The Offering (15 page)

Damien, you see, has the gift of seeing potential other people miss. When we met, somehow he looked beyond my lonely expression, my torn jeans, and my paintings—all of which were tinged with melancholy in those days. Somehow he saw the woman within, the soul languishing for love, and he married me. You do not know me well—and you'll find none of these thoughts in our file at the Surrogacy Center—but I sense that you and I might be friends. Fate has brought us together, and united we will accomplish something wonderful.

I pray the happiness and fulfillment you experience in these next few months somehow equals the joy I will revel in for the rest of my life.

By loving me, Damien helped a melancholy girl become a wife. By feeling compassion for us, you have helped a grief-stricken woman become a mother. I will never be able to thank you enough for what you have done.

(Do you think me melodramatic? Perhaps it is the artist in me, but I feel things . . . deeply.)

And now begins the waiting and the preparation. While you endure the months of physical labor—and do not think I am unaware of what you will be going through—I will prepare the house for our child. I will hire a nanny (or two, if we have been blessed with twins), and I will finally finish decorating the room I have reserved as a nursery. I wish you could see it—a tower on the south side of the ancient house has been vacant for years. Damien says his mother used to store her shoes in that space, but ever since seeing it, I have known that any child would love to have it as his or her private fortress. The magical space features a high ceiling; tall, curving windows to channel sunshine and starlight; and smooth, plastered walls forming an almost perfect circle.

I will place the cradle in the center of the room, because from this day forward, my life and Damien's will revolve around this child. He or she will be our reason for living—and if all goes well, we may use the frozen embryos to provide our firstborn with a sibling.

Our children will be our purpose, our future, and our hope. And we, dear woman, will always be grateful to you and to God.

Sincerely,

Simone Amblour

For two days I kept my pregnancy a secret from the family, then Gideon called from the base. “I'm on my way home,” he said, his voice husky. “And I'm hoping you have good news for me.”

“I do.” I turned away from Marilee so she wouldn't notice the excited light in my eyes. “I'm taking Marilee over to Mama Isa's. She's going to spend the night over there and tomorrow they're going to McDonald's for breakfast.”

“So we'll be all alone?” Gideon chuckled. “I can't wait to see you, baby girl.”

“I'll be here.”

I didn't care where he had been or what he had done; all that mattered was that Gideon was home.

The news I couldn't wait to share was an added bonus. We were on the brink of a new adventure, the beginning of the rest of our lives. In a few months we would have a financial nest egg, and soon we'd have our own home. Gideon could establish the store he'd always wanted, and I could have the babies we'd always longed for. . . .

I had candles glowing on the table by the time I heard the familiar sound of his boots, followed by the thunk of his duffel bag dropping onto the wooden foyer tiles. “Mandy?”

“In here,” I called from the kitchen. I smoothed my hair and adjusted my dress as I listened to his approaching steps. I had taken great pains to look as good as or better than the cheesecake waiting on the counter.

Gideon inhaled the mingled aromas as he came into the room, then he stopped, his dark eyes glinting with masculine interest. “Something sure looks delicious—and it ain't on the table.”

I laughed. “Hang on a minute, soldier.”

Aware of the hunger in him, I dimmed the overhead lights and smiled at my husband through candle-cast shadows. Two place settings gleamed on the table, two steak fillets waited in the oven, and two loaded baked potatoes dripped with cheese and butter on my best serving dish. I had set a beautiful table, but all I wanted to do was wrap my arms around Gideon.

I was lucky to have him home.

Gideon glanced at the food, then he smiled at me, his gaze as soft as a caress. “I take it this is a special occasion?”

“It is.” I slipped out of my high heels and padded toward him, then slid into his arms. “We have the house to ourselves for the next twenty-four hours and it's official—I'm pregnant.”

