to convince Dr. Reynolds that he is mistaken not to welcome doulas. Of course, heroic things always come at a cost.

Feeling very much like Amelia Earhart leading the way for other women and well aware I might crash and burn for the sake of those who followed, I offered Brenda a massage and hoped this baby would be born so smoothly and quickly that Dr. Reynolds didn’t have time to notice me.

That was, of course, not to be.

At 2:00 p.m. Brenda’s husband, Grant, arrived from the airport. He’d taken the first plane he could catch from Madrid where he’d been shepherding a group of students from a local Spanish immersion school. He came in looking tired but excited.

“Did I make it?”

His wife gave him a don’t-you-ever-speak-to-me-again look and started her choo-choo-train imitation again.

“Just in time. Her contractions are coming close together.”

He flopped onto the chair. “We were scheduled to leave Madrid tomorrow but I was lucky to catch an early plane back.”

His wife was mumbling under her breath. I didn’t tell him that she was muttering things like “should have stayed in Spain” and “you’ll never touch me again.” That’s another wonderful thing about childbirth. It’s energetic, strenuous, exhausting, painful—and completely forgettable once you have a baby in your arms. He would be back in her good graces again when they heard that first beautiful cry.

Within moments of Brenda’s husband’s appearance and her wishing a plague upon his head—which many women seem to do in the last stages of birth—Dr. Reynolds arrived.

He entered so regally and with so much confidence that I almost stood up and saluted.

I’ve always thought a doctor in a tie and lab coat is attractive, and Dr. Reynolds is no exception. In fact, he may be the standard to which other docs should aspire. His tailored trousers were navy, his shirt white, crisply starched. His dark hair has a natural curl but was combed into submission except for a naughty cowlick at the crown of his head. His eyes are a deep, devastating blue and fringed with short black lashes. A charming smile, too. It’s no wonder women drive many miles to his office. The scenery alone is worth the trip.

Then my attention fell on his tie. I blinked twice, thinking my eyes were deceiving me. But no, there was actually a sea of little faces staring back at me.

Brenda noticed, too. “Your tie, it’s…full of babies.”

He glanced down at his chest. “My former nurse made it. She used to give me one for Christmas every year. It’s a collage of pictures of babies I’ve delivered. She had the photos transferred onto fabric.”

Aww… How can I be upset with a man who loves babies enough to wear a tie like that?

“I see things are progressing nicely.”

Brenda stared fixedly at the lollipop and panted heavily. “Nicely for who?” she muttered through gritted teeth. I turned away to hide the grin teasing the corners of my mouth.

Grant reached out to pat his wife’s hand. Her eyes widened. “Don’t touch me,” she snapped. “Only Molly touches me.” It wasn’t so much a statement as a snarl.

I winced as everyone’s attention turned to me. So much for staying in the background and not causing trouble.

Those blue eyes were suddenly cold as the polar ice cap.

“So this is the doula.” Dr. Reynolds’s voice was flat and hostile. He might as well have said, “So this is the virus you’ve been talking about.”

“Ms….” He waited for me to fill in the blank.

Our previous encounters hadn’t even registered with him. Maybe I can dislike a guy secure enough to wear babies on his tie.

“Cassidy, Molly Cassidy. How do you do, Dr. Reynolds. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.” He looked at me frostily. “Well, just as long as you stay out of the way.” Then he dismissed me completely despite the fact that Brenda was hanging on to my hand for dear life.

That went swimmingly, I thought, and turned back to Brenda, praying that not only would this birth be smooth and successful, but also that the chilly Dr. Reynolds wouldn’t toss me out on my ear.

“Why is this taking so long?” Brenda whined a half hour later. Everything seemed to have ground to a halt laborwise. “Doesn’t this child have any sense of time?”

“They usually don’t come out with a degree in time management,” Dr. Reynolds said calmly. “Or even a wristwatch.” He’d remained surprisingly close to the labor room, even staying to talk football with Grant and baby names with Brenda.

“Make something happen, will you?” Brenda, like many lawyers, was not accustomed to letting nature takes its course.

“It is happening,” Reynolds said with composure as he studied the printout from the fetal monitor. “Just more slowly than you’d like.” His unruffled presence spoke volumes. Even though he didn’t want me here, I felt better knowing that Brenda was in his hands. He is an approach/avoidance kind of guy—babies on his tie and fire in his eyes.

She cast her gaze around the room and it landed on me. “Then you do something, Molly.”

“I can read to you.”

Brenda’s expression grew peevish. “Sing.”

“You have got to be kidding!” her husband, Grant, bleated, but she stared him down.

Dr. Reynolds turned away and I could see the smirk on his otherwise gorgeous features.

“Show tunes.”

My mouth worked but nothing came out.

“Brenda,” I finally managed, “I don’t know any show tunes.”

“You’re a doula,” Dr. Reynolds interrupted. “I thought you do ‘anything’ for a client.”

“That’s not what I meant….”

They both stared at me. Brenda looked expectant; Reynolds, maddeningly amused.

If I did it, I’d make a fool of myself. If I didn’t, well, Brenda would be unhappy and Reynolds would have more fuel for the fire.

Never let it be said I don’t stand up to a challenge. Unfortunately I’ve never been one to actually memorize all the words to any song except for a couple, and they weren’t show tunes.

“‘The farmer in the dell, the farmer in the dell, hi-ho, the dairy-o…’”

Later, Lissy and I recapped the delivery.

“You mean he actually said that? ‘Stay out of the way?’ What did your client think of that?” Lissy slathered peanut butter onto a stack of buttery crackers and ate them one by one.

“She had a lot more to worry about than my feelings. She was the star of the show and performed heroically. Anyone who gives birth to a ten-pound, one-ounce baby boy rocks in my book.”

“Still, ‘Stay out of the way,’ just like that? What a—”

“Don’t say it,” I warned. “Just because Reynolds doesn’t like doulas, it doesn’t mean he isn’t a good doctor. Frankly, after watching him in action, I think he’s a great doctor. He has so much compassion for his patients that it practically oozes out of every pore. He was gentle, kind, patient, encouraging and supportive, all necessary things when a mother is giving birth to a baby the size of my bowling ball.”

“You’re defending him?”

“He didn’t kick me out of the hospital.”

“I’ve heard he’s campaigning with the hospital board to limit the number of people in a birthing room. Everyone reads that to mean that he doesn’t want birthing coaches or anyone but spouses or the very closest family involved.”

“Maybe I showed him that it can be a good thing.” I cleared my throat. “Unless he didn’t like my singing.”

“Your singing? I thought you were at a birth, not the opera.”

“It was totally embarrassing,” I admitted, “but Brenda heard me humming once and told me I had a pretty voice. I never dreamed she’d demand that I sing to her during delivery.”

“No kidding? You sang this baby into the world?”

“If I’d been that baby, I would have hung on to my mother’s rib cage and refused to come out after listening to me for five minutes. My repertoire is limited. My mind went blank, and all I could remember was the theme song from The Brady Bunch, ‘Farmer in the Dell,’ ‘Jesus Loves Me’ and ‘How Great Thou Art.’ Brenda enjoyed it, but Dr. Reynolds’s jaw was twitching by the fourth or fifth time through ‘and the mouse took the cheese.’” I shrugged. “But whatever a client wants, including distraction, she gets.”

“When I have a baby I want you to be my doula,” Lissy said. “And I want you to start learning words to new songs right away. I would not deliver a baby to the theme song from The Brady Bunch. Do something more contemporary, will you? Or show tunes like the soundtrack from Les Mis or Phantom.”

