Текст книги "The Secrets of Midwives"

Автор книги: Sally Hepworth

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

13

Neva

“Looks great, Annabelle. Does it feel better?”

It was late afternoon and I was teaching a breast-feeding clinic at the birthing center. I was exhausted. I’d finished up at Mom’s place about 6 A.M. but when I’d arrived at my apartment an hour later, I found I couldn’t sleep. I’d called Grace a couple of times to find out how Gillian and the baby were doing, but she must have been busy. I hadn’t wanted to disturb Patrick for the second time in twenty-four hours, so I just waited for news. It was hard to focus on the task at hand, but luckily, my muscle memory for these clinics was good enough to fake it.

“It feels a million times better. Neva, you are a lifesaver.”

“If it hurts, take her off immediately and relatch. It’s meant to feel one hundred percent comfortable.”

Around the room, all the mothers and babies were nursing comfortably. “You’re all A-plus students. Breast-feeding doesn’t always come easily. It’s a learned skill; every mom-and-baby unit is unique. But you’ve all done brilliantly. We’re about done; I’m just going to grab some samples of the nipple cream I told you about. Feel free to exchange numbers while I’m gone. Other moms are invaluable when it comes to sharing knowledge.”

In the corridor, I opened the cupboard where the samples were kept and began rifling through.

“There you are.”

I spun around. Patrick stood by the front desk with Anne. He was dressed in suit trousers and a rumpled shirt under his white coat. He looked as tired as I felt.

“There you are!”

I crossed the room and, without a thought, wrapped my arms around his neck. Patrick stiffened at first. It wasn’t like me to hug. But after the emotion of last night, I still didn’t entirely feel like me. “How’s Gillian? How’s the baby?”

When I drew back, Patrick looked amused. “Wow. A hug?”

I blushed. “Hormones.”

“Ah.” Patrick nodded. “Gillian and the baby are both doing fine. How ’bout I update you over dinner?”

“Do they even serve food at The Hip?”

“Who said anything about The Hip?”

Anne became preoccupied with her computer screen. I frowned. Who said anything about The Hip? No one, I suppose, but … we only ever went to The Hip. In fact, other than when Patrick’s father died, when I spent the day at his mother’s place, I don’t think I’d ever seen Patrick anywhere other than the hospital, my apartment, and The Hip.

“So … what time are you off?” he asked.

“Seven thirty. But—”

“Great.” Patrick signed a document, closed a manila folder, and handed it to Anne. “I’ll pick you up then.”

He left the room and I felt my eyebrows soar. Pick me up? Usually Sean, Patrick, and I just sloped down to The Hip one by one as we came off shift and joined whoever was already perched at the bar. We left in a similar way, usually when we’d had too much to drink. No one ever picked anyone up. And, now that I thought of it, no one ever ate dinner.

“Neva.” Anne’s voice interrupted my thoughts.

“Yes?”

“Just had a buzz from the clinic. One of the women needs help reattaching her baby.”

“Oh.” I waved at her as I hurried into the room. “Yes. Thanks, Anne.”

*   *   *

At 7:33 P.M., I sat in a tub armchair, feeling like a schoolgirl waiting to get collected for the prom. On my lap was a canvas bag filled with empty Tupperware containers that I’d been meaning to take home for a month.

“Ready?”

Patrick had slipped in without me noticing and was standing before me in a fresh blue shirt and jeans with brown lace-up shoes that he hadn’t been wearing when I saw him an hour ago. He carried no bag whatsoever—I had no idea how guys did that—and his jacket, brown leather, was tossed over one shoulder. I caught a whiff of something. Cologne.

I glanced down at my flat shoes, navy hospital pants, and white shirt. Next to Patrick, I looked like a junkyard dog. A pregnant junkyard dog. Patrick, to his credit, didn’t appear outwardly disgusted, but then again, why would he? It wasn’t a date. Was it?

I pushed to my feet so fast my head began to spin.

