The Offering (9 page)

“Like what?” She stopped and met my gaze, her eyes brimming with fresh tears. “I thought getting pregnant would be easy. I wanted to surprise everyone with a big announcement at one of Mama's dinners. I kept hoping it would happen one month, then the next, then the next, and now we've been trying so long I'm almost certain it's not going to happen at all.”

I opened my mouth and then clamped it shut, abruptly aware that I probably wasn't the best person to comfort my cousin. For the past few days I'd been babbling about how I got pregnant so easily that carrying another woman's child would be the simplest thing on earth. I'd been inadvertently rubbing salt into Amelia's wound.

“I feel terrible.” Reluctantly, I slid my gaze into hers. “I'm so sorry. I didn't realize.”

“How could you? Infertility isn't the sort of thing people carry on about.”

Ouch. I'd been bragging about my fertility over the last few days.

She turned and strode toward the back of the store, shoulders slumping beneath the weight of unmet expectations.

I braced my hands on the counter and watched her go. We argued occasionally and didn't always get along, but except for
Gideon, Amelia was my closest friend. How could I have been so blind to her pain and struggle over the past few months? Because I'd been too focused on my own plans, that's how. My mom would have called it self-centeredness, and she'd have been right.

A thought occurred to me—one that would never have entered my head if not for my investigation into surrogacy: could I carry a child for Amelia? I could have a baby for her, one member of the family doing something amazing for another. But while that might be a loving gesture, it wouldn't meet my family's financial needs or help our dreams come true. And the prospect of a substantial payday was why I'd investigated surrogacy in the first place.

Besides, Amelia would have mentioned something if she wanted me to consider carrying a baby for her. After all, she'd heard me talking about surrogacy, so it would have been easy for her to bring up the subject. She hadn't, so her silence probably meant she didn't want to have a baby via gestational carrier. She wanted to feel a baby growing under her skin. She wanted to walk around in maternity clothes and beam when people asked about her due date. She wanted the entire experience, and I couldn't blame her. What woman didn't?

So having a baby for her . . . was unfortunately out of the question.

O
n Friday, December 21, Gideon and I took Marilee to school and then drove across the bay to the Surrogacy Center. We were supposed to arrive at ten, but Gideon and I pulled into the parking lot a few minutes early. The blond receptionist ushered us into a small conference room and asked if we wanted coffee, but I was too jittery to even think about ingesting caffeine. We sat on one side of a rectangular conference table, and Gideon, who usually seemed preternaturally calm, leaned back in his chair and jiggled his legs—first up and down in a frantic rhythm, then from left to right like a hyperactive adolescent.

I placed my hand on his thigh to calm him, then wondered if his nervousness didn't stem from something other than this interview. He never discussed his work with me, but for all I knew he might soon be leaving to rescue some American hostage being held in a foreign embassy.

I gave him a narrow-eyed look, and got a slow blink in response. “What?”

“Nothing,” I answered, shaking off the vague sense of foreboding. “If you're okay, I'm okay.”

“I'm okay.” He nodded to reinforce the point, then went back to jiggling his legs. I pressed my lips together, wondering if he was
being hyperactive or figuring how much ammo he had to pack for his team's next mission.

My thoughtful husband had taken the day off to be with me, but I had the feeling he'd rather be training with his unit.

When the conference room door opened again, I squeezed his knee as my heart leapt into the back of my throat. Natasha led the way into the room, followed by the elegant couple we'd seen in the photograph. Damien and Simone Amblour appeared even more perfect in person, but Damien had shaved his beard, leaving his face round and solid. His complexion was tanned and leathery, but hers as pale as blank newsprint. She looked a bit older than she had in the photo, and I suspected that she'd experienced a sleepless night. Maybe they were as uneasy as we were.

“Amanda and Gideon Lisandra”—Natasha gestured to us—“I'd like you to meet Damien and Simone Amblour. Damien and Simone are the couple whose file you selected, Mandy.”

As if I needed reminding.

