Wedding Date with the Army Doc (10 page)

Charlotte snuggled into Jackson's arms in her bed after making love later that night. Being tall, it took a lot to make her feel petite, but his broad shoulders and long frame did just that. Now that her personal shock of having a double mastectomy had barely made waves for him, often, when they were just staying in and hanging out, she'd walk around in a T-shirt or sweater without strapping on her bra, her chest as flat as his. And it didn't faze him. He'd been the one to suggest it after the first time they'd been together. She considered that freedom a special gift from him. He really had proved to be the perfect
imperfect
man for her.

Just before she drifted off to sleep, one last thought crossed her mind: how life was looking up. Her mentor was in remission, the new guy in her life had just asked her to a wedding in his hometown, which proved he trusted her with a fragile part of his life. And now he wanted her to meet his son. She couldn't help but feel special. Yet he'd never come close to saying those three little words.

The big question was, was it safe to get her hopes up? Maybe he was just a guy like the rented furniture in his condo, temporary, useful for now, nothing to take for granted. He'd been very clear about never wanting to marry again or to have any more kids. Now that she knew the full story, she understood, too. He'd moved to California to be near his son, who would eventually graduate from college and move on. Why would Jackson stick around after that?

But right from the start, having laid down a few personal safety rules of her own for Jackson, like taking it slow before jumping into a physical relationship, she knew how easily a rule could be broken. Tonight that fact fed her hope.

* * *

Jackson was on his way out of the lunchtime surgical conference when he saw Dr. Dupree across the room. He'd had something on his mind and made a point to confront him.

“Dr. Hilstead. You need something?” Antwan was in the middle of sharing a recent conquest with a young resident.

“Yes, if you have a minute?”

The long-haired resident took the cue—in fact, looked relieved—and headed out of the auditorium with everyone else.

“I just wanted to let you know that Charlotte and I are a thing now, so you can step back.”

“A thing?”

“Yeah, we're a thing.”

“She knows this?”

“Most definitely. Anyway, you can step back now.”

“Step back?”

“Yes, step back.” Jackson emphasized the words for the guy who seemed to be playing dense.

“Sometimes ladies don't know what they're missing until they've tried it.” His overconfident smile grated on Jackson's nerves. Was it a challenge? He also knew the jerk was referring to himself, Antwan, not Jackson, so he decided to spell it out for him.

“Trust me, she's tried it and liked it. I'm asking you nicely to leave her alone.” Was he on the verge of flapping his arms and making monkey noises?
My territory. Leave!

“If that's what she wants, fine.”

Jackson stared at the dense doctor long and hard. But he didn't dare say the words that had just been planted front and center in his head.
She's mine.
That would make him feel a bit like he'd traveled back in time to a more dramatic stage, high school or college, when guys got all wrapped up in their women and proudly staked their claim. He was a mature adult now, in midlife, sophisticated and above getting into the fray. Yet feeling the intense need to make his point perfectly clear with a womanizing bozo like Dupree couldn't be denied, and it shocked him.

Where had that come from? What had happened to the civilized forty-two-year-old surgeon? He bit back the long list of things he'd like to say, deciding to go for terse. “It's what she wants. We want.” Like he had the right to speak for Charlotte, as Antwan had already insinuated. But it was. It was what
he
wanted. And he was pretty sure she wanted it, too.

He turned to leave, deciding to let Antwan figure out for himself what that meant, thinking the Southern gentleman-turned-caveman was a welcome change. He'd just publicly admitted he and Charlotte were “a thing,” whatever the hell that meant.

The revelation of admitting he had intense feelings again on
any
level, and in this case for someone else—for his lovely
Charlotte
—made him grin. He left the meeting feeling taller than when he'd arrived, though admittedly he glanced over his shoulder for any evidence of a feminist posse hot on his trail for daring to be the tiniest bit chauvinistic. That didn't stop him from grinning, though.