“Whoa. You’re not going to faint on me, are you? I’m off shift and I usually deal with people a little smaller than you.”

We stared at each other and I was struck by the unfamiliarity of Patrick. Usually I’d throw out a wry joke, but now I wasn’t sure it was appropriate. The clothes, the cologne, the picking me up? I managed to roll my eyes before pushing through the door. As I skimmed past him, he took the canvas bag from my shoulder and tossed it over his own.

A couple of pretty nurses were in the elevator when it opened, and Patrick made a great show of putting his hand out to stop the door from closing on them. He couldn’t help himself. One of them shot me a glare of pure envy. A flutter traveled through me from head to toe. I wasn’t sure if it was a good flutter or a bad flutter.

“So, where d’you want to go?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Nellie’s?”

I immediately wanted to retract the words. Nellie’s was casual and the food was good, but it was also located directly under my building and was staffed by middle-aged waitresses who’d seen me there alone enough to develop an obsession with my love life. Arriving with Patrick wasn’t going to go unnoticed. But it was too late; he was already nodding. “Sure,” Patrick said. “Nellie’s, it is.”

We strolled in silence. It would have been amusing if I wasn’t so self-conscious. Patrick and I had never had a problem with conversation. Was he nervous too? And if he was, what did that mean? When I couldn’t take it anymore, I blurted out, “I have a joke. A guy phones the local hospital and yells, ‘You’ve got to send help. My wife’s in labor!’ The midwife says, ‘Calm down. Is this her first child?’ He replies, ‘No! This is her husband.’”

This got a full guffaw from Patrick. I couldn’t help feeling pleased. But when he held my gaze after his smile had slipped away, I looked away.

The bell dinged as we entered the restaurant. Judy, the worst of the waitresses (in a gossipy sense), looked up, immediately animated. By the time the door had closed, she was already elbowing one of the others. They were going to have a field day. A free booth sat in the back, and I beelined for it until a tug at my elbow stopped me in my tracks.

“Where do you think you’re going without saying hello?”

I turned. “Hello, Judy.”

She grinned, and her weathered face dissolved into a puzzle of lines. Although I never inquired into Judy’s personal life—a kindness I wished she’d return—her lack of wedding ring indicated that she hadn’t had a love life of her own, or if she had, it couldn’t have worked out too well, because here she was in her blue uniform and white tennies six days a week, paying far too much attention to the lives of the customers.

“Don’t go scooting back there, there’s a table available here in my section.” Judy gestured to a table in the middle of the restaurant. “I want to make sure you’re looked after properly. I’m Judy, by the way,” she said to Patrick, gesturing at her right breast, where her name was embroidered. “If you need anything at all, ask for me. I’ll get y’all some water.”

I slinked into the red leather booth and Patrick, after giving Judy a smile that sent her tattooed brows rocketing into her hairline, slid in opposite me.

“Sorry,” I said. “Forgot to tell you about the crazies at Nellie’s.”

Patrick perused the menu. “I hear they have good burgers here,” he said. “Should I order two?”

“If you’re really hungry. Tell me about Gillian.”

Patrick groaned. “Fine.” He placed the menu flat in front of him. “If you’re going to be all business. Gillian’s daughter is completely healthy, apart from the lip and palate, and she’ll be a great candidate for surgery. I gave Gillian the details of a pediatric plastic surgeon, and they can do the surgery while she’s still a baby so they won’t have to worry about her being teased at school or anything. It’s a good result. Oh, and Gillian and David have called her Grace.”

I gave a tiny gasp. “They have?”

“I should tell you, though, the doctor on duty was furious when we came in. He was ranting and raving about home births and how it was negligent to deliver this baby at home. I explained that the baby was never in any distress, but … he was a hater. He said he would report your mom to the Board of Nursing.”

“Report her? For what?”

“Who knows? He’d probably had a long shift and was blowing off steam. I doubt he’ll go through with it.”