Lissy washed down her peanut butter crackers with milk from my refrigerator and started to dig in my cupboards for candy. She’s as comfortable here as she is in her own home. Lissy and I have known each other for years. We met in an exercise class and bonded because we were the only two that had actually come to exercise and not to meet men. She and I in our ponytails and sweats had stood out in a room full of beautiful women in Danskin with full face makeup and hairdos sprayed so as not to move even during tae bo. After class, while all the others mobbed the instructor, a hunky guy with protruding veins and bulging muscles, to ask questions and to get a closer look, Lissy and I went to the juice bar and drowned our sorrows in chocolate-banana smoothies. We’ve been friends ever since.

Lissy is a nurse at Bradford Medical Center and the one who actually told me what a doula was and suggested that I should become one.

“What do you think makes him that way?” I asked.

“Dr. Reynolds, you mean? I don’t know. It’s his particular hangup, I guess, the nobody-but-medical-people-present-during-birth thing. Too bad you’re on the opposing team. I guess he can be really nice when he wants to be.”

“Tell me about him.” I didn’t really care, but I didn’t want Lissy to go home, either.

Two months ago I broke up with a fellow I’d been dating from church. To be truthful, the relationship was more serious on his side than it was on mine, but I do miss his company. Nights are longer without him to talk to on the phone or drop by.

It was for the best. Hank Marcus has a plan for his life. It includes a wife, which could have been me had I said yes, and a fast track in his business. He’d begged me to marry him and come with him to Mississippi where his company is opening a new plant. That was a huge part of the problem. My life plan does not currently include marriage or Mississippi. Although I miss Hank, I’m not devastated without him, either. When I marry, it will have to be to a man I refuse to live without. And that, I’m learning, may take some time to find. The prospects are dim right now, but I’m so busy it doesn’t really matter.

“I don’t know much about him. No one does. He keeps to himself. He’s well respected in the medical community and when he speaks, people listen. The board is giddy with joy at having him here, of course. His patients love him and the nurses are scared of him because he is so meticulous and exacting. He spends almost no time in small talk with anyone. He leaves immediately after his work is complete and doesn’t ever tell anyone where he is going or what he is doing. I’ve heard he has a child, a little boy. He’s great with kids. I’ve seen him with the brothers and sisters of new babies. I’ve never heard anything about a wife, but who knows? He’s certainly not telling.”

“For not knowing anything about him, you seem to have quite a bit of information,” I observed. I dug into the bag of chocolate chips Lissy brought to the table.

“People talk, I listen.” Then she grew serious. “Listen, Molly, I really think that since you are the first doula ever to darken Dr. Reynolds’s doorstep, so to speak, you should tread very carefully if you want him to give you his stamp of approval. He’s got a lot of influence in this hospital.”

“How did he get so powerful, anyway?”

Lissy looked at me, shocked. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Bradshaw Medical Center. Dr. Everett Bradshaw?”

“Sure. He funded the hospital forty years ago. He was a relatively young man at the time. His picture is hanging in the front lobby where no one can miss it.”

“Exactly. Dr. Reynolds is Clay Bradshaw Reynolds. His grandfather funded this hospital. If it weren’t for the Bradshaw family, this facility wouldn’t exist. When he moved here to be on staff, the buzz was that when he spoke, everyone was to listen.”

My heart sank. He really could put the kibosh on my idea for a fledgling doula program at this hospital.

“He hasn’t been as demanding as everyone expected,” Lissy continued, “but he is fanatical about what happens to what he calls ‘his’ mothers. All I can say is, watch your step.”

His mothers? And all along I’d thought they were my mothers.

Chapter Two

“How’s my favorite Irish lassie?” Tony DeMatteo grinned at me and dangled a Snickers bar in front of my nose. “Want to share?”

“Of course I do, but only if you promise to quit calling me a lassie. I feel like you’re talking to a dog every time you say it.” I took a swipe at the candy bar, and he pulled it neatly away.

“That’s the last thing you are, Molly.” His dark brown eyes twinkled with warmth. “But a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

Tony is the only male nurse on the ob-gyn floor, a Shakespeare buff and an incorrigible romantic. Combine that with his unquenchable enthusiasm for living, passion for good food and lots of fun and Tony is virtually irresistible. All the single women in the hospital are, or have been at one time or another, madly in love with Tony. He has a knack of dating and breaking up with women and leaving them still loving him. He is a professional bachelor and masterful at it. At one end of the spectrum, Tony is the ultimate charmer. Dr. Reynolds, according to the hospital rumor mill, is the other. The men at Bradford Medical Center run the gamut.

I love Tony, too, but as a friend. I might have succumbed to his charms myself if I hadn’t watched him sweep woman after woman off her feet and then, after a few weeks or months, let her down gently. It was easier, I decided, to go directly to friendship with Tony. I’m glad I did. He might have been harder to resist than Hank had he decided to propose to me and move to Mississippi.

“I have Almond Joys in my locker,” he whispered seductively. “An entire unopened bag of miniatures. Want to go to the cafeteria with me and eat them with whole milk?”

“What are you trying to do, make me fat?” It’s a joke around the hospital that Tony can eat anything and not gain an ounce. That’s another reason I’ve avoided a romance with Tony. The women who date him usually gain ten to fifteen pounds during their relationship.

“Why don’t you ever fall subject to my charms?” he asked conversationally as we walked toward the lunch room.

“You’re a slippery slope, Tony. I just don’t get too close to the edge.”

He looked at me thoughtfully. “But you could be coaxed a little nearer, couldn’t you?”

I glared at him. “Don’t get any ideas in your head about romancing me, big guy. I’ve got your number. You love women and you love dating. You just hate committing.”

“Commitment. Such a problematic word.” He sounded put-upon just saying it.

We entered the cafeteria and picked out our lunch. Cottage cheese and a pear for me, three slices of pizza, a strawberry shake and a Dove bar for Tony. Oh yes, and several Almond Joys—with milk.

“I just haven’t found the right one yet, that’s all. Once I do…” He gazed thoughtfully toward the large aviary outside the cafeteria’s glassed windows. “‘Journeys end in lovers meeting, every wise man’s son doth know.’”

“What’s the Shakespeare stuff, anyway? Why do you always quote it?”

He grinned. “I figured out by the time I was fifteen that girls love romantic junk, poetry, flowers, candy. I could get ‘older’ women, the seventeen-and eighteen-year-olds, to date me with that stuff.”

It probably didn’t hurt that you looked like a young Adonis, either, I thought.

“The unexpected part was that, while I was researching good pickup lines, I discovered I liked it—Shakespeare, Byron, Keats, Shelly.” His eyes twinkled again. “Better yet, I found I couldn’t go wrong with those guys.”

“You are an incorrigible, totally irredeemable, unmitigated flirt.”

He leaned back to look at me and put his hands behind his head. The fabric of his white uniform stretched tight over a great set of pectorals. “I know. Ain’t it grand?”

Tony’s gaze flickered from me to something just over my shoulder. I turned to see what had attracted his attention.

It was what—or rather, who—was attracting everyone’s attention these days. Dr. Clay Reynolds.

“Have you worked with him yet?” I asked.

“He’s a perfectionist,” Tony said, “and a control freak during delivery.”

“I just had my first experience with him.”

“How’d it go?”

“I didn’t feel very welcome. It probably didn’t help that my client kept telling Dr. Reynolds that she wouldn’t have been able to get through the delivery without me. She didn’t exactly praise him for his part in it all. In fact, I think she included him with all the other men in the world who should be shot by a firing squad. You know how touchy these mothers get when they’re dilated to nine. The birth went well, though.”

