The Heart Doctor and the Baby by Lynne Marshall Read Free Book Online Page B

eyes.
    â€œHey. I just wanted to bring you up-to-date. I got word the…uh…specimen made the grade. We’re all set to go as soon as I—” she glanced down the hall and back, then whispered “—ovulate.”
    Surprisingly, his cheeks rouged up as he gave her a lightbulb broad smile and a thumbs-up sign.
    Â 
    That afternoon, Mrs. Grosso stood somber faced before Jon, with Antonin doing his best to hide behind her four-foot-eleven frame. “He no want the test. It’s too much. Too dangerous.”
    â€œMrs. Grosso, are you aware that your husband could die from a heart attack if he doesn’t take care of his arteries?”
    She glanced over her shoulder; Antonin made such a minute head shake only his eyes seemed to move. She let go a long string of emphatic Italian words, obviously berating him for denying that fact prior to now.
    â€œNo. No. No,” Antonin said. He couldn’t be swayed.
    Worry etched her brow as she shrugged. “What I’m going to do?”
    Jon looked into his patient’s eyes. “If I make an appointment for an ultrasound of the heart, where they just bounce sound waves off your chest, will you go?”
    â€œNo cutting? No needles?” the man said.
    Jon shook his head. “If you see for yourself there is a blockage, will you promise to have the test—the real test—to save your life?”
    The missus poured out more Italian, this time using her hands and arms for accentuation. Antonin’s grumpy face took on a more thoughtful expression.
    â€œYou’ll already be in the hospital and we can handle things from there. What do you say?” Jon said.
    The man stared at the floor and mumbled, “Oh-kay.”
    Jon clapped his hands. “That’s the spirit.” He hopped behind his desk and punched in a phone number. “Let’s see how soon I can arrange the ultrasound.” For the walking time bomb.
    He got put on hold, used his index finger to play with the silly little patch of hair under his lower lip. The patch his girls had insisted he grow. They said it would make him look sexy. He almost laughed out loud. Did a man want to look sexy at forty-two? A really odd thoughtoccurred to him. If René had handpicked him to be her donor, was there anything about him she found sexy besides his DNA?
    He squashed the thought immediately. The last thing he wanted was to foul up his plans for freedom with any kind of commitment.
    As he waited on hold, and the Grossos spoke in excitable Italian, hands and gestures flying, his mind drifted to the vision of René at his door that morning. She wore a little white sweater over her earth-tone patterned sheath dress. The half-sleeved sweater with a shiny bead-and-stud design up the front had been the perfect accessory. He’d noticed that about her. She was good with details.
    And he liked that. Liked that he knew she’d always do a job thoroughly, down to the miniscule touches. He thought about the dinner she’d made the night she’d asked him to be her sperm donor—she cooked that way, too. Whenever they had potlucks at work from now on, he’d twist her arm to cook. There was something in the way she combined herbs and spices that made her dishes exceptional. If she weren’t such a fantastic doctor, he might suggest she’d missed her calling, but if she’d become a chef, he’d never have met her.
    An uncomfortable feeling spun in his stomach. These were useless thoughts, fanciful thoughts, that a man with plans for a sabbatical shouldn’t bother to have. As he continued to wait to speak to a hospital operator, he thumbed through his journal, past the part detailing life’s recent surprising turn, and back to his list of cities in China that he planned to visit after he attended the world cardiac conference in Beijing—2011; the year of the rabbit.
    In light of the new circumstances, for some dumb reason, the year