“Well, he should go right ahead if he wants. She didn’t do anything wrong. The baby was delivered safely under the care of the best midwife I know with a pediatrician present. Good luck to him if he thinks he’s got a case.” Heat pulsed around my face and neck. “Who was the doctor, anyway?”

“Didn’t know him. But if the Board of Nursing contacts me, I’ll confirm she did everything by the book. She’ll be fine.” He hesitated. “I’m surprised you’re so protective of your mother. Given that you can be quite … hard on her.”

I opened my mouth to respond, and then I paused. Was I hard on her?

“At least, the way you talk about her,” he continued. “You obviously have your issues.”

“Well … it’s just a matter of fairness,” I said. “She wasn’t negligent. In fact, it was my idea to call you and give Gillian the option of delivering at home. I don’t want my mother picked on because she is in a minority group of midwives who deliver at home.”

“I agree. And with any luck, she won’t be.”

Judy arrived to take our orders. After she left, I folded my hands in my lap. Why was this so awkward? I’d hung out with Patrick more times than I could count. But now, when I wanted to launch into banter, my throat clamped shut like a preterm cervix. Patrick, at least, had found his tongue. He told me about a three-year-old boy who’d shoved a marble so far up his nostril that he required surgery to extract it, and a mother who’d brought her son in three times in three months for suspicious injuries, whom he’d had to report to children’s services.

Once the meals were delivered, Patrick went quiet. He cut his burger in half and lifted one half to his mouth, then paused. His face was hesitant. “Anyway. I’ve been thinking…”

“About?”

“About your baby.”

“You’ve been thinking about my baby?”

He nodded. “You said it didn’t have a father. Well … what if you told people I was the father?”

I blinked.

“People know I stay over at your house sometimes. It would stop all the questions. I know you hate all the questions. We could say that we’re a couple.”

“In the nicest possible way—why would we do that? What I mean is … what’s in it for you?”

“What?” He looked shocked. “Nothing.”

“Then why? I mean … what would you tell your girlfriends?” I asked. “Telling a girl that you accidentally impregnated a friend can be a real mood killer. Besides, it’s more complicated than you’ve considered. What happens down the track, after the baby is born? Are you going to tell people that you are involved in my baby’s life?”

He blushed, but said nothing. It confirmed to me that he hadn’t thought it through. “I don’t know. We’ll figure it out.”

“We’ll figure it out? Patrick—why would you even want to?”

He studied my face for a long while. I tried to do the same to him, but I had no idea what was going on inside that pretty head of his.

“Fine,” he said. “It was just an idea.”

His cheeks were still pink. I didn’t get it. Anyone would have thought I’d slapped him, rather than let him off the hook.

“It’s an appealing idea, I’ll admit,” I said. “And you’re right, people would believe it. Marion would be thrilled.”

He picked up his burger again. “If you change your mind, say the word.”

Patrick insisted on paying, which was a little weird, but I didn’t question it, lest things get weirder. He could afford it, and after all, he’d slept on my couch for several years now. He owed me. Judy and Trish smiled at Patrick with creepy enthusiasm as he approached the counter to settle the bill. When I couldn’t watch anymore, I pushed through the double doors into the evening and straight into a person.

“Oh!” I exclaimed, staring into the face of Lorraine Hargreaves, chief resident of obstetrics at St Mary’s. “Dr. Hargreaves. I’m so sorry.”

“Lorraine,” she corrected. Thankfully she didn’t appear hurt. “I didn’t see you there, Neva!”

Dr. Hargreaves was a formidable woman—tall, attractive, well proportioned. She bordered on intimidating, but with a few grays littering her raven hair, and a slight overbite on her front teeth, she had enough imperfections to make her approachable.

“Well, I see the rumors are true.” She reached forward, letting her hand skim, but not quite touch, my belly. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“Best job in the world, motherhood. Even if you love your job as much as we do.”

I couldn’t help a smile, being part of a “we” with Dr. Lorraine Hargreaves.