“Maybe you’ll grow on him,” Tony said encouragingly. “You help with Lamaze classes here all the time, and the volunteer program at the free clinic would fall apart without you. He’ll get used to you.”

I could hardly disagree with Tony. He’s fought some uphill battles himself as a male nurse in the utterly feminine obstetrics ward. His competence and professionalism ultimately win people over. I had to do the same.

Of course I’m hopeful for a little more than that, like a good working relationship and a shot at starting an agency and clearing house for doulas right here at Bradshaw General.

It was late by the time I got home. My German shepherd, Hildy, was standing, legs crossed, by the front door dying to get out. We took a quick run through the streets of my neighborhood, a quiet little area that is slowly and inexorably being absorbed into the city. It is still, however, a quaint and quiet haven for me to retreat to and regroup after a long, intense labor with one of my moms.

I live life simply. Home, family, friends and faith are what is important to me. Someday I want a family of my own, but until that happens, I live vicariously through my clients bringing new life into the world. Oh, yes, and animals. I adore animals.

Hildegard, Hildy for short, led me on a circuitous route through the neighborhood to sniff at fire hydrants, shrubs and a popular squirrel hangout before bringing me back to my front door. I put out her dog food and fresh water and walked through the house to my bedroom.

Knowing I wasn’t alone in the house, I went looking for my other roommate. Geri usually hangs out in the sunroom when I’m not home. I found her there, looking out the window, dressed in her glitzy denim jacket studded with rhinestones.

“Bedtime, Geri.”

She moved away from me.

“Come on, Geri, don’t give me any trouble tonight. I’ll help you take your jacket off.” Feeling bone weary and ready for bed, I wasn’t ready for an argument. Geri is a bit of a night owl. “You aren’t going to a fashion show, you know.”

She grunted in protest and planted her hefty backside on a floor pillow as if to say, “Make me.”

“Let’s take off the jacket.”

Geri looked at me as if to say, “Who, moi?”

She can be so willful and obstinate sometimes—especially when I’m already exhausted. “Okay, you stubborn, vain, egotistical sow, I’ll teach you!” And I lunged for her thinking I could wrestle her to the ground, but Geri squealed and escaped like the proverbial greased pig. She ran into the bathroom and skidded into the side of the bathtub.

Geranium is never very good on tile. Her little hooves just can’t get a grip.

It’s not every woman who owns a pig—or wants to—but I’ve never considered myself an ordinary woman.

Geranium was, for a time, a preschool mascot at the private school at which I taught. When I announced my resignation, the staff and children voted that Geranium should come with me, a bit of tender pork by which to remember them. This was much to the relief of the administration, who had been wondering how to break it to the kids that Geri’s feed bill had been cut out of the budget.

Although my mother did become hysterical for a while upon learning her first grandchild was actually a potbelly pig, she’s come to appreciate Geranium. Pigs are very smart. Geranium is capable of similar reasoning and mischief making to that of a four-or five-year-old child. She needs me. Having been a kindergarten teacher, I’m able to stay one step ahead of her most of the time.

I wrestled her out of her little denim jean jacket with the industrial snaps on the arms. Geranium loves her jacket. She’s very vain and self-important for a pig.

Once she realized I wasn’t going to back down, she willingly let me unsnap the jacket, and trotted outside through the pet door that leads to her sandbox-size litter box and her bed. Geranium is small, which is fortunate for me. She weighs about sixty-five pounds and stands just over a foot tall and approximately two feet long. Pigs are very compact and have hard bodies, so Geri actually takes up very little space—not much more than a large footstool. She’s at least twenty pounds lighter than Hildy and has no tail to sweep everything off coffee tables. In truth, she’s a lot easier to handle than Hildy, who, when I enter the front door, sometimes jumps up and puts her paws on my shoulders to lick my face.

That was another thing about Hank that made me know we’d never work out as a couple. He thought pigs belonged in pigpens in the state of Iowa and nowhere else on the planet. He’s going to have a bad shock when he sees his first pig farm in Mississippi.

He also bought into all the clichés and fallacious stigmas about pigs, and wouldn’t be convinced that the term “dirty as a pig” is pure falsehood. Pigs are very clean animals if not forced to live in untended stys. In fact, even under those conditions, a pig will use only one corner of the pigpen as a toilet. It’s where they’re forced to live, not the pigs themselves, that is to blame for the phrase “stink like a pig.”

Pigs have no odor. I tried to make Hank smell Geranium once to find that out for himself, but he refused. Yet another chink in our relationship.

The other public relations problem pigs have is that they like to roll in the mud. They don’t like being warm and can actually get sunburned if they’re exposed too much. Therefore they roll in the mud to cool off and keep the sun off their skin. Does anyone criticize a woman for using sunblock? I think not.

The telephone rang just as Hildy and I were settling in for the night. It was Mandie, a young single mother whose parents had just hired me to be her doula. She was crying.

“Molly?”

“What is it, honey?”

“I’m so scared. I went to the doctor today, and he says that I could give birth any time now. I don’t want to give birth, Molly.” She hiccuped tearfully. “I want it to stop!”

It’s a little late for that now. Tactfully I didn’t point that out.

“Things are going to be fine,” I assured her. “You’re a healthy young woman. You have a wonderful doctor to care for you, and I’m here for you, too.”

“I’m not a woman, I’m just a kid!”

Truer words were never spoken. Babies having babies. I see far too much of it and it breaks my heart. But it’s not my place to judge. I’m called to be salt and light to these girls, Jesus embodied in me.

“How do you feel?” I asked. “Are you having pain?”

“No. I just keep thinking…”

“How about if I talk you through some deep-breathing exercises? It might be time to give your brain a rest.”

I stayed on the line until Mandie was calmer and ready to sleep.

Hildy snuffled wetly and shifted so that her legs were rigid, managing to take up two-thirds of the mattress. I could hear Geranium rooting around in her pen for nonexistent truffles and the tick of my grandparents’ old clock in the living room. All was right with the world.

The telephone rang at 8:00 a.m. I tried to ignore it and let my answering machine pick up, but then I remembered Mandie. She might be in labor.

“Hullo?” I snuffled into the phone, my voice scratchy from disuse.

“Wake up, sleepyhead! It’s play day!” Lissy sounded annoyingly chipper.

Saturdays are always play days for Lissy. She tries to pack an entire week’s worth of fun into eight or ten hours and always wants company doing it—me.

“I might have a baby coming today.”

“Then we should go soon so we can get a few hours in before you have to be at work.”

“I need to do laundry,” I reminded her. “I’ve had a busy week.”

“Nonsense. We’ll just buy you new clothes. If you can’t go two or three weeks without washing, you’re definitely short.”

“I thought we were going to a museum one day.”

“Fine, be cerebral and dull. How about the Science Museum? That’s my speed. They’ve got lots of dinosaurs.”

“Do we need to borrow a child to go there?”

“Nah. We’ll just pretend ours are already there, running around. That place is always stuffed with kids. You shop with me, I’ll go to the museum with you. Deal?”

Why fight it? Lissy is a lot like Geranium and Hildy. It rarely pays to argue with hardheaded females.

Chapter Three

Of course Lissy had her way and I didn’t. We went shopping.

Lissy pulled a navy-blue suit off the rack and waved it under my nose. “How about this? This would be great for church and it would subdue that red hair of yours.”