* * *

That Friday night, Evan turned out to be tall, like his father, with piercing blue eyes, but much fairer and with lighter, straighter hair. From this Charlotte deduced that Jackson's ex was a blonde. She let her insecure imagination go wild and envisioned a stereotypical image of a pretty petite Southern belle, a Georgia peach, as she'd heard it called. The thought made her cringe and hurt all over. But she'd thought about all she and Jackson had shared over the last several weeks, and how close they'd got. Then on the spot she decided it was better to be the extreme opposite from an ex—tall, olive-toned skin, dark hair and eyes, big-boned—than a dead ringer. Wasn't it?

Occasionally during dinner the strained dynamics between Evan and Jackson were evident, but only on certain topics, like the wedding and whether or not Evan planned to go. They agreed that Evan should fly out a few days early to spend time with his mother and brother, and as an observer the decision lifted a weight from Charlotte's heart.

Didn't they know that they had the same laugh? A few times she had to double-check who had said what because they sounded so much alike, too. The kid was his son, there was no doubt, and they shared a lifetime together, well, Evan's lifetime, anyway. And she suspected the same would be true with the older son, the one who'd yet to offer Jackson a touch of grace. They shared genetic traits and familial similarities, and no matter how hard Andrew might try to ignore it, there was no way to forget it. Again, her heart ached for Jackson and his troubles.

As the evening moved on over tapas and beer at yet another trendy Westlake restaurant, Charlotte realized something important. When they talked about Evan's Bachelor of Arts major at Pepperdine, excitement radiated from the nineteen-year-old, and fatherly pride was obvious in Jackson's eyes, which were decidedly sexier and bluer than his son's. Then again, she was biased. She quickly figured how to keep the conversation focused on university and life dreams, and soon Evan seemed to see her as an ally instead of an adversary—the woman threatening to take his father away from him.

She made it clear how important she felt a well-rounded liberal arts degree was to send a person out into the world. Evan couldn't have agreed more. Jackson's endorsement may have come in delayed, but he finally chimed in.

After a couple of glasses of beer Charlotte let her truest thoughts slip out. “Thanks to science and extended longevity, what makes parents think their kids can know where their journey will lead at the ripe old age of nineteen?” Charlotte mused.

“Exactly!” Evan agreed. The look of appreciation she received from the young man nearly melted her heart. One day he'd have the world at his calling, but he needed to first figure out where he belonged. Pressuring him to make up his mind too soon would never help.

Then she glanced at Jackson, who didn't appear nearly as impressed with her statement as his son.

Evidently she'd hit a chord of contention between father and son, so she continued. “I mean, I know how I wanted to become a doctor at sixteen, and you, Jackson, probably had a similar experience, but not everyone knows for sure where they belong at such an early age. My sister tried going to college and discovered it wasn't for her. Now she's happy as a clam with three kids and running a family business.”

She didn't want to imply that Evan should drop out, so she quickly added, “Getting a solid, well-rounded education seems like the best step forward for most. Right, Evan?”

Evan nodded.

“I want the best for my sons. If Evan is happy with his major, then I'm happy.”

Charlotte believed Jackson, because of all the men she'd met in her life, he had proved to be honest and dependable, someone to trust, and these were three characteristics at the top of her “perfect man” list.

Before dinner was over Evan seemed to understand a little better where his father stood on his undergraduate degree choices, and Jackson had made extra points, proving he supported his son. Charlotte couldn't help but think maybe she'd had something to do with it.

Then, over dessert, the previously unspoken subject of Dad dating a new woman came up.

“So I guess you two are dating, right?” Evan said. “And you want my approval?”

Charlotte worked extra hard to not show her true reaction.
Yes, we're dating, but beyond that I don't know what's in store. Do we need your approval for that?

Jackson glanced at Charlotte, she glanced back, and then he reached for her hand under the table. “Now that Mom and I are divorced, I hope you're okay with that.”

