Chapter 1
A whirlwind of leaves and sand crashed against the window then sank to the pavement for a fleeting moment before sweeping back into a restless dance. The wind dashed and pummeled nature's litter like puppets on a swirling string, striking brick and cement. There would be no respite, not until the snows of winter diverted the wind's attention and gave it a new frozen toy to batter.
From behind his desk, Dr. Jeffrey Clinton watched the autumn show, mesmerized. To be so free.
He heard a knock at the door. With a sigh, he snapped off his Jackson Browne tape, tossed a pile of ungraded papers and a granola bar into the middle drawer and brushed crumbs from his desk.
Pulling off his reading glasses, he pivoted his chair toward the door, but didn't get up. Only noon, and he already had four hours of grading under his belt. Now would come the endless stream of students, all wanting his help with something they were either too lazy or too stupid to do by themselves.
Same old, same old. What he wouldn't give for some excitement, something that would give him the adrenaline rush that surgery had held for him. The synchronicity of mind and body; the feeling of being in complete command. His grand operating-room entrance, the smooth slap of the scalpel on his palm, the adoring eyes, the tension before the initial incision and how the flesh fell away under his hand when he was committed to finish because there was no going back. The smell of anticipation and antiseptic and blood.
And blood.
He fought back the nausea that shot up from the base of his spine and engulfed him. Now, the scent of blood was fear. Fear that disabled. Fear that had murdered his career and his family and his life. Fear that had chased him from his prominent Eastern practice to this teaching job in the middle of nowhere.
The knock sounded again, this time more insistent.
"Come in." His eyes snapped up as the door opened. A woman stood in the doorway.
His heart skipped.
He might have called her beautiful if he didn't know her so well. He no longer found anything pretty about Professor Vanguard--except those long, trim legs and the silky skin that lay beneath the prim suit. Except the memory of her soft whimpers when she forgot to contain herself, when she forgot who she wanted to be and allowed herself to be who she was. "Eleanor," he said. He swallowed.
"Jeffrey." She lifted her chin.
"This is a surprise."
"I'm sure it is. Believe me, I don't want to be here."
"So I guess that rules out a tearful, passionate reunion." He couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "University business, then?"
"Not exactly."
She remained silent, and for the first time he noticed the lines of anxiety around her eyes. Although she projected an air of undauntable confidence, something troubled her.
"Well, come in, then. Take a load off."
She pulled the door closed. With military precision, she marched to the metal folding chair across from his desk and perched on the edge like a nervous crow, her large purse balanced on her knees. Her mouth clamped shut, as if she wanted no secrets to drop from it.
Although she'd disguised it with makeup, the evidence of stress was easier to see close up. Dark circles ringed her puffy eyes. Her skin looked pale and blotchy, like stone-washed jeans. Her mouth hinted at a frown, as if she had to fight against gravity pulling the edges down. He'd never seen her like this. "How are you feeling?"
"Terrific," she said in a voice that made the word sound more like "shitty."
He waited for her to inquire about him.
She didn't, of course. Never had. Instead, she glanced around at the empty Chinese takeout containers spilling over the edge of the waste can, at the stacks of unanswered correspondence in his in-basket, at the tomato sauce stain on his shirt.
She was playing her old games, all right. He'd always started the conversations and kept them going. Before, when he'd cared, when he'd needed her.
Now that she'd come to him, he wasn't going to make it easy. He rocked back in his chair, enjoying her obvious anxiety. "As you so succinctly told me a few weeks ago, you have no need for my interference in your life. Or in your career. So why are you here?"
Silence. She kept the strap of her giant purse tight in her grip.
"Let's see," he ventured, staring at the ceiling as he rocked in his chair. "Why are you here? Money? I doubt it. You keep track of every cent the way most women look after their children."
She opened her mouth to speak.
"No. Don't tell me." He waved a hand at her. "After thinking it over, you've decided that you really love me, and want me back." Leaning forward, he placed his elbows on the desk, and stared right into her face. "I'm going to have to refuse the offer. Reptiles don't make the best lovers."
"Damn it!" she snapped through her teeth. "Why do you insist on being so sarcastic?"
He shrugged, relishing his temporary position of power. "I have to do something. You come in here and sit and don't say a word. You look around my office as if germs are going to spring out and strangle you, or a rat is going to run across your feet."
His heart raced, and he cursed his rising anger. Why did he have to react to her? She knew how to get to him, instantly. "Just get to the point, would you? I have important things to do."