“Yes,” I said. My hand traveled to my belly. “Yes, I’m looking forward to it.”

“You don’t need an ob-gyn, I suppose?”

I laughed, imagining Grace’s face. “Probably wouldn’t look good for the birthing center if I got myself an ob-gyn,” I said. “Besides, I couldn’t afford you.”

“I’m sure I could do you a deal. But you won’t need me. You do a great job at your birthing center.”

“Thank yo—”

“So? Who is the lucky guy?”

“Oh, um…” The idea of telling the chief resident of obstetrics that my baby didn’t have a father was vomit inducing. “Actually…”

“Evening, Lorraine.” Patrick appeared beside me, hand extended.

“Well, well … Patrick!” Dr. Hargreaves shook Patrick’s hand, and whistled. “Haven’t you two kept this quiet? I know a few women at the hospital who are going to have a broken heart, Patrick. And men, for that matter, Neva.” She chuckled. “It’s a match made in heaven, now that I think of it. I hope Patrick’s been taking good care of you?”

“Oh, no, actually he’s—”

“—trying but she’s very independent.” Patrick’s warm hand enveloped mine. “Perhaps you can convince her that she should take it easy in the last trimester, avoid any situations that could make her stressed?”

I blinked at Patrick.

“I’m surprised anyone should have to tell her that. Let him help you, Neva. He obviously wants to.”

Patrick’s arm was strewn casually round my waist, his fingers interlaced with mine. He grinned at me and nodded imperceptibly.

“Fine.” I smiled at Lorraine. “I will.”

*   *   *

When Dr. Hargreaves was gone, I stared at Patrick.

“She’s going to think we’re both nuts when she finds out you’re not the father of my baby, you know.”

“Probably,” Patrick agreed. “If she finds out.”

“She will find out.”

“Only if you tell her. I’m not going to.”

Again, I scanned his face, looking for some way to make sense of things. I couldn’t find a single, solitary reason. “Why, Patrick?”

“Are you really that dense?”

“Let’s say I am.”

Before he could respond, my phone alerted me of an incoming call with a short buzz. I frowned. It was very late for a call. And I didn’t recognize the number.

“I’d better get this,” I said. I accepted the call. “Neva Bradley.”

“Hi, Neva … it’s Lil.”

“Lil.” I frowned. Lil had never called me, not once in eight years. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry, I’ve got bad news. Your gran’s in the hospital.”

14

Grace

I glanced at my phone—11:01 P.M. Neva had called twice, which must have been some sort of record, although she had called practically every day since the day we found out she was pregnant. Today, I couldn’t bring myself to call her back. I was still reeling from the last phone call I’d received, three hours ago.

I hadn’t recognized the number, but that was nothing new. Clients called me at all hours, from various numbers. Sadly it meant that I was completely unprepared for what was coming.

“Is this Grace Bradley, the midwife responsible for Gillian Brennan’s delivery?” asked the voice. Nothing about that question put me at ease.

“It is. Who am I speaking with?”

“My name is Marie Ableman. I am an investigator with the Board of Nursing. I am calling because a complaint has been lodged against you by a Dr. Roger White at Newport Hospital. Dr. White was the physician looking after Ms. Brennan and her baby after they were admitted to the hospital.”

Wow. He’d done it. He’d made a complaint. I almost felt proud of him. Almost. It wasn’t the first time I’d been abused by a doctor, of course, and I was fairly sure it wouldn’t be the last.

“These home births keep me in business,” he’d muttered when we met in Emergency.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“They’re irresponsible, and they always end up like this, with a patient being rushed in in need of emergency treatment,” he said unapologetically. “Then the doctors are left to clean up the mess.”

“With due respect”—I used every ounce of restraint and professionalism I had left, for the sake of my client—“there is no mess. We are here to admit an infant with a cleft palate. Even if she were born here at the hospital, she’d have required the same treatment. The mother has a perineal tear—pretty standard for a vaginal birth and hardly a mess.” I kept my voice civil but it dripped with thinly veiled hostility.