His smile broadened. “You mean—”

“Yessir, soldier, we've been given permission to fool around. We can eat this yummy dinner and then go to our room—”

Grinning, Gideon lifted me into his arms. “Or we could go to our room
first.
”

“What about the steaks?” I ran my fingertip over his three-day stubble as he carried me into our bedroom. “And those lovely baked potatoes?”

“They'll keep. And if they don't—who cares.” He lowered me to our bed, and I hoped the yearning that showed in his face wasn't quite so obvious on mine. A woman, my mom always told me, should play at least a
little
hard to get.

“By the way,” I whispered, “welcome home.” Smiling, I reached for the lamp and turned out the light.

The next Sunday, as the family gathered at Mama Isa's after church, I stood with my arm around Gideon's waist and announced that I was pregnant with a French couple's baby. In return I received several polite smiles, a couple of confused looks, and a weak “Congratulations . . . I think,” from Amelia.

“When are you due?” Elaine asked, looking at me as though I might explode at any moment.

“December first.” I stretched my mouth into a smile. “It'll all be over and done by Christmas.”

I hadn't expected them to be thrilled with the news, but I did want them to know so they wouldn't make incorrect assumptions when I started to grow a baby bump.

Five days later I pulled myself out of bed and arrived at the grocery before sunrise. A wave of nausea crested in my gut as I fumbled with the back door key, but I managed to calm my stomach with deep breaths and sheer determination. Once I got inside, I reminded myself, I could be as sick as I wanted to be, but I needed to get the store open by seven. For Amelia's sake.

She had called the night before and begged me to open for her. “Our social worker is coming tomorrow for the home visit,” she said, her voice jagged with nerves, “and I need the morning to clean house. So if you could open for me, I'll come to work as soon as Helen leaves, I promise.”

How could I refuse?

A thick silence lay over the dimly lit grocery as I locked the back door behind me and hurried past the stockroom. A single overhead fluorescent glowed over the cash register, and as I made my way to the office I glanced at the wide front windows and wondered if criminals lurked in the semidarkness outside. I couldn't see anything but my own reflection, so I tried to forget about my roiling stomach and stick to the morning routine. First on the to-do list: turn off the alarm.

After punching in the alarm code, I hesitated by the restroom and rechecked the state of my stomach: holding steady so far, and I could always grab crackers from the snack aisle. I might just make it.

From their black-and-white portraits next to the Cuban flag, Gordon and Yanela's unsmiling eyes watched as I moved to the coffee station and prepared the morning brew. Customers would begin to arrive soon, so the coffee and
tostadas
had to be ready.

I had just put the coffee on when someone slammed the back door. I froze, terrified by the thought of an intruder, then I recognized Jenna's voice. “Hello? Amelia?”

“It's me,” I called, remembering that Jenna now had her own key. “I'm filling in for Amelia today.”

Jenna went to the bakery counter to stash her purse, then strolled toward me, tying on her apron as she came. “Let me give you a hand with the
tostadas.
You buttered the bread yet?”

I shook my head, nauseated by the thought of butter. So . . . oily.

“I'll do it. If I have time, I might make some
croquetas
today. They went over real well the last time I made them on a weekday.”

I swallowed hard. “Don't you make those every day?”

“Only on weekends. But hey, it's Friday, so we're nearly there.” She wound an elastic band around her long hair, then pulled a tub of butter from the small fridge beneath the counter. “The expats love the
croquetas.
One of them told me he hadn't had anything so good since he ate lunch at the Hotel Nacional de Cuba.”

“Oh.” I always felt a bit lost when the old folks talked about Castro and the revolution, but I was grateful Jenna had taken charge of the breakfast bar. “I'll leave you to it, then. I need to unlock the safe and get some cash—” I stopped, covering my mouth as my stomach lurched.

Jenna peered at me. “You okay? You look a little green.”

I nodded without speaking, drew a deep breath, and waited for my stomach to stop flip-flopping.