“Hey, it's your life.” Evan seemed to toss the answer a bit too quickly, maybe in an attempt to leave out the emotion behind it. Pain. “I mean, I know a lot's gone on with your war injury and PTSD and all, and things didn't work out between you and Mom, but, Dad, you're entitled to pick up your life and date again.”

Jackson reached across the table and clutched his son's forearm. “You saying that means the world to me, Evan.”

When they all said good night, Jackson gave Evan a bear hug, and Evan fully participated. The sight of the two of them hugging moved Charlotte nearly to tears, but she managed to keep her response in line, not wanting in any way to draw attention away from the big event of the night. Until, in true Southern charm fashion, Evan extended his hospitality to her and hugged her good night. As she hugged the bonier version of Jackson, managing to feel his sincerity, she couldn't help the moisture that sneaked over her lids.

“It was so great to meet you.” She said it over-enthusiastically, completely different from the response she'd intended to give. Cool. In control. Sophisticated.
Really fun to meet you.

Evan smiled and nodded, as though he was also surprised about how well the night had gone.

On the drive home, overall Charlotte thought the meeting had gone well and that Evan seemed okay with his dad moving on. At least she hoped Evan was being honest. Though the question still remained—where exactly was Jackson moving on to?

“What did you think?” Jackson asked.

“I think you've got a great son on your hands.”

While driving, he flashed her a grateful and reassured look. “I think you're right.” Then, with his eyes back on the road, he added, “I'm really looking forward to the day Evan turns twenty-one and my job as parent will officially be over.”

“Is that job ever ‘officially' over?”

“The part about being completely responsible for them, yes. The being-a-parent part?” He grimaced. “Nope.”

Now that the hurdle of meeting his son had come and gone, Charlotte focused on the next big event. Truth was, she'd interpreted the invitation to the wedding in Savannah as a turning point in their relationship. Though Jackson hadn't committed to the trip meaning anything beyond a few days together on his home turf.
With her as his backup.
Her thoughts, not his. She felt otherwise. He
needed
her there.

But if that was all he wanted, backup, she'd oblige. Because she knew exactly how she felt about him—this could be the start of something big! Old song or not, it was how she felt, yet she chose to hold her thoughts close to her heart rather than test the waters on Jackson. It was still too soon.

* * *

Two weeks before the big event she went shopping for a special dress. She whistled while she combed through the circular racks in the showroom, happily looking forward to visiting a state she'd never been to before. She loved it already since it was the place that had shaped Jackson into the wonderful, charming and sexy man she'd come to know and...and what? Was she there yet? Or was she stuck in the “start of something big” stage? Maybe she was waiting for him to catch up.

All the new and optimistic feelings ebbed when a wave of insecurity and anxiety took over and her stomach threatened to knot up and push out her lunch. She swallowed hard and forced herself to pull it together. Shocked by the emotional reaction the act of buying a special dress had caused—or was it thinking about feeling something more for Jackson than she'd ever expected?—she took pause.

Sure, Jackson had seen her and accepted her for who she was, but how would she measure up to the people back home? Wondering and fearing how she'd manage in a sea of people she didn't know, her only lifeline being Jackson, who would no doubt be dealing with a boatload of his own issues, she fretted. Suddenly depressed about her tall and sometimes clunky-feeling appearance—the hair that would probably frizz up in the summer Georgia humidity, not being able to buy a perfect dress right off the rack, not to mention a subtle competitive feeling toward his ex-wife, which annoyed her to no end—she passed off feeling out of sorts and generally unsettled on nerves about the upcoming event. Not the other way around—feeling profoundly sick to her stomach on a perfectly fine Saturday morning, and getting nervous about what it might mean.

Then she went back to hunting for that perfect dress that would make her feel like a knockout. A dress that would cause Jackson to see her in a different light.

As a woman he couldn't live without.