“Listen,” Patrick said. “I’m a pediatrician at St. Mary’s Hospital. I oversaw this birth, and it was quite safe. We can iron out all the details later, but our first priority is the patient and her baby. Can we all agree on that?”

“Yes,” the doctor said a little gruffly. “Yes, we can.” Then he pointed at me, his face a snarl. “But I want her details. I’m going to report her.”

Patrick stepped between me and the doctor’s finger. “Now, just a min—”

“You can have my details,” I said, already in my purse, searching for my accreditation. “There you go, write it down. I have nothing to be ashamed of.”

I wasn’t going to be bullied. I knew these kinds of doctors. They wanted to make sure everyone knew their place. He (or she, but more often than not, it was he) was the doctor and I was the lowly midwife, the handy woman, the untrained helper. Rarely, if ever, did they recognize that I had studied for six years and completed a master’s degree to become a Certified Nurse-Midwife. They never made good on their threats to make a complaint, and I doubted they ever would. Intimidating people was simply another skill they’d learned in medical school.

“What is the nature of the complaint?” I asked Ms. Ableman.

“Dr. White claims that you attempted a high-risk delivery at home with detrimental consequences for both mother and child. He reported that the baby was born disfigured and that the mother had suffered a third-degree tear that had not been tended to by the time she was admitted to his care.”

“The baby was born with a cleft lip and palate,” I explained. “Which, I’m sure you’ll agree, has nothing to do with my competence as a midwife. The tear was left as a conscious decision not to separate mother and baby. Gillian indicated that she wouldn’t allow her baby to be transferred to the hospital without her, so I thought it was best that the tear be tended to there. If you speak to Gillian, I’m sure you’ll find she doesn’t have any complaints about my service.”

“I will be speaking to Ms. Brennan shortly, and I’ll also need to question your birth assistant and anyone else present.”

“Okay.”

“I know this must be stressful, but do you think you could answer a few questions for me now, Mrs. Bradley? While it is all fresh in your mind?”

“I don’t see any reason why not.”

A mouse clicked in the background, followed by: “Now, at what time did you realize the baby had a cleft palate?”

“I wasn’t sure it was a cleft palate at first.” I stood and picked my way down the hall toward my office so I could check my notes. “I knew something didn’t feel right. I wondered if it could be breech, but it was unlikely since the baby was head-down at our last appointment. I guess it was about eight P.M. I’ll check my notes to be sure.”

“I’ll need a copy of your notes, but for now, tell me from memory. So, at approximately eight P.M., immediately following a vaginal exam, you suspected the baby was breech. What action did you take?”

“Well, no. I didn’t ‘suspect’ the baby was breech, I simply thought it was a possibility. I told Gillian that I was uncertain of what I had felt, and then I asked my daughter for a second opinion.”

“Your daughter? She was present at the birth?”

“She was my birth assistant. She’s a Certified Nurse-Midwife at St. Mary’s Birthing Center.”

“St. Mary’s.” Her fingernails bashed against a keyboard. “Okay. What happened next?”

“My daughter performed an exam and was also uncertain of what she could feel, but she suspected it was a breech.”

“And you disagreed?”

“I thought it was worthwhile looking at other possibilities before transferring her to a hospital. Gillian was very committed to having a home birth with minimal medical intervention.”

“How long did you look at other possibilities?”

“A few minutes.”

“What happened next?”

“We realized it was a cleft palate we were feeling. Once my daughter suggested it, we both knew immediately. We did another exam to confirm, and then we were certain.”

“What time was this?”

“I don’t know. Eight thirtyish?”

Fingernails clacked against the keyboard. I waited.

“And once you confirmed the baby had a cleft palate, you still felt it was appropriate to proceed with the birth at home?”

I paused. The delivery of that sentence was so laden with judgment, I couldn’t help but respond defensively.