Gideon and I stood and extended our hands across the table. “So nice to meet you both,” I said. “Welcome to Tampa Bay.”

Simone and Damien shook our hands, smiled a welcome, and sat opposite us. Like a judge, Natasha sat at the head of the table with a stack of printed documents at her right hand. “These,” she said, pressing her palm to the mountain of paperwork, “are for later. Right now I want to give you two couples a chance to get to know one another.”

Since no one else seemed inclined to break the ice, I spoke up. “First of all,” I said, a blush heating my cheeks, “I want to admit how nervous I am. I don't know why, but I feel like I'm on trial or something.”

“Me too.” Simone pressed her hand to her chest and laughed. “Thank you for being honest, but please do not feel anxious. We are not here to judge you. We want to know you better, but most of all, we want you to know how grateful we are. We have waited
so long for a child; we have made so many attempts and tried so many things. . . .”

Her voice trailed away, but her husband picked up her thought. “It is most important to our family that we have a child—boy or girl, it does not matter. Our vineyard is our life's work, and our child will inherit a historic estate—the Domaine de Amblour is famous for its hospitality and beauty, and our wine has been lauded for generations. We are eager for our child to continue our work and claim the heritage that will rightfully be his.”

Gideon and I nodded as if we understood, but how could we? I knew practically nothing about my family history, and Gideon's people had been living in Cuba only two generations before. As citizens of a country only two and a quarter centuries old, how were we supposed to relate to Damien's talk of a multigenerational heritage?

I caught Gideon's eye and smiled, guessing at his thoughts. As a military family, we'd be lucky if we managed to spend three years in the same city.

“Your home sounds beautiful.” I crossed my arms. “I've never been to France, but I've seen movies. If it's anything like the country in
Under the Tuscan Sun
—”

“Tuscany is Italy,” Simone corrected, her voice gentle. “But I daresay you would find many areas that appear similar. If you have seen any vineyard, you would understand what our home is like. From a distance, the fields look as though they have been stitched with neat rows of vines, plotted with extreme care and patience.”

I smiled at her artistic description and hoped she didn't think I was a complete ignoramus. I'd never been to Tuscany or France, so how was I supposed to know which was which?

Damien shifted in his seat. “You have other children?”

Polite of him to ask, since I knew he'd studied my folder and had to know I had a daughter. “We have a four-year-old, Marilee. She's beautiful.” I fumbled in my purse, then pulled out my phone and pulled up a picture. Simone and Damien leaned across the table to look at it, then nodded in appreciation.

“Lovely,” Simone said. “She looks healthy and strong.”

“She is.” I smiled at the photo, then dropped my phone back into my bag. “She's perfect in every way.”

“Simone, Damien”—Natasha turned to face them—“why don't you tell Mandy about some of the requests you wanted to ask of your gestational carrier.”

Simone turned to her husband, who took the lead. “We believe in healthy living,” he said, the parentheses around his mouth settling into a look of firm resolve. “So we hope you don't smoke.”

“I don't,” I answered, grateful to get at least one answer right. “And neither does Gideon. I don't drink, either.”

Damien's mouth curved in a rueful smile. “As a vintner, I am sorry to hear that.”

“But happy for the baby,” Simone added, laugh lines radiating from the corners of her blue eyes. “I know the risks, and I am glad you are willing to be careful.”

“I had an easy pregnancy with Marilee,” I said, trying to put them at ease. “No hypertension, nothing like that. Not even much weight gain, really. Suddenly it was time for her to be born, and there she was. I think I was lucky, but my mom says my hips were designed for having babies. They're nice and roomy.”

The tip of Simone's nose went pink as she released a polite laugh. “I am glad to hear it. We want things to be easy for you.”

“I assume you'll want the usual battery of tests,” Natasha said, pulling a page from an orange folder. “The test for Downs at thirteen weeks, amnio at twenty—”

“We do not care about tests,” Simone interrupted, a thread of alarm in her voice as she straightened in her chair. “They do not matter. If the child has Downs, we would not want to terminate the pregnancy. We do not want to risk the baby's health with amniocentesis, nor do we want to do anything to inconvenience Amanda.”

