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Since learning they were pregnant—again—six months ago, their relationship had flourished, along with the babe in Jules’ belly. The doctor assured them sex posed no risk to the fetus, and the renewed intimacy had been healing. Now that Skye—they were expecting a little girl—had made it into the periviable period, Ben had finally allowed himself to believe he was really and truly going to be a father. Jules was still a bit disconnected, afraid to let herself become emotionally attached to the baby. Their therapist, a warm and wise older woman who specialized in treating infertile couples, assured Ben this was normal, a defensive mechanism to minimize the devastation each failed pregnancy left in its wake.
This time was going to be different. Ben told himself this at least a dozen times each day.
This time, he thought, unable to complete the statement.
“Did you try calling Jules?” Vickie was asking him.
He hadn’t. Too distracted by fears and what-ifs. He thumbed in her number, the call going straight to voicemail.
“No answer.”
“Check at home,” Vickie said, the efficiency Ben valued so highly kicking in. “I’ll try her girlfriends and her mom. She gave me their numbers to plan the baby shower.”
“Call me if you find her.”
“Same.” Vickie was already dialing.
Ben started for the door, then turned back to August.
“I’ll handle it.” For a guy with more tattoos than brain cells, his assistant was amazingly astute sometimes.
“I left out the paint—”
“Ben, we got this.” Vickie eyed him over the rhinestoned frame of her glasses. “Quit catastrophizing this. There are a hundred good reasons she missed the appointment. She’s napping. She’s shopping. She’s eating. She’s shopping. She’s—”
The laugh that erupted served as a release valve of sorts, enabling Ben to stop panicking and start thinking logically.
“I’ll call.” He left the shop, hurried out to his Suburban, and started the engine.
As he covered the ten miles between his shop and their house on the outskirts of Ann Arbor, his anxiety ratcheted back up. Vickie said Jules had forgotten two other appointments, and that didn’t begin to cover her absentmindedness at home. Burnt toast, a pot of soup that boiled over, the dinner with friends she forgot to add to the calendar on the refrigerator, the double doses of prenatal vitamins, the laundry that sat in the washer for a week and mildewed.
The pregnancy hadn’t been easy, although Jules never complained about the fatigue, nausea, dizziness, and headaches. She was willing to endure all that, and more, if the outcome was a healthy baby. Dr. Kettner had assured them the symptoms were common and in no way indicated a problem with the pregnancy.
Even so, Ben was reluctant to accept the forgetfulness as a result of pregnancy brain. Prior to resigning from her teaching job at the University of Michigan, Jules had been organized and detail-oriented to the extent her color-coded system for storing holiday decorations was something of a family joke.
Even with all those pregnancy hormones turning her slim body into a lush, amazing incubator for their baby girl, something was different about Jules. Something was off. Something waswrong.
Rolling through the stop sign at the final intersection before the turnoff to their century-old farmhouse, Ben gripped the steering wheel with damp palms and offered up a silent prayer.
2
28 weeks
Jules Rosner slowly came awake,not sure where she was. Something sharp, like disinfectant, burned her nose, and something crunched in her ear when she turned her head toward a figure. She blinked, trying to clear her vision; there was nothing but blurry brightness.
Ben.
“I’m here, babe.” Her husband’s hand, warm and calloused, pressed reassuringly against her forearm.
“Where…” Her throat was sandpaper dry.
“You’re in the hospital.” Ben’s grip tightened, then relaxed. “Do you remember anything from last night?”
“The baby?” She reached for her belly, a pinch in the crook of her right arm halting the movement. Her left hand continued over the hard swell of her abdomen, a relieved sigh escaping when movement rippled under her skin.
“Baby’s fine.” Dr. Kettner’s familiar voice, a soothing tenor that had reassured hundreds of nervous mothers, filled the room. “I can’t say the same for you, Mama.”
She clenched her eyes a couple of times until the room came into focus: Ben in a chair beside her bed, dark circles under his eyes, brown hair in spiky disarray; Dr. Kettner inside the doorway, worry lines furrowed above stark white eyebrows.
