Authors: Theresa Rizzo
Just Destiny
By
Theresa Rizzo
Just Destiny
By Theresa Rizzo
Copyright © 2014 by Theresa Rizzo
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this work may be reproduced in any fashion without the express, written consent of the copyright holder.
Just Destiny
is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed herein are fictitious and are not based on any real persons living or dead.
For Dad,
who always encouraged me.
Any work of fiction is a collaborative effort and this one is no exception. I heartily and sincerely want to thank the many people who contributed their time and knowledge in helping me create this story. Any errors in this work of fiction are completely mine.
To Jayne Reardon, Robyn Meinhardt, and Dayna Matthew, for their legal advice and critiques. Mike Reardon, whose debate first sparked my interest in the ethical ramifications behind postmortem sperm retrieval and subsequent pregnancy. Dr. Jacques Beaudoin for information regarding diagnosis of brain death at a Michigan hospital. Jennifer at Gift of Life Michigan for current organ donor information.
To Courtney Gambrell for her sensitivity and great insight into characterization. Thanks to Philip Sutherland for his paramedic knowledge and advice. Danny Myers, Marj OReiley, and Laura Burleigh for quick reads and helpful critiques. Paul and Marilyn Rizzo for their contributions concerning Grosse Pointe and medical issues.
As always, I need to thank my great writing pals, Noelle Gracy, Judy Duerte, Kerri-Leigh Grady, Donnell Bell, Leslie Sartor, Kally Jo Surbeck, Audra Harders, and Kaki Warner, who continuously help me be true to the characters and story, and inspire me. You guys are awesome.
To Ellis Vidler, my talented freelance editor. To Donna Cook, book formatter extraordinaire, thanks for making my print copy so lovely. To Kim Killion for designing another beautiful cover.
To Mike Rizzo, for his medical counsel and master critiquing skills. Thanks Mike, for challenging me to write the best story I can and for always encouraging me to stretch and grow in my craft.
To my wonderful beta readers, Jill Cullinane, Jessica Brooks and Allison Brooks whose critiques are always brutally honest and helpful.
To Alex Logan and Beth de Guguzman, editors at Grand Central Publishing, for wonderful feedback that compelled me to strengthen the story.
Lastly I’d like to thank my husband, John, and children, Jillian, Brian, Jessica, and Allison for years of patience and encouragement.
Steve Grant’s heart pounded as if it might hammer its way right out of his chest. He took a measured breath, stretched an arm across the back of Annie’s chair and settled into his stadium seat.
What’s the problem, man? You’ve faced down Billy Ray Butler and Crush Davis, stared them down across home plate, in front of a sold-out crowd without breaking a sweat; you can do this. It’s the right thing to do
.
The band’s drums, trumpets and trombones belted out the Michigan fight song. “Let’s! Go! Blue!” The Ann Arbor crowd cheered as one.
“Why’d you give up your fifty-yard-line seats for these nosebleeds?” Annie raised her eyebrows.
“Lemme go,” the three-year-old behind her shrieked as he strained and bucked in his mother’s arms.
Annie winced, covered her ear and gave Steve a knowing look. When they went out without her children, he knew she wanted a break from
all
kids. These seats cost a small fortune; who in the hell brings their kid along? Steve scanned the packed seats around them—not a damn kid in sight. What were the chances they’d be sitting right in front of the only holy terror?
“One of our paralegals, Pete McGaffy, has his dad in town this weekend to celebrate his first year cancer free. Pete helped me a couple of times so when I found out his dad’s a huge Michigan fan, I gave them my tickets and got these instead.” He glared at the kid beating an annoying tattoo on the back of Annie’s chair, tempted to grab the little ankle to still him. “We have a great view of the whole field from here. Besides, I thought you’d enjoy sitting with Notre Dame fans instead of the enemy for a change.”