CHAPTER EIGHT

O
NE
 
WEEK
 
LATER
 
Charlotte sat in the laboratory with one of the histologists assisting while she examined, described and cut sections from yesterday afternoon's surgeries and clinic procedures. This morning there were no less than twenty-five bottles of varying sizes, each prefilled with fixative. An appendix, a gallbladder with gallstones, a cervical conization, a large, dark and oddly shaped mole, a wedge resection of lung—removed by Dr. Jackson Hilstead, she noticed on the requisition, which meant he'd probably pop by tomorrow to look at the slide with her. That put a secret smile on her face. She'd been doing that a lot lately, smiling for no reason.

In walked Dr. Dupree, looking like he had something on his mind, and he immediately wiped her smile away.

“Haven't seen you in a while,” she said, opening the first bottle. Not that she'd wanted to see him or anything. Oh, man, she hoped he didn't read anything into her off-the-cuff, trying-to-play-nice greeting. The man was incorrigible.

“I've been told to step back.”

Well, it was about time someone did. Who, though—hospital administration, the sexual harassment team? She kept her smirk to herself. “Step back?”

Not wanting to let him slow her down on the job at hand, she examined, then interrupted Dupree to describe and measure the dimensions of a piece of tissue, then used a scalpel to find the best possible section to represent the entire specimen for slides and put it into a cassette.

He waited impatiently for her to finish. “Jackson said you two were a thing and I should step back. It was a couple of weeks ago, so I'm just checking if that's still true.”

Her line of vision on the specimen flipped upward, catching her assistant's gaze, whose eyebrows nearly met his hairline.

Jackson had staked a claim on her? Glad she was wearing a mask, she hoped her smile didn't reach her eyes, though the thought of irking Dupree even more was tempting. “Maybe in your world ‘things' only last a week or two, but I'm sorry to burst your bubble. The official word is, yes, we are still ‘a thing.'”

Did you hear that, world?
Why did that put an entirely new spin on the right here and right now and make her feel amazing?

The histology technician pretended not to be listening to every word as he labeled the cassette then placed it in a large buffered formalin-filled container in preparation for the overnight process. The next day, after cutting ultra-thin sections of the paraffin-encased specimens, the histologists would deliver a set of pink, blue and purple stained slides neatly laid out in cardboard containers for the pathologists to read.

This was tedious but necessary work, which took at least twenty-four hours to complete from the time of receiving the specimen to stained slides. Charlotte took her duty seriously and focused her attention on the specimens. Not Dr. Dupree. Even though what he'd said, not his visit, was responsible for her mood being lifted to one of elation. “If you'll excuse me, as you can see, I've got a lot of work to do.”

Undaunted, Antwan waited for her to look at him. “I'll check back in a couple more weeks.” And off he went.

The nerve of that guy. She huffed and the assistant shook his head. Yeah, they were on the same page about Antwan Dupree's reputation around the hospital. But beyond agreeing the guy was an idiot, no one could possibly understand where she was, in the condition she might be in, at this exact moment. She was on her own with that.

The room had special ventilation to suck out the caustic fumes, and she wore a duck-billed mask as well as a clear face guard to protect from any formalin splash into the eyes. It was the same thing she did on any given day at work without any side effects. Yet today, during the cutting process, she felt decidedly nauseous.

Who was she kidding? It wasn't just today.

Dreading what a week of all-day queasiness might mean, she promised to take a test once she finished the morning's lab work. She couldn't push it out of her mind another second.

At noon Charlotte stole away to the hospital laboratory and had a trusted and super-skilled lab tech draw her blood, barely feeling the prick of the needle. Then all she could do was wait for the result with fingers tightly crossed it would be negative. She couldn't let her mind venture into the realm of what she'd do if the pregnancy test was positive.

Absurd. She couldn't possibly be...could she?