“Why on earth would I want to do that?” I held up a broomstick skirt in all the colors of the rainbow. “What do you think of this?”

“It’s a bad accident in the crayon factory. Too many colors.”

I held it up and looked at myself in the mirror. My red hair was fighting against the bond of the braid I’d woven, and so a wild cloud of rusty red framed my face. The bright teal shirt I wore accented the giddy colors in the skirt.

“If that skirt could talk, it would say—” Lissy covered her ears “—too loud, turn down the volume!”

That helped me to make up my mind. I handed it to a hovering clerk. “I’ll take it.”

“She’s a free spirit,” Lissy muttered grimly, as if in apology for my fashion blunder. “I’ve been trying to tame her but it is like domesticating the wind.”

“I think it’s lovely,” the clerk assured me. “Distinctive.”

“See?” I hissed when the woman moved away. “Distinctive. Like me.”

“I can’t shop with you any longer,” Lissy announced. “I’m having a color overload. Let’s get something to eat.”

That was fine with me. I’d rather eat than shop any day.

After we ordered lunch, Lissy sat back into the padded booth and studied me.

“How’s The Project going?”

The Project. My big idea, my dream.

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that as a kindergarten teacher I used to like things orderly in my classroom. Everything had a place and that’s where we kept it. Although I actually thrive in chaos at home—my arty side coming out, I suppose—I was very different at school, the only teacher at school who had a Rolodex and a tickle file to remind me of upcoming events. Things make sense to me when they’re organized into groups. Snow pants go in closets, blocks go with blocks and crayons go into the crayon bins.

And doulas, I think, would fit nicely into an agency where they are available and easy to find. When patients start asking questions about birthing assistants or coaches, I believe a doctor should be able to hand them a business card with the name of my big idea—Birthing Buddies—as I fondly refer to it, and allow women to research dozens of doulas before they pick the one best suited for them.

My biggest hurdle and one of the most important parts of the dream is to be an independent agency that has office space and headquarters within the facility. Just being under the Bradshaw Medical roof would be an amazing way to let people know we exist. They rent space to the people with coffee and snack carts on the main floor. Why not me?

Why they should oppose it, I can’t imagine. Labors are shorter by twenty-five percent, and the use of C-sections, epidurals, forceps and medication drop significantly when doulas are involved. We also help the bonding process between mother and baby. When a laboring mother has someone mothering her, things simply go more smoothly.

“It’s going to be an uphill climb. Worse, now that Dr. Reynolds is at the hospital. I suspect he will be opposed to a doula program, especially one offered in conjunction with the birthing classes with which I’m involved.”

“Why Bradshaw General? Why not an independent office somewhere?”

“Because a gift was left to the hospital for the express benefit of encouraging them to enhance a doula and midwife program.”

“I heard something about that. Why? What happened?”

“Some wealthy grandparents watched their daughter breeze through her labor and delivery and credited it all to her doula.”

“And that would be you?” Lissy asked suspiciously. “Why didn’t you tell me until now? That’s a huge affirmation to doulas everywhere.”

“I was just doing my job. Apparently the woman had been very difficult prior to hiring me, that’s all.”

“You do much more than that,” Lissy said. “I’ve had patients tell me that if they could have one person with them through labor and delivery, they’d pick their doula over their spouses, even over the doctor.”

She eyed me thoughtfully. “So that buzz about the hospital getting some sort of gift was because of you. Impressive.”

“It’s not that big a deal.” There’s been more than one time in my life—and less stressful ones than giving birth—that I would have liked someone to watch over me, give me ice chips, rub my back and turn up the aromatherapy. “A doctor I met at another hospital while his own wife was giving birth encouraged me to pursue it. Dr. Chase Andrews seemed to think it would work.”

“Then why don’t you go to his hospital and ask if you can coordinate Doula Central there?”

“Bradshaw is the hospital that received the money. I’d like to see it here. It’s a five-minute drive from my house. I help Tony with classes here at Bradshaw and—” I hung my head, ashamed to admit I’d been snooping in the nooks and crannies of the hospital “—they have a couple of unused rooms right now. It would be easy to have something up and running there in no time.”

“Bradshaw is a pretty staid private hospital,” Lissy pointed out. “But it seems that agreeing to spend money already specified for a doula program wouldn’t be that difficult. What is standing in your way now?”

“The new wrinkle is Dr. Clay Reynolds. Everyone defers to him, and I know he’s opposed. He steamrolled right over me and my client. His form of medicine is ‘my way or the highway.’ There’s no way he’ll encourage this.”

“Just the kind of guy that bothers you most.” Lissy looked concerned. “Don’t stir up any trouble, Molly. People love you and you have a great reputation, but if Bradshaw has to choose between you and their new golden-boy doctor, you know they won’t choose you.”

I know that all too well. It’s just that I care so much about seeing this happen and I believe so completely in what doulas do. We make a difference.

“I’ve already spent way too much time trying to figure out what Clay Reynolds’s problem is. It’s getting boring.”

“Yeah. What’s not to like about birthing coaches? You’d think he’d like the idea of having someone in the room calming nervous mothers before they give birth. You’ll just have to prove to him how indispensable you are.”

“I’m as ‘indispensable’ as tissue paper as far as Reynolds is concerned. It’s written all over his face.”

“His very handsome face,” Lissy corrected.

“When he looks at me it’s as if he smells bad cheese or sour milk.”

“Don’t you think you’re exaggerating just a little?”

I thought about my encounter with Dr. Reynolds on my way out of the hospital after Brenda’s delivery. I was carrying my inflated exercise ball and CD player, equipment I use for my clients during labor. If I’d had a dirty pitchfork over my shoulder and the fragrance of eau de cow barn as my perfume, he wouldn’t have looked any more distressed to see me. Surely my Birkenstocks hadn’t been what pushed him over the edge.

“Don’t worry. He’ll loosen up.”

“I’m not so sure. He’s a throwback to the 1950s, as far as I’m concerned.”

“What a shame. He’s probably one of the best-looking men I’ve ever met.” Then Lissy shrugged her shoulders and held out her hands, palms up. “But pretty is as pretty does, and this whole thing doesn’t look all that attractive.”

My cell phone rang and Lissy groaned. “Don’t tell me our shopping trip is over.”

I flipped open the phone. “Hello….”

“Hey, beautiful. Did you forget our date?”

“Tony? What are you talking about…?” I glanced at my wristwatch. “I’m sorry, I completely forgot. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“I’ll hold the fort, but they will be wanting you.”

I closed my phone. “Sorry, Lissy, I have to go. Tony’s waiting for me at the free clinic. We volunteered to do a class for expectant moms today. I can’t believe I forgot.”

“It was that dumb skirt you bought,” I heard Lissy mumble behind me. “All those colors made you go insane.”

The free clinic is not much to look at but it serves the purpose. Built in the seventies, the rooms are small and sterile-looking with ugly tan-and-brown tile and white cinderblock walls. Still, it’s clean, and the volunteers have hung brightly colored pictures on all the walls. In the pediatric area, there are bright, childlike drawings everywhere. The room in which Tony and I do our Lamaze classes has posters of babies in utero, showing the amazing growth from a few cells to a fully formed infant.

Tony had already set up the room for class and was standing, legs spread, knees locked and arms crossed over his chest, with his back to the room, staring out the window onto the street. He dipped his head in recognition as I moved to stand beside him but he didn’t turn to look at me.

“You believe in God, right, Molly?”

“Of course. So do you.”

Tony is from a large, boisterous family with a strong background of faith. That is one of the things that I enjoy most about him, his openness to conversation about faith. “Why would you ask?”

