Everywhere he looked, Ian Martin saw babies. Around the
plush hospital lobby, giant photos of babies hung on the
walls. Between the designer couches, life-size dolls beamed
from their carriages at the throng of local press and
small-town dignitaries. Now, if a few Uzi-toting toddlers in
camouflage pj's would burst in, that might be
interesting.
As if he weren't already on infant overload, Ian noticed two
women in advanced stages of pregnancy posing for
photographs. Presumably they'd both conceived with the
high-tech help of the doctors here at Safe Harbor Medical
Center, whose six stories of state-of-the-art equipment were
detailed on a large wall chart.
Honestly. Didn't these people have anything better to do? He
certainly did.
Although Ian had covered wars from Africa to Afghanistan,
his editor seemed to think he had a gift for human-interest
stories. So, as he was already in Southern California with a
free Friday evening, he'd been dispatched to cover the
official reopening of this updated, expanded maternity
hospital. He'd much rather be digging into the investigation
of a federal judge accused of taking bribes, or even poking
into the Hollywood divorce scandal that was his secondary
reason for descending on the area.
Across the room, he exchanged wry glances with cameraman
Pierre Fabray, a coworker from the L.A. bureau of Flash
News/Global. With a shrug, Pierre returned his attention to
a mom-to-be who, judging by the size of her, must be
pregnant with triplets.
Idly, Ian dropped a couple of entry tickets into the raffle
box in front of a display of expensive baby furnishings.
He'd parted with twenty bucks for them, since the raffle
raised money for needy families, the kind that could never
otherwise afford these luxurious surroundings. If he won—and
Ian had remarkable luck—he planned to donate the gear to
charity.
That task accomplished, he gazed around for power players he
might be able to prod into saying something provocative.
There had to be a story here somewhere. If Ian couldn't find
it, he'd stir one up by asking questions somebody didn't
want to answer.
First obvious player: hospital administrator Mark Rayburn, a
father-knows-best-type obstetrician in his late thirties.
Second possibility: a lady from the corporation that owned
the hospital. From her spiked heels to her mask of makeup,
she looked like she breakfasted on nails and spat them out
machine-gun-style at anyone who crossed her.
Neither of them was likely to yield more than an irritable
quote or two. Better to locate the inevitable gadfly. There
must be a doctor who'd worked at the facility prior to its
transformation from a community hospital and who was less
than thrilled to see it turned into a haven for the moneyed.
Ian didn't see anyone fitting that description hanging
around, shooting his mouth off. He needed assistance, and
from what he'd seen of the public relations director,
talking to her wouldn't be painful at all.
He located Jennifer Serra outside the auditorium. Dark hair
tumbled appealingly from a knot atop her head, and the
exotic tilt to her dark eyes intrigued him, as did a hint of
sadness that made him wonder what secrets she harbored. But
although he was known as much for digging into personalities
as for rooting out facts, Ms. Serra wasn't his target
tonight. Too bad.
"Mr. Martin!" Her full mouth perked into a smile. "We're
almost ready to start the press conference."
"Actually, I'd like to talk to someone first."
"Who?"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out."
Her chin came up. "Anything I can do to help, I'd be glad to."
She shouldn't make tempting offers like that, Ian reflected.
On the other hand, being helpful was her job.
"Who's the most ticked-off doctor at this hospital?"
"I'm sorry?" Her expression turned wary.
"The one who makes trouble." Kind of like I do.
She swallowed. He'd made a direct hit, Ian could tell.
"We're a team here," she responded gamely.
"And it's your duty to say so. But we both know better." He
stretched out an arm and leaned against the wall,
deliberately fencing her in. She'd either have to retreat or
duck beneath his arm to escape. "A giant corporation buys a
community hospital and turns it into a moneymaking machine.
That's got to rub somebody the wrong way."
His peripheral vision caught Pierre's approach. Jennifer's
face tightened at the sight of the camera, but with what
must have been considerable effort, she relaxed into another
smile. "If anyone's unhappy, you can hardly expect her to
show up at an event like this."
"Her?" So there was someone.
Jennifer adjusted the short, fitted jacket she wore over a
figure-skimming dress. Ian assumed that bought her a moment
to regain control and find the appropriate glib answer. Sure
enough, here it came: "Mr. Martin, this is a wonderful
facility that brings hope to couples struggling to start a
family."
"Of course it does." He filed a mental note to sniff out the
disgruntled doctor later, but tonight he needed another
angle. "Do you have children?"
