Thirty-five
KIMBERLY KHATAR SQUEEZED her husband’s hand as the plane began its final descent toward the Nashville International Airport. Bijan had booked them in adjoining seats on the same flight from Atlanta, and now they sat, three peas in a pod, strapped in a Boeing 757. Kimberly capped off her morning by splurging on three in-flight phone calls—one to her parents and one to each of her two sisters. Though everyone had sounded stunned by the news, all had squealed with joy over the prospect of welcoming Jennifer Aziz Khatar into their family. Kimberly’s parents had immediately started packing for a trip down from St. Pete, while her sisters began planning a baby shower.
“Are you sure you don’t want to call your folks?” She waggled the phone at Bijan.
He turned from the window, then shook his head as if he’d had too much to drink. “I’ll surprise them. My mother hasn’t boarded a plane in twenty years. She probably wouldn’t get past the fact that I was calling her from midair.”
“Just think of how happy you’re going to make them, honey.” Kimberly hugged Bijan’s arm.
“You’re going to love Edwina Templeton,” Mrs. Hatcher brayed from the seat beside Kimberly’s. “She’s had amazing luck at finding just the right baby for the right parents.”
Kimberly nodded at Mrs. Hatcher as the plane’s landing gear dropped into position. Actually, she didn’t give two hoots about Edwina Templeton. All she cared about was wrapping her arms around the baby who would become her new little girl.
After they landed, Mrs. Hatcher told them that Edwina’s place was too far out of town for a taxi, so Bijan went to the Hertz desk and came back twirling the keys to a Lincoln Town Car.
“Why did you get such a big car?” asked Kimberly as they walked toward the huge white sedan. “You usually get Toyotas.”
He shrugged, embarrassed. “More protection in case we have a wreck. You know, precious cargo and all.”
Kimberly smiled. In the course of a three hour flight, Bijan had already begun to make the change from carefree husband into responsible family man.
Mrs. Hatcher directed them to the small town of Franklin, twenty miles south of Nashville. After exiting the highway and driving through a blur of fast-food restaurants, gas stations, and car dealerships, they turned down a road that led through miles of rolling pastures dotted with grazing cows. They crossed a narrow creek on a bumpy, two-lane bridge, then arrived at a graveled driveway that led to a white antebellum mansion with a wide front porch and silvery tin roof.
“This is Edwina’s,” announced Mrs. Hatcher from the backseat. “Looks like Tara, doesn’t it?”
Bijan pulled the car up in front of the house. Kimberly hopped out and hurried up to the wide porch, trembling with excitement. When she next rode in that car, she might be holding her own baby in her arms.
The top half of the front door was leaded glass; the doorbell was an old-fashioned twist kind. After waiting for Bijan and Mrs. Hatcher to join her, Kimberly twisted the bell three times. She cringed as its coarse ring echoed through the house, not wishing to awaken any napping babies. For a moment, nothing happened, then she saw a blur of movement on the other side of the glass. The door opened, revealing a young Hispanic woman exactly her height. Like many of the sirvientas who worked for the affluent of Fort Lauderdale, the woman wore a gray uniform that gave her the look of a nurse-in-training.
“Buenos días.” Kimberly shifted into the Floridian Spanish that had, over the years, become her second language. “Es la casa de la Señora Edwina Templeton?”
“Sí, Señorita.” The young woman smiled, no doubt pleased to address a stranger in her native tongue.
“Es un huerfano?”
The woman shook her head. “Un hospital de maternidad.”
“Me Ilamo Kimberly Khatar, de Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Mi esposo y yo estamos aqui para ver a la nena.”
“La nena? No lo entiendo.”
“La nena para adopciÓn…”
The woman shook her head again. She was about to close the door when an older, harsher voice sliced through the air.
“Ruperta? Is that Mrs. Hatcher?”
The young housemaid’s eyes grew wide as she tried to formulate her reply.
“Ruperta, who is it?” the harsh voice demanded brusquely.
A short, dumpy woman appeared behind the sirvienta. She wore a camel-colored suit over a creamy silk blouse; impressive diamonds twinkled from her ears. Although the clothes were obviously expensive, they fit the woman too tightly, and made her look as if she’d been thrown fully dressed into a washing machine and dried at too hot a setting. She peered past Kimberly, then smiled. “Myrtle? Is that you?”
“Yes, Edwina. We’re here!”
“Come in, come in,” the woman said, then dismissed the sirvienta with a toss of her head. “I’m Edwina Templeton. Welcome.”
Kimberly and Bijan stepped into a spacious foyer where a graceful staircase curved up to the second floor. As the housemaid disappeared down a back hall, Edwina Templeton led them into a large sitting room that looked like a cover of Architectural Digest. Papered in an eye-popping red silk moiré, the room was stuffed with the kind of antiques sold at Sotheby’s to people with bottomless pocketbooks. Mrs. Templeton had expensive taste, Kimberly decided as she gazed at the opulent furnishings. But then, at a hundred thousand dollars a child, Mrs. Templeton could afford to.
“Introduce me to your couple, dear,” Mrs. Templeton demanded after the two older women shared a perfunctory hug and kiss.
Mrs. Hatcher beamed. “Edwina Templeton, this is Kimberly and Bijan Khatar.”