“Do you doubt Him sometimes?”

I took a sip from the cup of muddy coffee I’d poured upon entering. “I’m human, if that’s what you mean. Sure I doubt…and question…and wonder…but I always come to the same conclusion.”

“And that is?”

“That He’s up there and I’m down here and He knows best.”

“Yeah, that’s what I think, too, but…”

“Did something happen to put you in this mood?”

“My older sister called this morning. She and her husband have been trying to get pregnant for nearly five years and they’ve finally decided to pursue adoption.” His gaze locked on a boarded-up store-front across the street. “Why do some families get to experience a pregnancy and bring home a baby and others don’t?”

“You know the scientific answers better than I do.”

He looked at me despairingly.

“‘Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but when dreams come true, there is life and joy,’” I murmured. “Proverbs 13:12.”

“My sister and her husband are heartsick right now, that’s for sure.”

It’s easy to move from optimistic and expectant to despondent and give up hope when we don’t get what we want. I have traveled that path plenty and I’ve only figured out one solution.

“I like to remind myself that hope is deferred. It’s delayed, not canceled or destroyed.”

“So you think that just because you don’t get something right away, that doesn’t mean you will never get it?”

“I may not get it in the form I expected, but I have to trust I’ll get something better.”

“When does ‘life and joy’ come, then?”

“The Old Testament saints waited a long time for Christ to come. That’s what that verse talks about.”

“My sister hasn’t got that long.”

“Sometimes God gives us something even better than what we think we want.”

Tony looked irritated. “What’s better than a baby?”

“You’ve got me there.” I put my hand on his arm. “I don’t know the answers, Tony. I doubt I even know the questions. Sometimes I just have to trust that things will work out. That’s what God asks of us, after all.”

I recalled a verse from Luke that I’d learned in Sunday School. “‘Don’t be afraid, little flock. For it gives your Father great happiness to give you the kingdom.’”

“I just wish He’d hurry up. My sister is going nuts.”

“I can’t do anything else but I can pray,” I offered. “That’s one thing I’ve had a lot of practice at.”

A smile broke through, and the sparkle came back into his eyes. “You’re something else, Molly. I’m crazy about you.” He wrapped his arms around my waist and swung me in a big circle. “If I ever were to settle down, it would be with someone like you.”

That statement didn’t even make me think twice. Tony will never be ready to settle down. He’ll be flirting his way through the nursing home, making every woman there, no matter her age, wish they had a Tony in their life.

Chapter Four

“Now tell me exactly what a doula does.”

Emily Hancock, a painfully well-dressed, worried-looking creature stared at me intently, as if I were planning to extract a wisdom tooth, not aid her in guiding a new child into the world. We sat in the highly polished stainless-steel kitchen of her three-story Tudor, looking out over gardens and grass manicured within an inch of its life.

“I know very little about this. Midwives, I’m familiar with, but doulas… They’re new, aren’t they?”

New? As in something developed recently to maintain new technology such as the latest generation of cell phones or MP3 players? Hardly. “A doula is actually a very old concept.

“Doula is a Greek word meaning a woman who serves other women.” I tried to smile encouragingly at the nervous woman. “We use massage, aromatherapy, positioning and reflexology to make our clients comfortable during birth.”

“I had no idea,” Emily murmured approvingly.

“A doula’s function is to be there for a mother in labor in any way she can, from ice chips to foot rubs, reading aloud to singing lullabies. During labor, your wish is my command.”

“Nothing medical?”

I held up a hand as if to ward off a bad idea. “I always defer to medical personnel. I know how to stay out of the way when necessary. Women have even hired me to be in charge of their husbands so that they won’t have to worry about them fainting during labor.”

“There’s no worry about that with my husband,” she said wistfully. “He won’t faint. If he’s even there, that is. He’s taking part in a mission trip to Guatemala about the time the baby is to be born. The trip has been in the works much longer than the baby, and he’s been instrumental in the planning, so he’s hoping to go and still get back in time for the birth.”

Finally her shell cracked and tears sprang into her eyes. “What made me think it would be a good idea to have a baby when I’m well over forty? I should have known better.”

“You aren’t the first forty-year-old mother and you won’t be the last. You are in wonderful shape, healthy and you’ve had an easy pregnancy so far. My mother had her last child at forty-two and she’s absolutely fantastic. She took up golf last summer.”

“Really?” Emily looked hopeful.

“I’m from a family of nine. My mother had a baby every two years for eighteen years. Her ‘caboose’ baby was born at forty-two.” Poor little Kevin, I thought. Mother, when she called him the little caboose on a very long train, had never meant for the name to stick. At twenty, his nickname is still “Caboose.” I know very few people outside our family who actually realize his name is Kevin. His girlfriend calls him Coby so maybe the next generation will eventually forget the nickname.

“Nine? Imagine.” Emily appeared unable to grasp the concept.

“We did come one at a time, and we were small to begin with. Fortunately, my dad said that our house was made of rubber and that the walls could stretch to accommodate any number of children. Somehow he was right.”

“No wonder you are in this business. You love children, don’t you?”

“I do. I taught both preschool and kindergarten before becoming a doula. I can’t get away from people under six years of age—or their mothers.”

Emily looked at me thoughtfully. “Frankly, when I asked you here today to interview you, I really didn’t plan to hire you. It was more to salve my curiosity, to leave ‘no stone unturned’ concerning my pregnancy. My doctor didn’t recommend having a doula. In fact, he discouraged it rather vehemently.”

I felt a knowing chill run through me.

“But I’ve changed my mind. I like you, Molly, and I like what you say a doula is and does.” She gave a small, wry laugh. “And at my age, I need all the help I can get.”

I drained my teacup before speaking. “Your physician wouldn’t happen to be Dr. Clay Reynolds at Bradshaw Medical Center, would he?”

Emily looked surprised. “Yes, it is. How did you know?”

“I didn’t. I just know that he’s not a fan of having doulas—or anyone but medical personnel—around during a delivery. Lucky guess.” Or very unlucky.

“He’s a wonderful doctor,” Emily said. “So compassionate and thorough. I know he is a bit old-fashioned when it comes to his mothers, but he’d do anything in his power to protect a woman or a child. A lot of women trust him implicitly.”

There it was again, his mothers. I’m not sure I like anyone as proprietary about mothers as he is. Until he came along, they were mine, all mine.

“I had high hopes for Bradshaw,” I admitted, “but now I think I’ll have to turn my sights elsewhere.”

Emily stood up to refill my teacup. Her body profile was slender but for the “baby bump” around her middle. She wore a black sleeveless knit top, trim khaki pants, casually expensive black heels and diamonds that would make the queen wince. She could have been taken for twenty-five instead of forty. “What do you mean?”

“Never mind, I shouldn’t have said anything. Just a pipe dream.”

“It’s too late now. You’ve already started.” She also refilled the plate of tender date cookies and rich macaroons.

“I have this vision,” I admitted reluctantly, “of creating an agency through which mothers and doulas can connect. Somewhere an expectant mother can go to discover if a doula is right for her. Currently moms are referred to us by health nurses, nurse practitioners, doctors or by word of mouth from friends who’ve used a doula. Some doulas have formed small group associations in order to promote their practices, but I envision something more.”

I was on a roll now, excited, like I am every time I think of what I’d like to have happen. “I want everyone to know what a doula is and how to hire one. I’d like to create an agency that not only has a roster of doulas but also educational programs and support groups about all things concerning mother and baby.”