Annie had gone to Notre Dame and was a die-hard Irish fan, where as a Michigan alum, Steve’s season tickets bordered the Michigan sideline. She held out her hand for the binoculars and jerked forward as the kid pounded her chair with both of his feet. Stiff backed, Annie scooted forward in her chair.
“Switch seats with me.” Steve stood and pulled Annie out of her seat. She should be safe in front of the dad.
Annie stood and threw the little brat that warning look mothers seem to perfect, before slowly lowering herself into the other seat. Not exactly the mood he wanted to set. He hoped it wasn’t an omen.
Chill, man. She’s gonna love it
.
He looked at the giant scoreboard—five minutes to halftime. Steve settled back in the seat, rubbed tight neck muscles, and rolled his shoulders.
He’d chosen these seats carefully. The first row in club level seating had lots of leg room, a bird’s eye view of the whole field, and the cameramen should have no trouble zooming in on them. It was perfe—the boy put a sticky hand on Steve’s head and lunged over his shoulder, nearly falling into his lap. Steve caught him and shoved him back at his parents.
“Henry. I’m sooo sorry. Really. Sorry. I…” His mortified mother tried to lift him onto her lap, but the little boy arched his back and bellowed.
“That’s enough!” the father said. He handed his wife his beer and reached for the boy at the same time the kid jumped up, knocking her arm.
The halftime buzzer sounded loudly as Steve lunged forward, but he couldn’t right the cup before a wave of beer cascaded over the lip, splashing all over Annie’s shoulder, arm, and chest.
Annie gasped, jumped up and whirled on the threesome. Fury burned in her eyes as she shook her arm, spraying beer. “Are you freaking kidding me? What’s
wrong
with you people? Haven’t you ever heard of a babysitter?”
Steve stepped back and stared in horror. The pink of Annie’s shirt grew increasingly dark as it soaked up the beer.
“I’m
so
sorry.” The woman rummaged in her bag, yanked out some baby wipes and held them out to Annie. “I…please. We’ll pay for dry-cleaning.”
Annie snatched the wipes, made a few futile dabs at her arm before throwing them on her seat and pushing past Steve.
“Laaadies and geeen-tlemen,” The announcer drew out.
Steve grabbed her arm. “Where’re you going?”
“Preee-sent-ing the two-hundred thirty-five member Michigan marching Band. Baaa-nd…take the field.”
Annie frowned as if he was crazy. “To the bathroom.”
“Now? You can’t go now.”
Eyes widening, she plucked the wet shirt from her chest. “I’m
covered
in beer.”
Shit. Shit. Shit
. “Uh…there’ll be a long line. Just wait a little bit.” He turned her toward the field. “Watch the show.” He glanced at the forty-seven by eighty-five-foot screen to see the camera zooming in on them. He pointed toward the field. “Look, they’re spelling out something.”
“I don’t care.” She tried to pull free.
Steve tightened his grip on her shoulders. “Listen. It’s that Bruno Mars song you love.”
“What is wrong with you?” She glared. “I’m soaked and smell like a frat party.”
Steve pivoted her toward the field and locked his arms around her. “
Look
.”
The band had spelled out “M-A-R-R-Y M-E” and dissolved to reform one last word. “A-N-N-I-E.”
The announcer boomed, “Weeeell, Annie?”
Annie looked toward the huge board where the camera had zoomed in on them and they stood larger than life. Her glare melted as awareness set in. She brushed her hair back and a tentative smile flickered across her face.
Steve released her. He wiped damp palms on his thighs, then dropped to one knee and took her hand. “Will you marry me, Annie?”
Hand covering her mouth, Annie dragged her gaze from the huge screen long enough to nod at him. Her glance darted back and forth from the screen to him. She thrust out her left hand. He took the ring box from his pocket, then slid the ring onto her finger.
Annie yanked her hand back and after a quick inspection of the 3-carat marquise, held it up for everybody to see as if she were a winner lofting her trophy. Steve pulled her into his arms for a hug while the crowd cheered and clapped.