As a resident pathologist, she'd seen and examined far more than her share of young women who'd wound up in the morgue, only to discover at the autopsy they'd died from blood clots related to their birth control pills. The clots may have lodged in their lungs or brain but, wherever they were, they'd wound up being the cause of death on the autopsy report. She'd stopped taking BC pills and, even knowing the odds of forming clots were extremely small, had chosen never to use them again.

So she'd been using a diaphragm with Jackson...except on that first night when he'd caught her by surprise and he'd used a condom. And that time in her office.

Later, with zero appetite, she forced herself to eat some lunch in her office when halfway through the intercom buzzer went off.

“Dr. Johnson? This is Sara from the lab. Um, your test is positive.”

“Positive?” Had she heard right? Her heart tapped a quick erratic pace at those four little words. Her blood test was positive. She forgot to breathe.

“Dr. Johnson?”

“Yes, Sara, okay. Thanks.” She'd done the worst job in the world of pretending she wasn't stunned. It seemed her little “thing” with Jackson, to use Dr. Dupree's term, had just turned into something much bigger. She was pregnant. No. No.
No.

She hung up, reached for her trash can, bent over and lost the contents of her stomach into it. She was pregnant.

When she recovered, and was positive her voice wouldn't quiver, she picked up the phone and dialed Jerry Roth. “I'm not feeling well, just threw up. I'll need to take the afternoon off.”

Since she was notoriously healthy and hardly ever called in sick, he didn't hesitate to let her go. “Go. Take care. Feel better.” If it were only that easy.

* * *

Once at her town house, having been suspended in a bubble of disbelief so she could drive home safely but now feeling numb, she got out of her clothes and into her pajamas. Why she decided it was the right thing to do she didn't know. But it was. Even though it was early afternoon and summer, she wanted—no, needed—to snuggle into her soft bathrobe, to hide out and hope to find comfort there. Then she made a cup of herbal tea, noticing a fine tremor in her hand as she dipped the bag into the steaming water.

One little blood test had, once again, turned her life upside down.

What was she going to do? She didn't dare tell Jackson until she'd made her decision. The man had been adamant about never wanting another child. He'd warned her on their first date, hadn't he, almost coming off as fanatical about it.
No more children.
If she hadn't already made up her mind about liking him by then, he would have chased her away with his proclamations. Even though the “no kids” rule had matched her own.

The night they'd first made love he'd opened up and admitted feeling trapped into marriage by his ex-wife. Not that she wanted to get married to him because she was pregnant. But right from the start he'd made it known he was off the market in the marriage department. She wouldn't do that to him. But the baby. What about the baby?

Out of nowhere a long-forgotten dream from before she'd learned about her genetic markers whooshed through her. Her once-upon-a-time hopes of having it all—marriage, a career,
children
. She'd loved her rotation through pediatrics in medical school. Yes, she'd wanted children. Little knockoffs of her and whoever her husband turned out to be. Warm and lively little bodies that hugged better than anyone else on earth. The only munchkins in the world who would call her Mommy.

She plopped onto her couch and hunkered down for an afternoon of soul-searching with a potential life-changing outcome. Who was she kidding? Her life had already changed that first morning in the dress shop with that odd sensation of illness that she'd brushed off as anxiety. She just hadn't known it yet.

Was there a scientific way to handle the situation? She'd already done the math and come to the conclusion the risk for her getting cancer was too high, so she'd had the operation. She also knew without a doubt she never wanted to pass it on. Now, though, she couldn't remember what the exact percentage was for a potential “daughter” to inherit her markers and gene mutations. A lot had to do with the father, didn't it?

She dropped her head into her hands, her thoughts fogging up, and stared at the teacup on the table in front of the couch. Besides being addled by nausea, her mind was fuzzy around the edges with waxing and waning emotions of fear and joy. She couldn't ignore the joy part, keeping her thoroughly confused. What in the world was she supposed to do?

