The Surrogate, The Sudarium Trilogy - Book one by Leonard Foglia, David Richards Read Free Book Online Page A

her breath audibly and a heavy silence filled the office. The tips of the woman’s fingers toyed with the silver necklace she’d also been wearing the last time. The charm that dangled from it swung back and forth like a hypnotist’s watch. Not wanting to see the disappointment in Mrs. Greene’s eyes, Hannah focused on the charm. It was unusual - a square cross, supported at the base by two winged angels on their knees.
    “My, my, my,” Mrs. Greene finally clucked. “I’m very glad you told me that, Hannah. Now let me tell you something. “Whether or not you’ve had sex…isn’t important. Sex is an external genitalia issue. Pregnancy and ovulation are internal issues. Don’t confuse the two. The fact that you are sexually inexperienced has no bearing on your ability to carry a child.”
    “Then you won’t disqualify me?”
    Mrs. Greene looked startled, then let out a peal of laughter. But it was friendly laughter, not mocking, and after a while Hannah allowed herself to join in.
    “Mercy me!” the woman said, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief. “Have you been fretting about that all this time? I would say, quite the contrary, it makes you very desirable. We won’t have to worry about all those nasty sexually transmitted diseases, will we? Oh, my dear, sweet child, trust me. This is all going to work out splendidly. Remember! My intuition!”
    There was a knock at the door and Letitia Greene sat bolt upright, as if a jolt electricity were coursing through her body. For Hannah’s benefit, she lifted her hands in the air and crossed her fingers.
    “The first meeting,” she whispered. “It’s a thrill every time.”

1:9
     
    Hannah noticed the woman first and judged her to be in her mid-40s. Her skirt and blouse were ablaze with bright colors - reds, oranges, deep blues - and a purple loose-weave shawl, threaded with yellow, hugged her shoulders. Gold earrings that looked like nothing so much as miniature wind chimes dangled from her ears. Her hair was jet black. Her lipstick was brick-red and thick, and she had not stinted on the eyeliner, either. In principle, the effect should have been loud and garish, but the woman pulled it off with flair. Hannah found her dramatic.
    The man, on the other hand, was older by ten years and dressed more conservatively in a dark pin-striped suit and a burgundy tie that suggested he was a corporate player or a banker. His features were pleasant, but unremarkable, except for the luxuriance of his salt-and-pepper hair, which gave him a distinguished air. Hannah wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that he made shampoo commercials in his spare time.
    They were unlike anybody she knew in Fall River, that was for sure: well-to-do, stylish, the kind of couple that her aunt, with the disdain the lower-middle-class reserved for those higher up the socio-economic ladder, called the “lah-de-dahs.”
    Mrs. Greene jumped to her feet and welcomed them with outstretched hands. “Isn’t this exciting?” she said, then without waiting for an answer, stepped back, gestured proudly toward Hannah and announced, “Jolene and Marshall Whitfield, I’d like you to introduce you to Hannah Manning.”
    Hannah stood up and extended a hand. Jolene took it gently in both of her hands, as if it were something easily crushed, an eggshell or the baby chick that had come out of it. “I’m delighted,” she said. “This is almost like a blind date, isn’t it? Marshall, come meet Hannah Manning.”
    His handshake was more deferential, bordering on limp, but he gave her a warm smile that revealed rows of handsome teeth. At six foot three, he was a good foot taller than his wife, who seemed to make up in assertiveness what she lacked in stature. Like a border collie herding sheep, Mrs. Greene guided them all to the sofas and encouraged them to take their places - the Whitfields on one side of the coffee table, she and Hannah on the other.
    “So you’re from Fall