Smile, Steve
. Even if he couldn’t give her his heart, he’d embarrassed himself in front of millions of people and given her her dream proposal. The love would come.
Even the best-made plans were subject to the whims of fate, and Jenny Harrison believed in embracing Lady Destiny’s cues. She grabbed her list and the gallon-size baggie of cookies, whistled for Ritz and rushed through the hedge separating the driveway from their neighbor’s. With the golden retriever prancing at her heels, she breezed through Steve’s back door, calling out, “Hey, Grant?”
“Kitchen.” Steve, with his maroon silk tie tucked into his white dress shirt, leaned over his sink and bit a pickle. He saluted her with the dill. “Lunch?”
“No, thanks, we’ll catch something on the road. Save room; I made your favorite, pecan chocolate chip.” She held up the cookies.
Steve took the bag. “Mmmm. They’re still warm. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did. We really appreciate your taking care of Ritz and the house. With the trial ramping up, I know you’re crazy busy.”
“No problem.” He polished off the pickle and pulled the cookie bag open.
The sweet scent of fresh-baked cookie and warm chocolate commingled with the acetous pickle smell. Jenny winced. Gross. Shaking her head, she laid down the list. “Here’s the number of the Saugatuck Inn—in case of an emergency—though we’ll both have our cells.” She frowned and craned her neck to read the upside down list. “And…you have a key to the house. We won’t set the alarm. There should be plenty of dog food in the garage, and I stopped the newspapers.” She looked up. “Questions?”
“Jen, you’ll only be gone three and a half days.” Then at her steady look, he sighed. “Got it.”
Jenny reached for her back pocket and fingered the bulky line there, thinking. She couldn’t wait to share her good news. Ordinarily she’d want it to be Gabe, but under the circumstances, maybe a test run on Steve might be good.
“What?” He raised his eyebrows and polished off the cookie. “Out with it. You look like the cat who swallowed the canary and got her cream too.”
Jenny smiled, whipped the plastic stick from her back pocket and waved it around. “I’m pregnant.”
“You’re…?” His eyes widened and his jaw dropped. “That’s great. Right? Is it great?”
She nodded and smiled. “It’s amazing.”
“Pregnant? Wow. What’d Gabe say?”
“He doesn’t know. I just found out myself. I’m going to tell him this weekend.” She grinned a wide silly, grin, then bit her lower lip. “I’m going to have a baby.”
“Congratulations, kid. You’re gonna be a great mom.”
“Thanks.” Jenny smiled, still a little shocked. She fingered the stick, staring at the blue line, then slipped it back in her pocket. That wasn’t so bad. In just a few minutes Steve had lost that stunned look. It’d be fine. Everything would be fine.
Jenny crouched down and rubbed the big dog’s head between her hands. “Be a good girl, Ritz.” Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed her husband’s red Volkswagen zipping up their driveway. She stood and headed for the door. “Gotta run. Thanks.”
“Have fun.”
“See ya.” Jenny rushed out the door and trotted across the drives to her Jeep. She faced Gabe with a cheerful smile. “Hi.”
Gabe walked over and planted a quick kiss on her lips. “Ready to go?”
“Car’s all packed, but—” She reached out and took his hand. Threading her fingers between his, Jenny held on to keep his attention. “I have a tiny favor to ask.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Tiny, eh?”
She nodded. “Hardly anything at all.”
“Shoot.”
“Would you mind very much stopping by the clinic on the way out?”
“Be-cause…”
“Because…I sort of promised Tommy you’d take a look at his little brother. You know, the eleven-year-old boy I interviewed for the foster care article. His half brother and sister live with their grandma, and his little brother’s been sick for the past week. Grandma works as a cleaning lady and doesn’t have insurance, so she won’t take the boy to the doctor.”
“So you told Tommy I’d examine him.” Gabe looked down at her, his expression hard to read.