“It sounds like a wonderful idea. Why would you give that up?” Emily sat down, kicked off one shoe and tucked her foot beneath her leg.

“I’m not giving it up entirely, but I may have to give up on creating it at Bradshaw Medical Center. I’d love to start the program through a hospital. Because of Bradshaw’s size, it would be a good place to begin a pilot program. They already have a free clinic in one of the more depressed neighbor-hoods so it would be a simple matter to add an agency like this. But now that Dr. Reynolds is head of the obstetrics department…”

Emily had an odd expression on her face as she patted my hand. “Don’t worry about the hospital or Dr. Reynolds right now, my dear. That can be worked out. You did, after all, sell me on the value of a doula.”

For no good reason that I could discern, Emily’s words comforted me greatly.

After I left the Hancock home, I drove my red Volkswagen convertible to the Yarn Shack to buy what was, for me, almost better than chocolate or sleeping in late—baby yarn.

“Back already?” Matilda, a robust woman in her sixties, said when she saw me enter. “You knit faster than anyone else I know.”

“Not really. I just buy yarn faster than anyone else you know.” I headed straight for the soft pinks, blues, yellows and greens. “I want enough to knit a couple of baby hats.”

“I’ve got something you’ll like even better.” Matilda dug beneath the counter and came up with a pattern book. “New hats. Look.”

She opened the book to reveal a massively colorful jester’s hat with six points and silver bells on the tip of each point. There was also a knitted stovepipe hat reinforced with a cardboard liner that looked like something the Mad Hatter might wear, and an alligator hat with its jaws open at the back of the wearer’s head. “Anyone you know need a new hat?”

My weakness is hats, the louder and more garish the better. I make them for everyone I know. What’s more, I insist they wear them. Poor Caboose, er, Kevin. Because he was the youngest, he got more of my hats than my other siblings. The boy wore my knitted hats in the shapes of animals or vegetables until junior high when I made him a hat that tied beneath his chin and had an elephant face and trunk on the back.

I gave up pressing him about it when he said he’d fear for his life in the boys’ dressing room if he wore the hat to school. I gave it to my oldest brother, Mike’s, son. He was three at the time and had less violent friends.

Crazy hats strike me as funny and lift my spirits. If everyone in the world wore a zany hat, we wouldn’t take ourselves so seriously and news programs and political debates on television would be much more fun.

After purchasing the pattern book and yarn I needed, I drove toward Bradshaw Medical to meet Lissy and Tony and for lunch.

Everything about Bradshaw Medical is picturesque. The hospital sits on top of an undulating hill with a gradual slope. It was built by Everett Bradshaw in the sixties. Bradshaw had made his wealth early as a reconstructive cosmetic surgeon, and rumor has it that he’d felt compelled to “give back” to the community. Not a big hospital in size but very impressive in reputation, the facility has long since been a place where very public personalities go for treatment away from prying eyes. It had also been at Everett Bradshaw’s suggestion that the free clinic had come into being. Other than Everett’s grumpy grandson, a lot of good things are happening at Bradshaw Medical.

And not only that, they have a great cafeteria.

Lissy and Tony were already waiting for me.

“Where’s your nurse’s uniform?” I asked as I joined Lissy at a small round table.

“I’m already off for the day. I came in early to cover for someone. I changed out of my uniform so I’d be ready to rumble when you got here.”

“I’m hardly in a ‘rumbling’ mood. I have chores to do at home.”

“I know, I know, feed the livestock, slop the hogs…”

“I do not give Geranium ‘slop’ as you so crassly call it!”

“…paint a picture, knit a hat, live a horribly boring life….”

“Molly’s not boring. She’s the least boring person I know.” Tony, looking dashing in pure white, leered at me. “Beautiful, too.”

He put a tray on the table and began to unload it. “I though I’d get my food right away.”

“Turkey sandwich, potato chips, chili, nachos and cheese, French silk pie and ice cream? Tony, there’s enough food there to feed my entire family!” And that’s saying a lot.

He put his hands protectively over the pie. “It’s barely enough to keep me alive. Get your own.”

Lissy eyed his trim waist and washboard abs beneath his shirt. “Life is not fair. I’m going to gain weight just sitting at the same table with all that food.”

Tony dragged a big chip through the warm orange cheese and popped it into his mouth. “Mmm. Fresh chips. You’ll have to get some.”

Shaking our heads, Lissy and I went through the cafeteria line and each picked up a salad and, as a wildly extravagant gesture, decided to split a piece of fresh strawberry pie.

When we returned to the table, Tony shook his head sorrowfully.

“We can’t help it if our metabolisms can’t keep up with yours,” Lissy said as he stared at the food on our plates.

“‘My salad days, when I was green in judgment.’”

Lissy and I stared at Tony.

“That’s what Cleopatra says at the end of Act One of Anthony and Cleopatra,” Tony informed us.

“You mean she was on a diet, too? I hope she didn’t get as sick of lettuce as I have.” Lissy stared down at her plate. “It’s been going on a long time, then. Dieting, I mean.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “‘Salad days’ doesn’t mean she’s on a diet. Cleopatra regretted her youthful inexperience and indiscretions. She meant that when she was young she was, like, well, green.” He looked at Lissy’s confused expression. “You know, like the tender shoots in spring—new.”

“Young and dumb,” I provided.

“What does this have to do with anything?” Lissy demanded.

“Nothing,” Tony said. “I looked at the salad on your plate and thought of Shakespeare, that’s all.”

“If there’s a woman out there for you, she’s going to be a strange one, Tony. If my salad reminds you of Shakespeare, what does my—” Lissy picked up a piece of cutlery “—my fork make you think of?”

Tony opened his mouth but I shut it for him with my finger. “Stop right there. I’m not up to a Shakespeare discussion right now.”

Then I turned to Lissy. “Don’t encourage him.”

“Tony, you’re too bright and too handsome for your own good,” Lissy pointed out. “You’re going to have a hard time meeting your match.”

He shuttered his eyes to half-mast and looked at me. “I’ve already met her. She just won’t have anything to do with me. Right, Molly?”

Lissy mimed sticking her finger down her throat and gagging at that.

I quickly changed the subject. “Are either of you going to volunteer at the free clinic this month? The new schedule comes out soon.”

“I can’t. I’m scheduled to work most of the days the clinic is open.”

“Me, too,” Tony said. “But I’m planning to be with you the nights we teach Lamaze classes.”

“I said I’d fill in at the reception desk when I can, although it won’t be enough,” I said. “The clinic is growing by leaps and bounds.”

“It seems odd to me that a medical facility like Bradshaw opened a free branch,” Lissy commented as she ate most of the strawberries off our slice of pie.

“The people they treat have to be low income and have no medical insurance,” Tony pointed out. “These people might not even seek medical help otherwise.”

“Whoever thought up that idea was very forward thinking,” Lissy commented.

Everett Bradshaw, I thought. It was odd how cutting-edge he’d been—and how his grandson was now retreating to the “old” forties ways.

“Want to go sailing with us this afternoon?” Tony asked. “The weather is perfect for it.”

Tony, among his other manly, girl-attracting attributes, owns a sailboat. I don’t think he’s a very good sailor, but he loves to see his dates in bathing suits. That’s his best and only reason for keeping the boat. He prefers a snowmobile. Unfortunately his dates then have to dress up in snowsuits so fluffy they look like the Michelin Man.

“I can’t. Hildy and I have an appointment today at three. We’re visiting the nursing home. I have to run home to get her after I eat and bring her back.”

