Fertile Ground (4 page)

“You noticed, huh?” He grimaced. “Chelsea really was sweet. I can’t believe she was murdered.” He shuddered. “Yeah, I was defensive, and nervous. Here I am, trying to find out who’s stealing us blind, about to fire someone I think is responsible for serious garbage at the clinic. The last thing I need is police questioning the staff. Also—” He stopped abruptly.

“Also what?”

“Also nothing.” He clicked off the television, tossed the remote onto the coffee table, and settled back against the leather sofa cushion. “How’s the search for the dream wedding gown?” He played with the oval two-carat diamond on her finger.

“Changing the subject?” she teased.

“Very astute. Dr. Brockman.” He smiled lightly.

She knew better than to press. He was always careful to separate their professional and personal lives. That was the difficulty with co-workers becoming involved, he’d told her at the end of what had begun as a dinner meeting to review her first two months at the clinic but had quickly become more intimate. She’d felt attracted to him for some time—he was handsome, bright, dynamic, caring—but she’d said with feigned nonchalance, Well, maybe becoming involved wasn’t a good idea. Partly meaning it. And he’d stared at her and said. Probably not. And then he’d kissed her.

“So what’s with the dress?” he asked again.

It was her turn to equivocate. “I haven’t found one I love.”

She hadn’t tried on a single gown, even though the wedding was set for August, only three months away. From the time they’d become engaged, five months ago, she’d had the feeling—irrational, she knew—that if she bought a dress, something would go wrong, the engagement would be broken, just like last time.

And now she had doubts about marrying him. She didn’t know whether to tell him or wait. If she told him and resolved her uncertainties, she’d have hurt him unnecessarily.

But if not… She wondered again, as she did occasionally, what her mother had done with the gown they’d chosen together at Kleinfeld’s eleven years ago. It was a beautiful gown-a beaded lace bodice with a voluminous tulle skirt sprinkled with tiny pearls; trying it on in the store and later at home, she’d felt like Cinderella.

When the Rossners broke off the engagement, two weeks before the wedding, her mother had secreted the

gown out of Lisa’s closet. Maybe she’d given it to charity. Lisa had often helped her mother bake for the teas held by a Jewish organization that raised funds to assist needy brides to marry and outfit their homes. (“Our sages tell us,” her mother had explained, “that one of the first questions posed to a person in the next life is, “Did you help the needy brides enter the wedding canopy?” ” Her mother, she knew, would be able to answer that question easily.)

Or maybe her mother, nurturing hope, had given the dress to be preserved for a future date. Lisa was still a size six and could fit into it. Not that she wanted to wear it.

Matthew put his arm around her. “Did I mention they delivered the new armoire? Plenty of room for all your sweaters, and my condo is five minutes from the clinic. So how about it? “Come live with me and be my love’?”

” “And we will all the pleasures prove.” ” She smiled and said, “After the wedding.” He asked her this every few weeks. Every few weeks she gave the same answer, though now the reasons had subtly changed.

“Come on. Lisa. This is silly, living apart. I’m sure your parents figure we’re sleeping together.” An edge of irritation had replaced his bantering tone.

She’d explained her reasoning before and tried not to be annoyed now by his persistence, which she knew was normal. “I’m sure they do. But I don’t want to upset them more than I have.”

Her parents were devout Orthodox Jews and were grievously disappointed that their only child was marrying a man whose Jewishness was merely a fact of his birth. She respected her parents and loved them dearly and had felt terrible announcing her engagement over the phone. They’d responded with silence. Then her father, his voice heavy with sadness, had said, “Can we talk about this?” and she’d said, “Please don’t. Daddy. This is what I want”

She’d spoken with conviction, though something nameless had been nagging at her even then. Lately she’d started contemplating what kind of life she envisioned for

herself and Matthew and their children; and she’d also been thinking, more and more, about her patient Naomi Hoffman, who was Orthodox. After every appointment with Naomi, Lisa had felt unsettled, vaguely dissatisfied, almost irritated with the woman for being so serenely content with her observant lifestyle. Several weeks ago she’d admitted to herself that her irritation was a form of masking envy, that what she’d dismissed for years as nostalgia was a yearning to return to the religious observance of her adolescence.