“Yes. I knew Gillian would have a hard time when she saw her daughter’s face. I didn’t see any reason to add the trauma of a hospital delivery to her troubles. Particularly when we had a pediatrician on-site.”

“Dr. Johnson?”

“Yes.” I had no idea of Patrick’s surname, but Marie had clearly done her research, so that must be it.

“Now … Gillian was admitted to the hospital herself with a third-degree tear. Can you tell me about that?”

“A third-degree tear is one that stretches from the perineum right through to the—”

“I mean,” Marie interrupted, “can you explain to me why you transferred a patient with a third-degree tear?”

“Oh, of course, I’m sorry.” I played innocent. “As I said before, it was a matter of keeping mother and baby together. I knew Gillian had a tear, but she was reluctant to part with her baby. And I was inclined to agree with her. The tear wasn’t life-threatening and we wanted to get the baby seen to at the hospital as soon as possible. I made a judgment call, and I’d do the same again.”

I rapped my knuckles against the bedside table. I was talking braver than I felt. Had I made the right call? As I thought back to the events of the evening, I had to admit, there was room for doubt. Was it irresponsible to deliver a baby with a cleft palate at home? As for the tear, obviously it wasn’t life-threatening, but there could have been complications caused by not suturing sooner rather than later. I started to feel a little sick.

“Okay, Mrs. Bradley,” Marie said after an eternity. “That’s all I need for now, but I may need to speak with you again. Once I have spoken with all parties, a committee from the board will review the case and make a recommendation. You will be informed of this recommendation as soon as it is made.”

I found myself nodding. “I look forward to it.”

“One other thing, Mrs. Bradley. Your license is suspended, pending the results of our investigation. You won’t be able to deliver any babies until this matter is resolved.”

I stopped nodding. “But … this is my business. I’ve committed to mothers who are due in the next few weeks, some in the next few days.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bradley. You’ll have to tell them to make alternative arrangements.”

“Like what?”

“Well, you could refer them to another midwife.”

“Do you know how hard it is to get in with a private midwife in Rhode Island? If you’re not booked in by the time you’re six weeks pregnant, you can forget it. You think I’m going to be able to place a client who is due in a few days?”

“If they can’t be placed, they’ll have to go to the hospital.”

I found myself unable to speak.

“And, Grace, you are not allowed to contact Gillian or her family during this time.”

“Not contact Gillian? But I have to provide her postpartum care.”

“You cannot, Mrs. Bradley. Not unless you want to risk losing your license permanently. She will receive postpartum care in the hospital.”

“The hospital?” I scoffed.”What, maternity pads and Tylenol? She needs breast-feeding support, nutritional advice, pelvic-floor exercises. Do you think the hospital is going to provide that?”

“Mrs. Bradley—”

“No, it’s fine. No deliveries. No postpartum care for Gillian. Great system you have.”

“The system is here to protect people, Mrs. Bradley.”

“Indeed. Doctors.” I bristled. “Can I at least call Gillian to explain?”

“I’ll be in touch with her. I’ll explain. And I’m sure another midwife will be able to offer the services you spoke of. We’ll make sure Gillian is looked after.”

Ms. Ableman was playing good cop, but I wasn’t buying it.

“Okay. How long can I expect to wait for your”—I curled my lip—“recommendation?”

“It should be within four weeks, depending on the speed of getting your notes and getting interviews with the other involved parties. We try to be swift—we don’t want this drawn out for anyone’s sake.”

“That’s good of you.”

“Do you have any questions for me?”

How do you live with yourself? Why are you persecuting the patient who has already had to deal with having a baby with a cleft lip and palate? What right did this Dr. Whatshisface have to make a complaint about me? “No.”

“Okay. Thank you for your cooperation. I’ll be in touch.”

