Thirty-one

Tuesday, October 15

EDWINA TEMPLETON SWIRLED her last crust of toast through the remaining egg yolk on her plate and popped it into her mouth. Washing it down with a slurp of coffee, she removed the white wicker tray Ruperta had brought in and placed it on the floor next to her desk. Ruperta could pick it up later, she decided, provided Ruperta could tear herself away from that baby.

She looked at her watch: 5:25 here in Ten­nessee, 6:25 in Florida. Five more minutes and she would call Myrtle Hatcher. Six-thirty was an indecent hour to call to most people, but adop­tion counselors were accustomed to phone calls in the middle of the night from distraught par­ents, sobbing girls. Even to wait until dawn was a true act of kindness.

She swiveled in her chair and looked out the window. The cows had left the shelter of the barn and were standing in the little paddock, waiting for Paz to let them out into the fields to graze. Her eyes narrowed as she saw a tall, thin figure skulking past them, up toward the tree line at the end of her property. From this distance the figure looked male, but it was too tall for Paz and way too skinny for Duncan. Probably some juiced-up hunter, she decided. All she needed was some idiot mistaking one of her cows for a deer.

“I’ll send Duncan up there to check it out,” she muttered, watching as the figure vanished into the trees. Then she remembered that Duncan had taken all her guns and was still off completing whatever business he had and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. Oh, well, she thought. If she heard any gunshots, she’d either send Paz or call the sheriff. As far as she was concerned, with all the money she’d make from his baby, Duncan could take six months off. She would miss him only in her bedroom, and she already had several personal appliances that could accomplish most of what Duncan could.

She put the hunter and Duncan out of her mind and turned back to her desk. Her watch now said 6:30. She flipped through her Rolodex and punched in the area code for south Florida.

Several rings later, Myrtle Hatcher mumbled hello, sounding as if she’d been brought unwillingly out of a coma.

“Myrtle?” Edwina spoke loudly, hoping to jar the woman into sensibility. “This is Edwina Templeton, calling from Tennessee.”

“Edwina, how are you?” In six syllables Myrtle’s voice rose from groggy Brooklyn fishwife to alert Florida businesswoman.

“Fine, Myrtle. I know it’s early, but if your Iranian couple is still interested, I’ve got the most beautiful little girl in the world here.” Though Edwina pretended that this deal was still up in the air, she knew quite well that Myrtle’s couple was still interested—Myrtle had foolishly blath­ered on for most of Sunday afternoon about their “stringent requirements,” tipping her hand that the number of acceptable babies was quite narrow.

Myrtle hedged. “Of course they’re interested, but they’re also considering other children. Tell me more about this baby.”

“She’s very healthy,” Edwina said, impatiently tapping a pencil at Myrtle’s bullshit. “Thirteen pounds, eleven ounces, three months and four­teen days old.” She went on, telling Myrtle all about her normal development and extraordi­nary intelligence, deftly omitting the fact that the child came in with diaper rash, an ear infec­tion, and hair that looked as if it had been cut with a chain saw. Silly to point out the minor flaws when so much else was perfect.

“Is she cute? Intelligent? Does she look Iranian?”

“Lovely dark eyes, straight, black hair.”

“What about her skin?” Myrtle lowered her voice, as if someone might be eavesdropping. “She’s not real dark, is she?”

Edwina smiled at the true question—She’s not part Negro, is she?—but she knew she had to be truthful here, too. It would serve none of them to try to pass off a black baby. “Her skin is very light olive. I think she would blend in with your couple nicely. How about I e-mail you a photo?”

“That would be good.” Myrtle sounded somewhat mollified. “Let’s say this works out, Edwina—how much is your part of this?”

Edwina frowned. Myrtle had let it slip early on that her couple was well-to-do. Of course, all couples who got babies like this had to come up with at least fifty grand, but it was more of a struggle for some than others. Still, for Myrtle to indicate that these people had deep pockets meant that there was a lot more money to be had. Edwina stilled her pencil and took the plunge.

“I’ll need seventy-five thousand, Myrtle. You can add whatever you want on top of that.”

“Seventy-five?” Myrtle gave a sharp little gasp, as if someone had pinched her bottom. “Good grief, Edwina, do you think these people are made of gold?”

No, thought Edwina. I think they’re made of oil, which is even better. “Just free market economics, Myrtle. Stringent requirements mean higher prices. This baby is bright, beautiful, and exactly what they want. I doubt there’s another child on the market who comes anywhere close.”

“Well, we’ll have to see about that,” sputtered Myrtle. “E-mail that photo and I’ll give them a call.”

“Right away.” Edwina tightened the screw on Myrtle one final time. “But I need to know by noon. I’ve got another couple in Chicago, all lined up and waiting.”

“Okay.” Myrtle sounded flat as an old tire. “I’ll call you back. Don’t forget that e-mail, okay?”