She’d been putting off telling Matthew what she was thinking, waiting for the right time, but there was no right time. “What would you say if I wanted us to be Orthodox she asked now and saw surprise flash across his handsome face.

“If I said yes, would you move in with me tomorrow?” He laughed, then assumed a sober expression and sat up straight, resting his arm on top of the couch’s high back. “I thought you were done with all that years ago.”

“I thought so, too. But I’ve felt for some time that something’s missing in my life. Matt, and I’ve been thinking about taking some outreach classes.” From a local synagogue she’d learned that there were several programs for ba ‘alei teshuvah, those who returned to the faith; there was one in the Pico area, near her. The phone number and address were on a pad on her nightstand.

“You didn’t tell me.” His voice held a hint of accusation.

“I wasn’t sure how I felt. I’m still not.” She didn’t add that she’d been nervous about telling him. “We’ve talked about having kids, Matt, but we haven’t talked about what kind of religious upbringing we want to give them.”

He frowned. “I’m not sure they need religion.”

“I think they do. Matt.” She rested her hand on his arm.

He was silent for a while, still frowning. “My parents never took me to a synagogue—you know that. I never had a bar mitzvah. I don’t think I’m deprived.”

She didn’t answer.

“All I know about Orthodoxy is the little you’ve told me, Lisa, and you’ve said yourself it’s complicated, with hundreds of rules and restrictions that sound outdated to me.” He paused. “There are other, less restrictive types of Judaism.”

“I’ve been to Conservative and Reform services, mainly for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.” She’d avoided visiting her parents on the High Holidays—she’d had no desire to return to the synagogue she’d attended almost weekly for over eighteen years, to pretend she didn’t see the curiosity and criticism in the veiled looks of her former friends and her parents’ friends. Her parents must have understood her discomfort, because they’d never pressed her to come. Or maybe her presence at services would have made them uncomfortable, too. “The services were beautiful and inspiring, and the people were great—warm, welcoming.” She hesitated. “But I didn’t feel as though I was home. I want to feel that I’m home, Matt.” She gazed at him, willing him to understand.

“Maybe you need to give them another chance.”

“Maybe.” She realized she might be seeking something that didn’t exist, that what worked for her parents and Naomi Hoffman—and for Sam Davidson, who was Orthodox, too—might not work for her. He ran his hand back and forth on the leather cushion. “I have to think about this, okay?”

“Of course,” she said quickly. “It’s taken me a long time to come to this point. You’re entitled to take a while.” She smiled, hoping to lighten the mood, but was met with another silence.

“You’d want to keep the Sabbath and keep kosher, right? The works?” he finally asked.

“My kitchen is kosher anyway, in case my parents visit.” It took so little effort and made them so happy. “And Sam says there are lots of good kosher restaurants in L.A.”

“But they don’t serve lobster or oysters, do they?”

She smiled again. “Not quite.” She’d never developed a fondness for shellfish or ham or cheeseburgers—she’d tasted guilt with every bite—and she didn’t think she’d

mind giving up the convenience of eating in nonkosher restaurants. Then again, she hadn’t tried. “Keeping kosher isn’t all that difficult. Matt. Neither is keeping the Sabbath, once you’re used to it.” Was she trying to convince him or herself?

“Maybe not for you, because you did it for so many years. Imagine if I said I.wanted us to be Buddhist or Mormon.” His eyes narrowed. “You think your parents will dislike me less if you go back to the fold—is that it? Or has Sam been doing a number on you because he’s Orthodox?”

“Sam and I never discuss religion.” She pressed closer to him. “My parents don’t dislike you. Matt. Once they meet you, they’ll love you.” She nuzzled his cheek. “And they don’t know I’m thinking about becoming Orthodox again. I won’t tell them until I’m sure.” It would be cruel to raise their hopes. She hesitated, then told him about Naomi Hoffman. “I envy what she and her husband have. Matt. I can’t help wondering whether we could have the same thing.”

“So I have her to thank for this, huh?” he said lightly.

“I know I’m not being fair, throwing this at you.”

“No, you’re not. But this isn’t about ‘fair,” is it?” He looked at her thoughtfully. “I can’t make any commitments, but I guess if it means a lot to you, I can go to a couple of these classes with you, see how I feel.”