Truthfully, I loved being pregnant. I loved feeling new life inside me, I loved the stretchiness of maternity pants, and I loved flashing other pregnant women a “Me too” smile. I loved the condition of my hair and nails and the way my skin glowed from the life-giving hormones. I loved having older men offer me their seats in church, and seeing Gideon's conservative father blush whenever anyone patted my expanding tummy. Without a doubt, being pregnant was one of my most rewarding life experiences.

But morning sickness—which cast a dull shadow over months one through three—was the rat turd in my sugar bowl of happiness.

“I'm okay,” I finally told Jenna, wiping sweat from my hairline. “Just an upset stomach.”

“Better hurry up with the cash, then. A couple of guys are already waiting outside. And they look hungry.”

I glanced out the glass doors. The brightening day revealed two older men in Guayabera shirts and Panama hats—two of the expats who came to the grocery to mingle, eat, and talk about the glory of Cuba before Castro.

I hurried into the office and knelt to open the safe behind Mama Isa's desk. Keeping one eye on the clock, I took out some change and a hundred dollars in small bills. Being on my knees reminded me of Amelia's desperation, so I whispered a quick prayer for her and Mario. I didn't think they'd have any problems with their home visit, but Amelia sounded panicked when we talked.

Once I unlocked the front door, the morning passed in a blur. I stayed behind the register and noticed that several of the bakery tickets included charges for Jenna's
croquetas
as well as the usual
tostadas.
For a
gringa,
Jenna certainly knew her customers.

I was feeling better when Mario and Amelia breezed in, her face lit by a smile as wide as Texas. “We did it,” she said, leaning on the checkout stand. “We got through the interview and showed the house without a single disaster.”

I crossed my arms and laughed. “I knew you'd do fine.”

Amelia glanced left and right, then leaned closer. “I thought Helen would pull on a white glove and run her finger over my bookshelves, but she didn't do anything like that. She just looked around to get a general idea about the house. Then she asked where we would keep the baby, so I showed her the room that'll be a nursery when—
if
—we get the call. Mario had to move a few boxes and the treadmill in order for her to see the space, but she seemed to think it would work.”

“Of course she did.” I leaned back against the counter, confident in my cousin's ability to impress a social worker. “Your home is perfect for children.”

“By the way”—Amelia's eyes narrowed and focused on my belly—“how are you feeling these days? Everything okay?”

I understood the reason for her question. IVF recipients tended to have a higher miscarriage rate than natural pregnancies, so I might still lose this baby. But I not only
felt
pregnant, I sensed that this little one was determined to stick around.

“I'm good,” I told her, meeting her gaze.

She must have seen something in my face, because her eyes softened. “Were you sick this morning?”

“Just a little queasy, so I managed.”

“Then I
really
appreciate you coming in to open for me.” The corner of her mouth twisted. “You know, you said we could both be expecting at the same time.”

“Looks like I was right.”

“It hardly seems fair, though. Getting pregnant for you is as easy as robbing a blind man.”

My temper sparked. “It wasn't easy. I had to take shots and hormones for two months.”

“How awful.” Amelia slapped her cheek in pretend horror. “I'm surprised you survived the ordeal.”

I knew she had good reasons for being sarcastic, but I wasn't trying to hurt her. “Can we move past this subject and get back to work?”

She arched a brow, then her gaze shifted and thawed slightly. “Have you told anyone outside the family yet?”

“Only the Amblours and the woman from the Surrogacy Center. I haven't mentioned anything to my neighbors because so much can go wrong in the first trimester. And at this point I'm not sure I want to answer a lot of questions about who the parents are.”

“Don't worry. I won't say anything to the customers.”

I nodded. “I appreciate it.”

“And I'm sorry for being difficult. You can't help being Fertile Myrtle.”

I squeezed her hand. “But I'm glad we're cousins.”

I thought everything was okay between us, but as I stepped out of the checkout stand to walk to the ladies' room, Amelia called after me: “By the way, what are you going to say when people ask why you didn't offer to help me and Mario?”

I pivoted on the ball of my foot, disturbed by something I heard in her voice. “What?”