“You’ll have it in just a few minutes.” Smiling, Edwina hung up the phone. She had already concocted a perfect background story for this child. Now if she could just figure out how to get the baby looking well long enough to snap her picture, this deal would be in the bag.

Half an hour later, the phone rang in a bright yellow bedroom in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Kimberly Khatar, dreaming a curious dream about dolphins and electric-powered cars, reached for her husband Bijan. When she felt nothing but rumpled sheets and an empty pillow, she raised up on one elbow. She heard the phone ringing, the shower running in the bathroom, and Bijan singing something that sounded vaguely like an old Rolling Stones tune. Kimberly shook her blonde hair away from her face, then stretched across the bed to answer the call.

“Hello?” she said, her voice rusty with sleep.

“Kimberly? Myrtle Hatcher calling. Can you get online without hanging up your phone?”

Still woozy from her dream, Kim blinked over at Bijan’s desk. The green light of the computer glowed as it hummed softly in the far corner of the bedroom. “Yes, Myrtle. I can do that.”

“Then log on and check your e-mail. You’ve got a big surprise waiting!”

“Just a minute. I’ll have to put the phone down.”

She dropped the receiver on the bed and walked over to the computer. As Bijan cranked his Mick Jagger imitation up to full volume, she keyed in her password and logged on. The usual male voice said, “Welcome,” then, “You’ve got mail!” She clicked on her mailbox, then on the message from “Hatcherlings” with a file attached. As she scanned the text, her heart began to pound. Myrtle had a healthy baby girl, of mixed white/Middle Eastern descent, available today. Holding her breath, Kimberly downloaded the file, watching eagerly as the image re­solved on the screen. An amazingly beautiful child stared into the camera. Although her short hair was straight and stuck out from her head in kind of a punk-rock do, her dark eyes were huge and limpid and she had a little cupid’s bow of a mouth. The child gazed at the camera not with the wariness Kimberly had seen on other babies up for adoption, but with a real presence; a knowing kind of curiosity, as if she could see way down into your soul. Kimberly stared, transfixed, for a full minute before she remembered that Myrtle was waiting.

Clicking the PRINT command, she raced back over to the phone. “Myrtle? Are you there?”

“Of course I’m here. What do you think?”

“I think she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen!” Kimberly felt both hot and cold. “What can you tell me about her?” she blurted out, as if the child were applying for some position at her insurance agency.

“Her father is a twenty-four-year-old white medical student, her mother a twenty-five-year old Iranian nurse. This couple had been married just two years when the poor mother drowned in a boating accident. The father tried to make a go of it, but with med school and military service, he decided to give the child up.”

“How old is she?” Kimberly stretched the phone cord out as far as she could, trying to grab the picture from the printer.

“Three months,” replied Myrtle. “The perfect age. They’re just beginning to really sit up and take notice of everything around them.”

“She’s absolutely beautiful, Myrtle. I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll take her!” Myrtle laughed. “Children like this come along once in a lifetime.”

“Bijan’s in the shower right now.” Kimberly held the picture of the child as if it were the petal of a rose. “I’ll have to talk to him, of course, but…”

“There are some things you should know be­fore you show him this picture, Kimberly,” Myrtle told her. “This adoption is being arranged by a colleague of mine in Tennessee, so the cost is somewhat higher.”

“How much?” Kimberly couldn’t pull her gaze away from the child’s liquid eyes.

“One hundred thousand dollars.”

“One hundred thousand? That’s over twice as much as we had discussed!”

“I know, dear. But like I said, children of this quality and background almost never become available. Your own search has certainly shown you that.”

The photo trembled in Kimberly’s hand. What would Bijan say when he found out the cost had more than doubled? Surely he would not let mere money stand between them and this precious child. She would sell her business, if need be. Flip burgers at Mickey D’s, if it came to that.

“And I’ll need to know your decision as soon as possible. There’s another couple who’ve committed, but I managed to get you and Bijan first refusal…” Myrtle paused. “If this a problem, the folks in Chicago can come and pick up their child…”

“No, don’t do that,” Kimberly said hastily. “I’ll go talk to Bijan right now. We’ll call you back in ten minutes.”

“Don’t dillydally,” warned Myrtle. “These things are like contracts on houses. Miss your chance, and the baby goes to the next one waiting.”

“Okay, Myrtle. I’ll let Bijan know that.” Kim hung up the phone, her hand shaking. She sat down on the bed, scarcely able to believe her good fortune. Ten minutes ago, she’d been a woman without a child. Now she held the first picture of her daughter in her hand. Her daughter. A little girl who mirrored them exactly:­ Bijan’s beautiful dark eyes and hair and her own fair skin and delicate features. She knew without question that this was the one.

“My sweet, sweet little girl,” she whispered, tracing the outline of the baby’s face. “Come on.” She took the sheet of paper into the steamy bathroom. “I want to show you to your dad.”