She'd sworn since she'd discovered she had not only the breast cancer blood marker but also the gene mutation, hell, she'd been adamant about it,
never
to have a baby. No baby. No how. Any baby. Ever.

She remembered the day she'd begged her sister, Cynthia, to get tested and how she'd refused. Cynthia had already had a child by then—a boy—so at least that was one less concern for Charlotte. But when her sister had informed her that she and her husband were planning to try for another, Charlotte had stepped up her campaign. Finally Cynthia had relented and had tested negative. Charlotte had had to bite back her envy in shame. Of course she was happy for her sister, who'd gone on to have twins, one of whom was a girl, and she still worried about little Annie's future. Cynthia had the same parents yet didn't carry the markers. Where did that leave Charlotte, the bearer of the unlucky genes? Where would it leave her baby if it was a girl?

Though what she carried would only potentially affect a girl baby, for personal ethical reasons she could never take a chance, get pregnant and wait to find out the sex before making a decision. No way would she be a designer parent, picking and choosing the child's gender, so she'd accepted it would be better to never have children. At all.

So here she was.

She needed another cup of tea. Maybe a gallon of it.

Somewhere during the course of cup after cup of calming chamomile, her anxiety rose, and several visits to the bathroom later, cautious excitement tiptoed into the mix of out-of-control feelings.

What? How could she be excited about something she'd sworn she didn't want? A baby.

Well, because she'd never
actually
been pregnant before. And now that she was, it seemed like a quiet miracle. A gift she'd never expected but somewhere deep inside had still always wanted. A bubble of joy insisted on making itself known. For a few seconds Charlotte let herself feel it, float on it, dream with that joy. A baby.
I'm going to be a mother!
Say it out loud. Make it real. She whispered it. “I'm going to be a mother.”

Oh, God, she needed to hug that toilet again.

A little later, groaning and lying flat on her back on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, she stared at the white ceiling and remembered Dr. Gordon's words—
Life shouldn't be about what
might
happen, but about what's happening
right now
.

She'd been born with a genetic marker she'd had no clue about, had been a happy kid as far as she remembered, and a typical teenager, until her mother had got sick. Long afterward, she'd discovered her potential for cancer, something that could be measured and planned for, unlike most people who never knew or suspected anything until they got their diagnosis. She'd dealt with it in her own way, and now she had to search her soul to decide whether or not to allow that same chance for her baby because
life shouldn't be about what might happen
. The key word jumping out at her this time—life.

Right here and now a baby was taking form in her womb, and cells were dividing and multiplying at the speed of light. Amazing. A million things could change during the process of a pregnancy. The possibilities of “what might happen” were exponential. Extraordinary. But right this second it was a fact—she was pregnant. And it seemed amazing! But the scientific part of her brain sneaked back in. Yes, she was going to be a mother. Unless a long list of potentialities stopped the process. Most importantly, would she be able to live with the guilt if her baby turned out to be a girl and also carried the same genetic markers? Or the guilt of not letting her baby have a life at all?

Her head started spinning with overwhelming thoughts. Could a person overdose on chamomile?

She rolled onto her knees, stood and staggered to her room and her bed.

At this exact moment in time she, without a doubt, knew one thing and one thing alone—that she needed a nap.

* * *

The flaw with allowing herself to succumb to a long escapist nap—in this case several hours—in the late afternoon was having to lie awake with a gazillion thoughts winging through her head now, late at night. She couldn't get Jackson out of her mind. Of course. Every rule he'd laid down from the start. In spite of that, how wonderful and compassionate he'd turned out to be. What a great lover he was, how the thought of being with him always made her quiver inside. How he'd recently admitted to people other than her that they were “a thing,” both at work with Dupree and his personal life with Evan. Hell, the whole hospital knew!

How he never wanted to get married again or have children.

Yeah, that part. Plus the fact his ex-wife had got pregnant and rushed him into marriage. There was that fear again—would he suspect her of trying to do the same thing?