"No, not yet." There it was again, that trace of sadness.
"If you ran into trouble having them, could you afford a
place like this? Wait—I'm sure you have great insurance. But
what about the ordinary infertile woman in Safe Harbor,
California? Where is she supposed to go?" While Ian didn't
relish making such a pretty lady squirm, the corporation
presumably paid her well to cross swords with rascals like him.
Annoyance flared in her eyes. "We're always happy to work
out payment plans, and we accept MediCal clients. Plus, we
don't just provide fertility treatments. We offer a
multitude of services, from routine preventive care to
early-stage cancer treatment."
Pierre was angling around, capturing all this for the video
service Flash News/Global provided to its clients, along
with still-photo images and stories. Personally, Ian wasn't
crazy about appearing on video. Digging beneath the surface
of the news required an ability to blend into a scene,
impossible to do if you became a celebrity. Nevertheless,
this was a part of the job, like it or not.
"Is this live?" Jennifer asked Pierre.
"It is now." He turned the camera on Ian. "Go!"
Deep breath. "This is Ian Martin for Flash News/Global,
reporting from Safe Harbor, California. We're at a newly
remodeled fertility hospital, talking with public relations
director Jennifer Serra. We were discussing how this place
positively reeks of luxury."
She narrowed her eyes at him in annoyance. Then, as Pierre
swung toward her, she said brightly, "Safe Harbor Medical
Center offers a full spectrum of services for women and
their babies at all economic levels. We specialize in
fertility care and high-risk pregnancies, with an emphasis
on cutting-edge technology and techniques."
Back to Ian. He seized his chance. "This place may be called
Safe Harbor, but just imagine a frightened young woman
trying to relinquish her baby under the safe harbor law. If
she dared to show up here, I'll bet she'd be whisked out the
back door."
That was the advantage video had over writing. You could
throw out preposterous ideas and see what kind of reaction
you got.
Jennifer took the bait. "We don't whisk anyone out the back
door," she snapped. "And that's the safe haven law, not safe
harbor. It protects desperate mothers from being charged
with abandonment. We want them to bring their newborns to a
safe place."
"Safe haven, safe harbor," Ian tossed off. "Are you saying
scared young moms can drop off their babies at Safe Harbor
Medical Center? Will they be placed in wealthy homes?"
"They'll be placed in loving homes." A muscle tightened in
her neck as Dr. Rayburn and the lady in the power suit came
into view.
He decided to push a little harder. "Would you take
in a surrendered baby?"
"Me personally?"
"Sure. Why not?"
"I love babies." Jennifer swallowed hard. "Every day I walk
past our nursery and wish I could hold them all in my arms.
But that doesn't mean I could…"
Ignoring a twinge of guilt, Ian persisted. "So if a young
mother walked in here right now…"
"I'd do anything I could to help her." Tears sparkled in her
eyes. "So would any decent person."
In her face, he read a yearning so profound it twisted his
gut. Damn, what wound had he reopened here? They'd gone
beyond the usual game between reporter and publicist. Gone
straight into her soul.
Live on the Internet.
Ian found his voice again. "Thank you, Jennifer Serra." He
squared off with the camera. "This is Ian Martin, reporting
from Safe Harbor Medical Center."
Nodding his approval, Pierre killed the feed. Dr. Rayburn
and the executive, who'd apparently caught only the last few
words, looked pleased.
"Shall we start the conference?" the administrator asked.
"Absolutely." Casting a final glare at Ian, Jennifer headed
toward the lobby to corral the rest of the crowd.
Too bad he'd just burned his bridges. It might have been fun
getting to know her during the week or so he expected to
stay in the L.A. area.
Anyway, she wanted kids, and at her age, which he guessed to
be late twenties, was no doubt seeking a guy to nest with.
At thirty-four, Ian was strictly a
here-today-and-gone-tomorrow kind of guy, and preferred
ladies who felt the same.
Yet something about Jennifer haunted him. Perhaps it was the
irony that such a beautiful woman seemed so bereft.
Joining the crowd, he wandered into a wood-paneled
auditorium with richly upholstered seats, raked flooring
and, up front, an impressive display of electronic
equipment. Other attendees were still nibbling miniature
quiches and bacon-wrapped shrimp hors d'oeuvres, Ian
noticed. He wished he'd grabbed a plateful while he'd had
the chance.
The auditorium darkened and a slide show began, detailing
the facility's remodeling and its shining mission of mercy.