Now, I sat in the blue chair, waiting for Robert to come home. He’d been working late a lot; tonight was no different. Lately, we’d been like strangers, passing like ships in the night. I got to thinking about the day we met. I was still studying midwifery and running an art class out of Mom’s garage to make ends meet. Robert had been referred to the class by another student and, as an accountant, he wasn’t my typical clientele. He wasn’t a classic accountant; he was pretty boho, in fact. His jeans were ripped and his sideburns impressively long, and he had a psychedelic scarf tied haphazardly around his neck. It was only the bluish black dots on his cheeks and upper lip that gave him away. No one was clean-shaven back then. It was the seventies, and unless you had a corporate job, were prepubescent, or a woman, you had a mustache. I noticed Robert as I dashed from the garage back to the house for more chairs. I waved him in and when I returned, my regulars were sitting at the table, some already with lit spliffs in hand. But Robert was hovering inside the door, clearly out of place.

“You must be Robert,” I said.

“Yes.” He extended his hand, which was novel, as creative types tended to hug. “I’m looking for Gracie.”

“You’ve found her,” I said, suppressing a smile. Gracie? No one called me that. But I was willing to allow it. His awkwardness was charming and he was quite handsome, this accountant. Pam—the regular who had referred him—had mentioned he was handsome, but people rarely understood my type. And even if they did, Robert wasn’t it. Still, I got that funny feeling in my belly, the feeling commonly described as “butterflies,” though I thought it more like ripples in a pond after you throw a stone: hitting you hard in the center before gently radiating outward to the tips of your fingers and toes. The feeling continued throughout the class, getting stronger the closer I got to Robert, and stronger still when I leaned over him to examine his work and my breast brushed his back. It was hard to gauge if Robert felt the same; he was a diligent student, concentrating on his picture as though it were a math puzzle rather than a creative expression of himself. But the fact that he loitered after the class had ended had to be a good sign, I figured.

“Did you enjoy the class?” I asked as I washed up the paintbrushes.

“I did. Very … relaxing.”

I covered my mouth, but a snicker came out.

“What?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, but you didn’t look relaxed. In fact, you’re the first person I’ve seen who makes life drawing class look stressful.”

“Ah.” He grinned. “I’m good at making things look stressful. In my world, you get paid more for that.”

“Your world sounds dreadful.”

“It’s not so bad right now.”

Robert’s gaze lingered intentionally on mine. Wow. This accountant could turn on the charm. Who’d have guessed it? I waved to the last couple of students as they headed out.

“Maybe you’d like to stay for a while.” I held his eye as I reached for the red and black kimono that hung over the back of my chair. “Maybe—” I held the pause as long as I could. “—you could draw me.”

With hindsight, I was incredibly forward. Robert had acted like it was no big deal, but I could see from the way his hands trembled that he was terrified. I sat on the stool, the kimono draped over my most private parts, my body angled to the right and my feet tucked into the lower bar. I turned my head to face him and opened the kimono, just enough.

“Make sure you get the shape right before focusing on the detail,” I told him, trailing my fingertips down the side of my breast. “Start here with the curve of the breast and the hip, then the narrowness of the head and the ankles. Use as many strokes as you need—this is art not science. The only way to do a poor female form is to fail to celebrate her curves.…”

I paused when I realized Robert was standing right in front of me.

“Oh.” I frowned. “What?”

“You are a goddess.”

A goddess. I liked the sound of that. “I don’t think anyone has ever called me … that … before.”

“That surprises me.”

Robert’s hands were no longer shaking. But mine were. When it came to men, I was used to being the pursuer. Men responded to it, yes, but the dramatic one-liners—you’re a goddess, et cetera—they usually came from me. It was strange sitting in the other seat. Good strange.

“I like you,” I said, as much to myself as to him. The revelation was as unexpected as it was undeniable.

“I like you, too.” Robert’s voice was awkward, but he may have been suppressing a smile. “Gracie.”

*   *   *

When I heard Robert’s keys in the door, I rose from my chair. I spied him at the end of the corridor, his tie pulled loose, his face concerned. “Grace. Are you okay?”