Quiet Angel (38 page)

Lord knows, Mrs. Baxter was never going to see his child. The mere thought of the woman made him physically ill.

*

Gage spent the
next few days working from home, taking care of Layla in between calls and video conferences. He was around so much he didn’t require Mateo any longer. But he told Mateo he’d keep his number handy. There was a good chance he’d need the man down the road, to look out for Layla again or kneecap one of Ava’s boyfriends. Mateo said he was just a phone call away and would welcome the chance to rough up a teenager. Gage was pleased to hear it. The world needed more men like Mateo.

Unfortunately, Layla wasn’t getting any better. A steady diet of ginger ale and toast wasn’t doing much good. When the nausea turned to abdominal pain, she made a doctor’s appointment. And she wanted to go alone. Gage didn’t like the idea but didn’t want to argue. He knew she was used to doing these things alone and wanted to respect that. Or maybe she needed some space to adjust to the idea of being a mother, though she still hadn’t taken the pregnancy test. And he’d stopped asking her days ago.

He arranged for a driver to take her to the doctor and took the chance to go to corporate headquarters, to visit with his management team, to clear his desk again. He looked at the clock on his office wall. The hands were moving slowly. She’d been gone over an hour and hadn’t called. He kicked himself for not going with her. Hopefully she wasn’t doubled-over somewhere. Surely the driver would call if she got sick in the car or something was terribly wrong. Hopefully everything was fine, and she’d soon call with good news.

“Mr. Montgomery,” Mary said over the speaker. “There’s someone here to see you.”

“Layla?”

“No, sir. She says she’s Layla’s mother.”

Gage tossed his
briefcase in the living room and started to pace, a massive headache attacking him. The bitch had some nerve, flying all the way to Atlanta, showing up to his office unannounced, admitting she sold the stories to the press – and then demanding money.
Unbelievable.

The gall she had to sell out her own daughter and then, when the cash well ran dry, come to him seeking out more. The whole thing was actually a little scary—and not for himself. He was scared for Layla—for her health, their possible baby, and what this new information would do to her.

He never had the urge to kill someone before, to look someone in the eye and watch the life drain out. He was tempted, and if anything could push him over the edge, it was someone hurting Layla. Surely no one would miss Mrs. Baxter. It took every ounce of self-control not to wrap his hands around her neck and snap it—like her sociopathic pervert son had done to Layla’s dog. He picked up Pippa, and his stomach turned at the thought, at the inhumanity of it. The creep deserved to die, too. It was long overdue. His time was coming.

If ever there was a time to fly, it was now—to escape to the skies and look down on the world and gain some perspective. But there was no time for that now, not with Layla wherever the hell she was. He hadn’t heard from her all afternoon, and his calls were rolling over to voicemail. He had no idea what was going on, what tests were being done. For all he knew, his wife could be vomiting on the side of the road or having emergency surgery at some unknown hospital. His excitement about being a father was now a flurry of nerves.

He thought to scream from his balcony. But instead he gave Pippa a kiss. He had to calm down. Whenever she got back, Layla was going to need him—whether she was pregnant, or to deal with her mother.

He replayed the conversation with Mrs. Baxter in his mind, the reason she needed money, the reason she needed it so urgently. He had no idea if it was true. The woman was a calculated cunt, but no one could possibly make up what she said. There’d be no easy way out of this mess, and the decision wasn’t really his to make. Sure, it was his money, but it was Layla’s family. He’d tell Layla about it when she got home, provided she was feeling better.

The house phone rang. “Could I please speak with Layla Tanner?” a female voice asked.

“Layla Montgomery?”

“Oh, yes, I see that now. Yes, Mrs. Montgomery.”

“She’s not in. This is her husband.”

“This is the nurse. I have her test results. Could you please have her call us when she gets home?”

“I figured she was still there.”

“No, she left about 30 minutes ago.”

“OK. You can give me the results.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Montgomery. You’re not listed as someone we can release records to.”

“We got married last month.”

“I’m not at liberty to disclose any medical information with you. Please have your wife call us when she gets home, and the doctor will speak with her about her ultrasound and test results.”

Gage hung up, grinning from ear to ear.
An ultrasound!
That meant only one thing. He calculated her due date in his head. It would be late May or early June, which would be perfect, just before the oppressive Georgia heat set in. He looked around the penthouse. They’d need to convert a room into a nursery, or maybe just go ahead and get a new place – a place of their own. They’d already talked about doing that. Now was as good a time as any.

He heard the front door and raced towards it. Layla was as white as a ghost. Gage took her hands and led her to the sofa. “Sit down! Rest! Put your feet up!”

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“The nurse called a few minutes ago,” Gage said, smiling.

“What did she say?”

“She wouldn’t tell me anything. But I know you had an ultrasound and a pregnancy test.”

“Gage. . . .”

“I can’t believe it. I know I said I thought you were pregnant, but for it to actually happen so soon.” He kissed her hard on the mouth. “I’m so happy.” He pulled back, seeing a few tears in her eyes. “You’re not happy.”

“I’m not. . . .”