“You’re no fun.” Lissy pouted. “Dates with dogs, knitting weird hats, rubbing pregnant ladies’ backs… You’ve got to get some new hobbies.”

Tony’s eyelids drooped seductively, and he put his hand over mine as it lay on the table. “How about me? I’ve been told I’m entertaining.”

“You certainly are, but I don’t have enough time for a high-maintenance hobby like you.”

“You need romance in your life, Molly. I could provide it.”

He looked so hopeful that I had to let him down easy—again. I disengaged my hand, put it on his cheek and stared into his eyes. “Listen to me, Tony. I refuse to ruin a good friendship by dating you. Sooner or later you’ll have to quit asking me.”

He cradled my hand in both of his. “I choose later. I’m not a quitter and I’m not ready to give up yet.”

“I’ll go out with you as a friend anytime, you know that.”

“Small comfort,” he retorted cheerfully. “Do you want a bite of my pie?”

Dates with Tony, I’ll refuse. Pie? No way. I opened my mouth and he popped a bite of the French silk, the prime piece—the little tip at the end—into my mouth.

Just then a tray clattered onto the table next to us with more force than usual. I looked over to see Dr. Clay Reynolds throw himself onto a chair and scowl at the food before him. What was the chip on this man’s shoulder?

He bent forward, hovering over his tray and yet not seeming to see it. His gaze was fixed inwardly, seeing something invisible to the rest of us. What was he seeing? Who or what was he remembering?

We finished up quickly and, with a nod to Dr. Reynolds, scurried out of the cafeteria.

“I’ve seen grizzly bears protecting their cubs that look more cheerful than Dr. Reynolds did just now,” Lissy commented.

We both looked to Tony, who, because of his many connections, always knew all the hospital gossip.

“He blew up during a delivery today. Apparently a nurse hadn’t called him until the baby was almost here. He was furious. He’s the only doctor I know who prefers to be called off a golf course early to be with a woman in labor.”

“Is she in big trouble? He’s got a lot of influence around here,” I whispered, acrobats in my stomach doing handstands and flip-flops.

“Who knows? He kept it together until the baby was born, but several people heard him chastising her later. He’s got a lot of influence around here. She’s a good nurse. Too bad she crossed him.”

That dream about having a doula program at Bradshaw? Like a helium balloon released into the atmosphere, it drifted higher and farther away with each passing moment.

Chapter Five

“Come on, Hildy, time to go!”

Hildegard opened her eyes but didn’t lift her head from her paws. She gave me a cold, disinterested glare from her new doggie bed. Ever since I’d brought it home, the cedar chips still fresh and fragrant inside, Hildy had refused to budge. Even Geranium rooting in her dog dish had not prompted her to rise. That usually started a pig-dog skirmish worthy of the evening news.

I went for the big guns. I reached into the closet and pulled out a scrap of red fabric with writing on it and dangled Hildy’s therapy-dog identification cape in front of her nose. She sighed, one of those deep, heartfelt, comes-from-the-gut sighs, that told me this was the most difficult decision of her life.

Bed or nursing home? Bed or nursing home? Which will it be? I could practically hear the struggle in her thoughts. Still, all the creature comforts in the world couldn’t keep her from the job she loves. Finally she rose and trotted to me to put on the uniform that displayed her official designation as a therapy dog.

“Come on, sweetheart, we don’t want to be late. Mrs. Olson will be waiting for you with doggie treats burning a hole in her pocket.”

River’s View Estates is only minutes away from Bradshaw Medical Center and overlooks the Minnesota River. Mrs. Mattie B. Olson had been new to River’s View when Hildy and I first came to visit the residents three years ago. They’d forged a bond that had helped the elderly woman “over the hump,” as it were, of loneliness and homesickness, while she adjusted to her new place. They’ve been friends ever since. When Hildy sees Mrs. Olson, she trots to her and lays her furry head in the old woman’s lap. She will stay that way indefinitely as Mrs. Olson strokes the soft silky top of Hildy’s head.

Some of the people at River’s View do not have family nearby so affectionate hugging or touching of another living being rarely occurs. The tactile experience of petting a dog provides immeasurable pleasure and connection. I should know. Hildy comforted me many times after I broke up with Hank. Frankly, as time passes and my vision clears, I see how mismatched Hank and I were. It’s apparent to me now that whoever I marry will have to share all my passions—including my life as a doula. If I can’t find that, other than for an occasional whiff of sour doggie breath, Hildy is a mighty fine companion.

“Hello, darling,” Mrs. Olson said. Only then did she look up at me. “And hello to you, too, Molly.”

“How’s your cold?”

“Much better, thank you.” She peered at me, a pretty lady, even at this age. She must have been stunning as a young woman. Her intelligent deep blue eyes were sharp and clear. “You look tired. Have you been up all night delivering babies?”

“I don’t deliver them,” I reminded her. “I just cheer them on as they come into the world.”

“When I had my children, I was alone except for the doctor. My husband, poor soul, didn’t have much of a stomach for medical things. He passed out on the floor on the other side of the door every time I gave birth. Once he hit his head on the corner of a table and got a concussion. We always joked that that was the most difficult birth I ever had—I ended up caring for both him and an infant. I could have used you back then.”

“How many children do you have?”

“Four. All doctors, if you can believe it. There are several generations of them. We tease each other about being related to Luke of the gospel. He was a physician, too, you know. A family tradition, I guess, including several pediatricians. The men in my family are all good with children. Most of my family is in the medical profession. My husband was an accountant, however, and the closest he came to the medical field was doing my siblings’ taxes.”

She patted Hildy on the head. “As much as I love talking with the two of you, I think you should visit room 209 today. There’s a gentlemen who recently moved in, and I think he’s feeling rather blue.”

I bent down to give Mattie a hug. “You’re always taking care of someone, aren’t you?”

“Like I said, I’m from a family of healers and nurturers.” She held tightly to my hand. Even in her late eighties, she was still strong. “Besides, you nurture me. You have no idea how much I enjoy your visits.”

“We’ll be back.” Of all the people we visit at River’s View, Mattie is my favorite. If we’d been contemporaries, I believe we would have been best friends.

“We’ll stop to see you again before we leave,” I assured her.

As we walked away, Hildy looked back longingly at her friend.

The gentleman in 209 was, indeed, lonesome, but after a long chat about dogs from his past, he was considerably cheered. It didn’t hurt that Hildy gently licked his hand as we were about to leave.

It was nearly six o’clock by the time we’d made our rounds, visited again with Mrs. Olson and found our way back to the nurses’ station near the front door. I was surprised to see a familiar masculine figure bending over the desk, reading a chart. What was Dr. Reynolds doing here, the place that represented the other end of life’s spectrum from the delivery room?

He glanced up, saw me and did a double take. He must have thought the same thing about me.

“What are you doing here? And what’s that?” He pointed to Hildy.

“We work here, thank you very much. This is my dog, Hildegard, and she’s a therapy dog. We hang out at River’s View quite a bit. The better question is this—what are you doing here? Surely not delivering babies?”

A faint smile quirked his lips and hinted at what it might be like to see the man actually smile. Dazzling, I surmised.

“I have friends, too, you know. Maybe I’m visiting someone.”

“You just moved here.”

“Perhaps I bond quickly with people.”

I’d opened my mouth to tell him that that was as unlikely as snow in August before I realized he was actually teasing me.

I, who can babble like a brook, suddenly couldn’t think of anything to say. The man’s presence was intimidating, not only because he had influence over my welcome at Bradshaw, but because he gave off an impressive aura—solid, impenetrable and capable of harboring secrets like Fort Knox shelters gold. I shuffled a little and Hildy looked at me inquiringly. “I guess we’d better get going. Nice to see you, Dr. Reynolds.”