There were scenes of beaming parents and earnest doctors in
white coats bending over test tubes.
Hold on. Ian straightened at the sight of one slide, which
showed a doctor wearing an out-of-place skeptical
expression. "The head of our pediatrics department, Dr.
Samantha Forrest, works closely with new parents," enthused
the narrator. Well, Dr. Forrest, a capable-looking blonde,
might care about the couple shown with her, but she clearly
didn't enjoy being on camera. What else did she dislike?
Ian trusted his hunches, and he decided to call on Dr.
Forrest soon. Maybe he'd discovered his disaffected
troublemaker.
The slide show ended and the lights came up on the
TV-star-handsome Dr. Rayburn. Perfectly at ease in front of
a microphone, the administrator detailed the new programs,
some already in place, others just opening. The emphasis was
on the latest medical developments, which, no doubt, were
accompanied by breathtakingly high charges.
"Twenty years ago, the success rate for pregnancies with in
vitro fertilization was ten to twelve percent," he
concluded. "Today, in younger women, we can expect to
achieve a sixty to seventy percent rate. With older women,
the rates are also much higher than they used to be, and
this is just the beginning of the adventure. Now I'm happy
to take questions."
Ian didn't bother to make notes as other reporters threw out
inquiries.
"Delivering a baby is the most wonderful feeling in the
world." Dr. Rayburn responded to one question with
passionate commitment. Where had the corporation discovered
this guy—Hollywood central casting?
Ian flipped through the press kit an assistant had handed
him earlier. In Dr. Rayburn's bio, he saw no mention of a
wife or children. If delivering a baby was so fabulous, why
hadn't the great doctor produced any of his own?
That seemed too personal to ask in front of a crowd, though.
Instead, Ian chose the ever-popular topic of multiple
births. "Is there a limit on how many embryos you implant in
a woman?" he demanded without waiting to be called out.
"We implant two or three embryos at most," the administrator
responded. "We try to avoid multiple births that can
endanger the health of mothers and babies. Now, let's hear
from Medical Center Management vice president Chandra
Yashimoto."
The lady exec stepped forward to contribute a few words
about the pride her company, based in Louisville, Kentucky,
took in this new facility. The press kit listed neither an
M.D. nor an R.N. after her name.
Ms. Yashimoto yielded the microphone to Jennifer.
"I hope you'll all stick around and enjoy the refreshments,"
she said, her voice pleasingly husky. "Also, we'll be
announcing the winner of our baby bonanza raffle shortly.
Furniture, clothes, all the gear you need for a great start."
After a breath, she plunged into an obviously prepared
wrap-up. "Although the hospital has remained open during
remodeling, our staff endured a lot of disruption over the
summer. We were aiming for a September opening, and here we
are, right on track. I now officially declare our doors
open. Thank you all for joining us."
A smattering of applause followed. As the audience got to
its feet, Ian tried to figure out his next move.
Technically, he'd done his job, providing Pierre with video
and amassing enough material to write an article. A routine
one, but Flash News/Global would move it out, since weekends
tended to be slow for news without courts and legislatures
in session.
All the same, Ian hated writing forgettable pieces. He
craved an angle.
A sudden stir caught his attention. Willa Lightner, the
middle-aged PR assistant who'd been distributing press kits
earlier, had entered from the hall and was excusing her way
up the center aisle toward Jennifer. The two met, conferred
and hurried out together.
Something was up. Might be nothing more than a knocked-over
punch bowl, but, his curiosity aroused, Ian strode in their
wake.
He trailed them around a bend and into an alcove where half
a dozen people had gathered. It took a moment to identify
the object of their interest.
A young woman stood with her back against the wall, her arms
encircling a blanket-wrapped bundle. Loose brown hair
cascaded around a face in which determination warred with
fear. In contrast to the moms-to-be Ian had seen earlier,
she wore a threadbare smock and flip-flops. Definitely not
part of the hospital's show and tell program.
He took out his notebook and looked around. Pierre was
headed his way. Excellent.
In front of him, Jennifer parted the small group of
onlookers. "Hi. I'm the public relations director. Can I
help you?"
The young woman thrust the bundle into her arms. "I know who
you are, Mrs. Serra. I just saw you on the Internet." Her
voice trembled. "You said you love babies and you'd give
them a home. Well, I want you to adopt mine."
For a thunderstruck moment, nobody moved. Except Ian, who
made quick notes on his pad.
He'd found his story at last.