“Angel, I know it’s unexpected,” he said, rubbing her belly, “but this is a blessing.”

“Gage. . . .”

“I really hope we have a girl first. I know everyone always wants a boy first, but. . . .”

“I’m
not
having a baby,” she whispered, a tear falling down.

Her words like a kick to the gut, Gage staggered a little and felt like an idiot. He pulled her to his chest. “It’s OK, Angel. We can have a baby whenever you want.”

Layla pushed him away. “No, we can’t,” she said, the tears coming quicker. “I might not ever be able to get pregnant.”

“
What?
Of course, you can.”

“No, the doctor said. . . .”

“I wish you would’ve let me come with you. Can you tell me what the doctor said?”

“He thinks the vomiting was from Connor, but he’s concerned about the abdominal pain.”

“What does he think is wrong?”

“Endometriosis, maybe.” Gage gave a confused look. “It’s the leading cause of infertility in women.”

“You said
maybe
. So he doesn’t know for sure, right? Let’s call and get your results.”

Layla trembled at the thought. The results could bring more pain, both for her and him. And she’d already put him through so much—leaving him like she did, the news coverage, now this. “I’ve always had bad cramping. I never thought. . . .”

“There’s no reason to assume the worst.”

“What if I can’t have your babies? I know you’ve been happy thinking I was pregnant.”

He kneeled at her feet. “I’m happy with you. We’ll work something out. In sickness and in health, right?”

*

They spent 15
minutes on the phone with the doctor. They learned a laparoscopy, a type of out-patient surgery, was the only way to diagnose endometriosis. The ultrasound and the rest of her test results looked normal, but they needed to schedule the surgery. Gage wanted it done soon—today, if possible. He had to know what was going on. Layla wasn’t eager to go under the knife, but she wanted to get to the bottom of things, too. And she was tired of feeling terrible.

The doctor connected them to his scheduling assistant, who informed them the next opening was in three weeks. The assistant assured them that was the soonest possible date. Layla threw up her hands at the thought of three weeks, walked to the bedroom, and left her husband to deal with scheduling. Gage gnashed his teeth. He couldn’t bear the unknown, or seeing his wife in physical and emotional pain. And the woman on the phone didn’t really seem to care.

With Layla out of earshot, Gage took the phone off speaker and held it to his ear. He told the assistant who he was. He couldn’t remember the last time he did that, but he didn’t mind playing the card now—not when his wife’s health was at stake. He told her three weeks wasn’t going to work. He promised her family free flights on Southern Wings for the next year if she could do better. A moment of silence followed. Gage considered upping his offer to two years of free flights. If the assistant was going to play hardball, he was ready.

The assistant finally spoke up. “I’m looking over the schedule again. It appears we can work in Mrs. Montgomery later this week.”

Gage breathed again and thanked the assistant profusely, praising her customer service, even offering to write a letter to the doctor about how great she was, what an asset she must be for the doctor’s practice. He knew it was all bullshit—the assistant certainly knew it, too—but he didn’t care. Layla was going to get the best care, and if he had to butter up the assistant—or bribe her—so be it.

He hung up and took a look at the closed bedroom door. He couldn’t tell Layla her mother had showed up today, making threats, wanting money. There were too many balls in the air now, too much happening at once, too many changes of direction. He needed to resolve one issue once and for all. He fired up his laptop, logged into his accounts, and wired $50,000 to Mrs. Baxter. It was a drop in the bucket, but he hated to do it. He’d rather throw the money from his balcony. But there was no other option now. He printed the wire transfer and put it in his briefcase.

He headed to the bedroom, finding Layla’s head buried deep in Pippa’s fur. “I got it scheduled for the end of the week. Can I get you anything?”

“No,” she whispered.

He brushed back her hair. “We’ll be fine, either way. We promised we’d stick it out no matter what. No running.”

“I don’t want to be the reason you don’t have kids,” Layla said, raising her eyes to him. “If anyone should be a dad, it’s you. If anyone should have mini-versions of themselves, it’s you.”

Gage tilted his head slightly, feeling his heart swell. “We don’t even know if it’s endometriosis or not. Hopefully it’s not. But if it is, we can get you treatment anywhere in the world. And if that doesn’t work, there are lots of other options.”

“But I want to get big and waddle around and feel our baby in my belly. I want you to feel our baby moving in my stomach. I want you to hold my hand when I push our baby out.”

“I want those things, too. But if that can’t happen, then we’ll try other options. The goal is a baby, right?”

Layla gave an unconvincing nod and lay down on the bed, crying silently. Gage cuddled in behind her. He hated when she cried. He felt so helpless. He just wanted to fix things, to make her pain, the uncertainty, go away.
At least I made her mother go away.

The phone rang, and Gage looked at the caller ID. “It’s Poppy.”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone,” Layla said. “I don’t want anyone to know.”

“But you might feel better if. . . .”

“Please, Gage. I feel so. . . . I just feel like I’m letting everyone down.”

“That’s ridiculous. You’re sick. Angel, you aren’t alone anymore. You’ve got a family now. Don’t deny them the chance to love you.”

*