I glanced at Gideon, who had lifted his brows in pleased surprise.

Simone settled back in her chair, lowering her gaze, and her husband reached for her hand. Something passed between them, something I didn't understand, but Natasha had clearly touched a nerve.

“All right,” she said, shoving the schedule of tests aside. “We won't require testing at any point. Is that agreeable to you, Amanda?”

Always willing to steer clear of needles, I nodded. “No problem here.”

“Very well, then.”

We sat for a moment in a quiet so thick the only sound was Gideon's rhythmically squeaking chair, then Simone tapped the table with her long nails and looked at me. “There is something else—I wondered if we might ask a favor?”

“Sure,” I said.

“At the appropriate point in the pregnancy, if I emailed you a recording—or sent a tape, whatever is easiest—could you play it for the baby every night? I think it is important for a fetus to hear its mother's voice, especially since this baby will be surrounded by French speakers.”

I blinked, then smiled as understanding dawned. She wanted me to hold headphones or a tape player up to my belly. “I could do that. As soon as we know the baby has ears.”

Damien propped his arm on the back of his wife's chair. “Our child will probably not learn English until he or she goes to school.”

“I don't suppose”—Gideon spoke up for the first time—“you'd consider teaching him Spanish?”

The Amblours looked at each other, clearly baffled, while I kicked my husband's shinbone. “You'll have to excuse him.” I forced a smile. “My husband is
cubano,
so he was making a little joke.”

“Oh.” Simone pursed her lips and nodded slightly. “I see.”

“Any other questions or concerns?” Natasha looked from one side of the table to the other. “If not, we have paperwork to sign.
Will you please look over these pages, initial each at the bottom, and sign on the last page. When you've completed one set, pass them across the table so the other couple can do the same thing. Gideon, the Amblours' contract will be with your wife, but you may sign as a witness. You'll see the proper spot on the final page.”

I sat up straighter and took the pages Natasha offered me. Gideon and I had already studied the contract, so it held no surprises. In short, I was to do everything necessary to facilitate the success of the embryo transfer. After a positive pregnancy test I was to do everything necessary to ensure a healthy baby and successful delivery. I would not be asked to participate in selective termination of any fetus unless the pregnancy directly threatened my health.

For my efforts to help the couple achieve a successful pregnancy, I would be paid two hundred dollars a month, beginning today and continuing until the baby's delivery. I would also receive one hundred dollars each time I attended a monthly surrogate support group.

Once my doctor confirmed a fetal heartbeat, I would receive twenty-four hundred dollars per month until the baby's birth, and at the beginning of the second trimester I would receive one thousand dollars to cover the purchase of maternity clothing. If at any point my doctor prescribed total bed rest, the Amblours would hire a housekeeper for my family and compensate me for my lost wages at the grocery. In addition, the Amblours would purchase a one-year term life insurance policy—in the unlikely event something went fatally wrong, Gideon and Marilee would receive one hundred thousand dollars.

When we had signed all the documents, Natasha handed me an envelope containing my first check—two hundred dollars to cover parking, mileage, meals, and anything else I might spend as I went about the work of getting pregnant with the Amblours' baby.

“All right, then.” Natasha piled the copies of the contract into a neat stack, then smiled at us. “Simone, I understand you are going
to see a reproductive endocrinologist here about egg retrieval, correct? And, Mandy, when the time is right the RE will put you on Lupron to prepare your uterus for the transfer. At this stage of the procedure, I step out of the way and let the doctors manage the tricky work of making sure the egg donor and recipient get their cycles synchronized. Any questions about anything we've discussed?”

Relieved to have come to a bridge and successfully journeyed over, I looked across the table at the woman who still seemed terribly tense. I couldn't imagine why she was jittery—after all, she and her husband had money, power, position, a private jet, and a potential surrogate, so what could she possibly lack?