He nodded curtly and returned to reading the chart, as if Hildy and I no longer existed.

We were almost home before I realized that I still didn’t know why Dr. Reynolds had been at the nursing home. It was curious, really. He’d just moved to the Cities, after all. How many people could he know here? He really was a man of mystery. Too bad he was also in the role of dream squasher for me. Otherwise I might have been intrigued, very intrigued.

When we got home, Lissy, Geranium and Tony were watching television in my living room. There were empty tortilla chip bags, soda cans, a carton of guacamole and a nearly depleted bag of red licorice twists on my coffee table. Geranium had her nose in one of the bags of chips, and Tony was eating a bowl of ice cream smothered in butter-scotch topping and walnuts.

Hildy trotted immediately to the table to see what she could lick clean. Geranium gave a squeal of protest when the dog nosed her out of the way but toddled off when Hildy wouldn’t back down.

“I leave this house for a couple hours and it’s vandalized. I’m going to have to move to a better neighborhood.”

“That’s the thanks we get for keeping Geri company?” Tony looked genuinely hurt, as if his eating all the groceries I’d purchased yesterday were no big deal.

“Oh, sorry. Thank you. I think.”

“You’re most welcome.”

“His date stood him up,” Lissy said, her eyes never moving from the television screen where some wannabe singer was auditioning for a panel of judges.

“She had appendicitis,” Tony corrected. “That’s not exactly being ‘stood up.’”

“Why aren’t you at her bedside making points and ensuring your place in history as the world’s most romantic male nurse?”

“That would be too pushy. I don’t want to scare her off.”

“When did this cautiousness come about?” Lissy inquired.

“I’m still waiting for Molly to admit she’s in love with me. I don’t want anyone else to get too crazy about me in the meantime.”

“Right,” I said with a laugh. “Have you seen anyone about your delusions? They have medication for that, you know.”

“‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments.’”

Tony grinned at me and went back to his butter-scotch-walnut sundae.

Lissy, who had coaxed Geranium to her with a potato chip and was using her as a footstool, inquired, “Why do people always name pigs after flowers? Geranium, Petunia…” She took a swig of her soda.

“Don’t forget about Miss Piggy,” Tony pointed out. “She’s no flower.”

“Geranium was named before I got her. If I’d purchased her as a piglet, I would have named her something else.”

“Like what?” Lissy leaned forward and scratched Geri behind the ear, and Geri grunted in appreciation.

“Piggy Sue.”

“I know what I would have named her,” Tony said dreamily.

We both eyed him warily.

“Spamela Anderson.”

A gusher of soda erupted from Lissy’s mouth and she started to cough. Tony helpfully slammed her on the back a few times.

Fortunately the phone rang, and I was able to leave the Two Stooges to clean up after themselves.

“Molly? It’s me, Mandie.”

“Are you…”

“In labor? No, but the baby is kicking up a storm. I just needed someone to talk to. My roommate is out on a date, and my mom’s not home.”

“I’m here for you.”

“I know.” There was a catch in her voice. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Sadly, the father of Mandie’s child, the one who should have been present for her, was a sore subject. He was, unfortunately, long gone. She didn’t even know how to reach him. God knew what He was doing when He instructed His children to wait for marriage to be intimate. Mandie is the perfect example of how things can go wrong when kids do it the other way around.

“What’s been going on?”

“I can feel the baby’s position in my belly. It’s weird to think of this little person inside me.”

“It shouldn’t be long now,” I said. “Have you got a bag packed?”

“Everything on the list you gave me. Are you sure you’ll be here in time?”

“Call me as soon as you notice anything different and I’ll be there.”

I often start with the mother at home and travel with her and her husband to the hospital. That leaves a nervous father to pay attention to traffic rather than be distracted by the huffing and puffing in the passenger seat.

“I feel better now,” Mandie said. “I just needed to hear your voice.”

“Anytime.”

“If you ever want me to give you a recommendation or anything, I’ll give you the best one ever.”

“You haven’t even had the baby yet,” I reminded her.

“I don’t care. You’ve already saved my sanity.”

As I returned to the living room, I thought about Dr. Reynolds. If only he would talk to Mandie, maybe he’d change his mind about my profession. Then I recalled the look on his face when he’d first seen me in Brenda’s birthing room. Or maybe not.

Tony must have read my mind, because as soon as he saw me he said, “I got some scuttlebutt on Dr. Reynolds today.”

“The Mount Rushmore of doctors?” Lissy sat up a little straighter and Geri trotted off. “Old stone face?”

“He does have a child, a little boy. The rumor mill was right.”

“When did he take time off to have a child?”

I poked Lissy with my finger. “Be nice.”

“He’s not nice.” She pouted. “Why should I be? I heard him order a midwife to get out of the room when she crossed him today. Fortunately he allowed her back in later, but…”

There was one lone chip left in the bottom of the bag on the coffee table. I shook it into my hand. “Maybe I could get a loan from the donated money to start a doula center somewhere else if Reynolds nixes it at Bradshaw. That wouldn’t be so bad. I probably wouldn’t need much out of pocket.”

“Put your own finances into a concept that would be perfect at Bradshaw? I don’t think so. They need you. It’s a wonderful, woman-friendly idea.”

“We’re covering the same territory again,” I reminded Lissy wearily, tired of talking and getting nowhere.

I turned to Tony. “A son, huh?”

“He’s about six years old and his name is Noah. That’s all I know. Apparently Dr. Reynolds is closemouthed about him, too. I wouldn’t even know this but his receptionist let it slip.”

“Aren’t you dating his receptionist—among others?”

Tony shrugged helplessly, as if he had no control over his bountiful love life.

Lissy sighed. “It’s just not fair. All I want is one good man, just one, and Tony has a whole field of flowers to pick from.”

“‘Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.’ That’s from Twelfth Night.”

“Maybe I should start quoting poetry. Right now the only way to describe my dating status is ‘This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home.’ Men! Bah, pigs!”

Geranium, seeming to recognize her species, raised her head and grunted.

“Sorry, Geri, I didn’t mean to insult you.” Lissy tugged at her hair. “I’ve been stood up twice this week—and not because anyone had a good excuse. I’d break up with the guy, but I feel like I should do it in person and he never shows!”

Lissy’s love life is the opposite of Tony’s. All the men she meets have issues of one kind or another. Watching Tony and Lissy navigate the dating world is reason enough for me to decide it’s not worth it. Come to think of it, I’m thankful Hank moved to Mississippi. If he hadn’t, we might have drifted into a longer, going-nowhere relationship before we decided we weren’t right for each other.

“I’d better leave,” Tony said. “Your food is gone, and I have to get up early tomorrow.”

“Me, too.” Lissy jumped to her feet and gave me a hug. “You’re a peach, Molly.”

I didn’t say anything, but the way I allow these two to run roughshod over me, I don’t think I’m a fruit at all. I’m a nut.

Lissy paused at the gigantic bulletin board I keep by my front door. It’s filled with baby pictures my clients have sent me. “Is there anything cuter than this?” She pointed to a chubby baby with three extra chins. “Or this?” Her finger landed on a pair of twins in pink ruffles that threatened to engulf them.

“You’ve got a great job and a wonderful service to offer,” Tony said as he opened the front door. “We have to figure out a way to execute your idea.”

Execute. Right. And Dr. Clay Reynolds is running the guillotine.

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