“How do you do.” Bijan nodded stiffly. Kimberly could tell he was nervous. Her palms grew sweaty, too, as Edwina Templeton appraised them carefully, as someone might look over a yearling racehorse that showed some speed. Kimberly prayed that Mrs. Templeton’s sharp eyes would not find some invisible flaw and discard them in favor of the couple from Chicago.
But the older woman was nodding. “Come sit down. We’ll chat in here. Ruperta’s bringing tea.”
In the living room, Kimberly, Bijan, and Mrs. Hatcher perched on an ornate sofa like birds on a wire. Edwina Templeton took the wing chair opposite them. Soundlessly the uniformed girl returned, bearing a silver tray with a china tea service. As Mrs. Templeton poured them all tea, the girl brought in a tray full of cookies and triangular-shaped sandwiches. Kimberly took a cucumber-and-cream-cheese while Bijan opted for tea alone, the cup rattling softly as he took it from the tray.
“There’s no need to be nervous,” Mrs. Templeton said, smiling. Her voice was husky and she spoke with a drawl so thick, it sounded almost like Hollywood’s idea of a Southern accent. “If this one doesn’t work out, there’ll be others.”
Not for us, Kimberly thought, remembering all of Bijan’s requirements. We’re not your average family, not by a long shot.
“How shall we proceed, Edwina?” Mrs. Hatcher set her tea down on the table and snatched a chocolate cookie off the tray. “I know these two young people are eager—”
“I like to bring the baby out and watch how the prospective parents interact with it,” Edwina interrupted. “I can tell pretty fast if there’s going to be a bond there.”
“Are you the sole judge of that?” Bijan spoke for the first time. Kimberly winced at his unintended arrogance, but Mrs. Templeton’s smile did not falter.
“Yes, Mr. Khatar, I am. As a private adoption counselor, I’m afraid I do have the last word in cases like this.”
“I see.” Bijan stared into his tea cup, humbled.
“Why don’t you tell me a little about yourselves? What kind of business are you in?”
“Kimberly is an insurance broker. She started her own company five years ago,” Bijan said proudly. “I manage business properties for my father.”
Edwina Templeton’s gaze flickered over the Bulgari watch on Bijan’s wrist. “So I assume you don’t find the cost of raising a child today daunting?”
“Mrs. Hatcher has all our financial information,” Bijan replied. “But no, money is not a problem. We’ve worked hard and we’ve been lucky. Our child will have a comfortable home and an excellent education.”
Mrs. Hatcher gave a hen-like cackle. “I can vouch for that, Edwina.”
“Is religion an issue between you?” asked Mrs. Templeton, ignoring her colleague.
This time Kimberly spoke. “I was raised Catholic, Bijan is Muslim. We’ve attended the Unitarian Church ever since we married. We intend to raise any child we adopt in that faith.”
“A nice compromise.” Mrs. Templeton’s smile broadened. “Rational. Respectful.” She studied them a moment longer, then she set her teacup down on the tray. “Would you like to see the baby now?”
“Oh, yes,” said Kimberly quickly. She didn’t know how much more of this she could take. Already she wanted to leap up from the sofa and scream with impatience.
“Good. I’ll have Ruperta bring her in.” Mrs. Templeton rang a small silver bell. They waited. An antique clock in the hall ticked off seconds that seemed like hours, then the sirvienta reappeared at the door. Looking as if she wanted to weep, she now carried a baby wrapped in a soft white blanket. From the couch, Kimberly could see only the top of the infant’s head, a dark patch of straight hair.
Edwina Templeton got to her feet. “Mr. and Mrs. Khatar, meet the child who was born Behbaha Jane McIntosh.” She prodded the housemaid with a chill nod. “Give her to them, Ruperta.’’
Ruperta obediently crossed the room and held the bundle out to Kimberly. The latter took the child in her arms, astonished at how light and insignificant human infants feel. As she settled the child against her chest, she moved the blanket away from the small face it swaddled. The little girl did not doze, but lay wide awake and very composed, looking up at her with dark eyes that seemed to stare into some part of her that Kimberly didn’t know existed.
“Oh, my God,” Kimberly breathed. “She’s beautiful.”
The baby continued to stare at Kimberly, working her little cheeks, blowing a plump bubble of saliva on her lips. Kimberly fought an urge to undress her, to see if she had the proper number of fingers and toes. But even if she didn’t, who cared? Who could look into those eyes and not fall instantly in love?
She tore her gaze away from the baby and turned to Bijan. “What do you think?”
He didn’t reply. Instead, he reached around her and touched the baby’s hand with his forefinger. Instantly the infant grasped it, and held on tight. “Hello, baby girl,” he said softly.
The baby squirmed in Kimberly’s arms, then her eyes found Bijan’s. She studied him with her strange, old-soul gaze, then she flung her arms up and gave a little squeal of glee, as if Bijan was the most utterly delightful being in creation.
Everyone laughed. Bijan tentatively put one finger against her tummy and the baby laughed again, sending funny little bird chirps into the air. Kimberly laughed, fighting tears even as she did so. For her, there was no doubt. Taking a shaky breath, she lifted her face to Bijan.
“Well, honey?” she asked. “What do you think?”
She felt his kiss on the top of her head, then she felt his breath against her ear. “Kim, I think you and I have just become parents.”