She should have been pleased with his response—it was a surprisingly promising beginning—but she wasn’t. The possibility that she wanted him to back out so she wouldn’t have to, that there was more to her mixed emotions than religion, startled her.

He took her hand. “The most important thing is that we love each other. Lisa. Everything else will resolve itself.”

That’s what Asher had said, too.

Matthew kissed her. “Let’s go to bed,” he whispered.

She wondered wryly how he would react if she told him Orthodoxy prohibited intimacy between unmarried people. She followed him to her bedroom, miserable because she was being less than honest about her doubts,

and tried to lose herself in his lovemaking, which was tender and passionate, if a little more intense than usual.

Afterward, he lay staring into the darkness, his interlaced fingers cupping his head.

“Are you brooding about us or about the clinic?” she asked softly, smoothing his hair.

He was silent for so long that she thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then he said, “In a matter of days the clinic could be ruined.”

She felt a flutter of alarm. “The clinic has a spotless reputation, Matt, and an unbelievably terrific success rate. That’s why patients come to us from all over the world.”

“One whiff of suspicion of wrongdoing, and they’ll stop coming and we can close the doors. And the board will blame me.”

“Matt—”

“I’m the head director. The buck stops with me.” He swung his legs off the bed and bent down to pick up his clothing.

He was right, of course. She watched in silence as he dressed. “I wish I could help.”

He sat down next to her. “You help just by being with me. Lisa. You’re the best thing in my life, don’t you know that?” He leaned over and kissed her. His lips lingered on hers.

“So what are you going to do. Matt?”

“I’m going to play detective. I don’t have much time.” He buttoned his shirt. “Maybe I’ll find out that things aren’t so bad. You know me—morose Matthew.” He forced a smile. “Try not to worry, okay?”

Lisa watched intently as Charlie McCallister, his eyes fixed on the lenses of a heated microscope, guided the needle containing a single sperm into the ovum in the petri dish. The clinic used this relatively new procedure when the sperm count was low or the sperm had low motility. (“Lazy swimmers,” Matthew called them.) Typically, doctors didn’t oversee lab technicians, but Lisa had promised the husband and wife, a particularly anxious couple, that she would observe the micro manipulation

“Bull’s eye.” The red-haired lab director covered the petri dish, already labeled with the patient’s name, and took the dish to one of the dull gray, boxlike incubators at the far end of the lab.

“What’s next?” Lisa asked when he returned a moment later carrying test tubes.

“The Chapman eggs.”

Early this morning Lisa had aspirated thirteen eggs from Susan Chapman. Of the eggs that would be fertilized and developed into viable embryos, a maximum of four would be implanted to increase Susan’s chance of sustaining a clinical pregnancy. The others would be cry-op reserved—frozen—and stored for a later date. “Let’s make some babies,” the lab director said.

Lisa smiled. She’d witnessed in vitro fertilization hundreds of times; though the process was simple, the concept never failed to amaze and excite her. She watched as Charlie transferred the first egg from the sterile test tube into a petri dish labeled with Susan’s name. Then he added Jason Chapman’s “washed” sperm and affixed another label with Jason’s name.

“Any bets on how many will take, Charlie?”

“I only bet at the track. Doc. And thirteen isn’t exactly anyone’s favorite number.” He grinned, then turned to the tall, blond-haired man who had just entered the lab. “What about you, Norman? Any bets on how many of these little critters will be sending Mother’s Day cards?”

“I think you know I’m not a betting man.” A brief smile flitted across the man’s serious, angular face. “But I’m reasonably certain every one of these will develop into embryos. If I may say so. Dr. McCallister, you have a gift.”

“A paid political announcement.” Charlie’s face had turned red, disguising the freckles splashed across his nose and cheeks.

“Hardly. Norman’s right, you know.” Lisa smiled warmly. “Your track record’s pretty damn good.” She caught Norman Weld’s darting look of disapproval and remembered that Charlie had told her the lab assistant was a little straitlaced.

Charlie was transferring an egg from another test tube into a new petri dish when Lisa’s pager beeped. It was Selena.

“You’d better come up here quick, mi hija,” the office manager said urgently when Lisa contacted her. “There are so many hysterical women demanding to see Dr. Gordon, I barely made it to my desk.”