She took a deep breath. Stared at her hands. "I'm pregnant."
It was like a bowling ball to the chest. He expected maybe she'd gone over her bills and realized he drank six instead of five beers at her house, and that he still owed her fifty-nine cents. He expected her to ask him to never, ever, tell anyone about their brief affair, as it could damage her ability to become Dean of Engineering. But pregnant?
A gust of wind rattled the window, and for a moment leaves pressed up against the glass, like tiny faces watching them. "I see," he managed to say. "So why come to me?"
"You're the father."
He stood so fast his chair rolled back and knocked into the wall. "Now hold on," he said with an ironic laugh. "There's no way--"
She stood and pointed at him. "Don't try to deny it, Jeffrey Clinton. I know it's your baby."
He opened his arms toward heaven. "No way! There is no way."
She stood, her mouth set in an angry line. "Oh, yes there is. We were ... together."
He laughed inwardly. She still couldn't say the F-word. "I used a condom. Every single time, remember? You kept them in the drawer by the bed, alphabetized and sorted by color."
"One of them obviously leaked, or you used it improperly."
"Look at these hands. I'd like to remind you that I used to be a top-notch surgeon. I can handle a condom!"
"The key phrase there is used to be."
His anger flared further. He never should have told her, or shared anything about his past with her. As their brief relationship had drawn to an end, she'd never tired of reminding him of his descent from grace. She judged people by their stock portfolio, and once she'd decided he was a fallen star instead of rising one, she'd dropped him like a worm-ridden apple.
"Look," he said, biting back well-deserved but vulgar words he wanted to throw at her, "I'm not in the mood for this." He moved over to the door and opened it. "Your little plan didn't work on me. So go pick one of your other lovers to be your baby's father."
She stayed her ground, still clutching her purse. "There were no others, and you know it."
"I can't be the father," he said.
"Why are you denying it?"
He slammed the door and turned back toward her. He struggled for control, lowering his voice. "Because I'm sterile, okay? I can't father a child."
Her eyebrows lowered. Her eyes narrowed. Red patches spread over her face. Throwing the strap over her shoulder, she fumbled in her purse with shaking hands. She withdrew a white tablet and shoved it into her mouth. "You never ... I didn't..."
"I got a vasectomy for my first wife. After the divorce, she had a baby eight months later. Imagine that. She married the father. That's probably what you should do, too."
Bewilderment enlarged her bright green eyes. "You can't be serious."
He nodded. "It's true."
"But you used a condom as if you needed it. You never said a thing!"
"I did need it. Besides, sharing the personal details of my life was never number one in your Daytimer. And I made the mistake of telling you about how I ended up in this desert. I wasn't about to make the same mistake twice."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I didn't tell you about my vasectomy, but you never asked, either. You never asked anything about me. Our relationship was like an orchestrated event. You probably wrote everything out on your damned computer before we ever did it. Every date, every kiss, every time we fucked!" He emphasized the last word.
She turned a deep shade of red and looked toward the door.
"What? Are you worried someone will hear us?" He turned back toward the door and cupped his hands around his mouth. "We fucked!"
"Stop that!" she stage whispered, leaning toward him, gripping her purse with both hands.
"Go ahead," he yelled, feeling his own face heat. "Tell me what to do. But I'm not going to become Daddy for your child."
"No, that's not what I'm here for." She threw another nervous glance toward the door. "Please, sit down. Hear me out."
"No."
"Jeff." She swallowed. "I need you."
He'd never heard those words from her before. Eleanor Vanguard didn't need anyone. "Okay then." He dropped back into his chair, and she lowered herself carefully back onto hers.
She set the purse on her lap and wrapped the straps round and round her hands, like handcuffs. "I know you don't believe this, but there's no way ... I mean ... there was no one else," she said. "You're the only one who could be the father." Her face washed out to a chalky white.
He studied her eyes. They were dark, and deadly serious. She wasn't lying.
"But I've told you," he repeated. "That's not possible."
"Then the results of the test I took must not be right."
He changed positions in the chair, his curiosity building. He picked up a pencil and tapped it on the desk. "What made you take the test in the first place?"
"I haven't felt ... right ... for a while. You know, nauseated. Faint. I have strange feelings, nightmares." She shivered.
"Could be hormonal," he suggested.
"That's what I thought. Then, I missed my period."
He nodded. "When did you take the test?"
"Two days ago. Yesterday. This morning."
"Three positives?"
She nodded. "I need you to verify the results of the home pregnancy test I took. If it's positive, I want you to give me something to make sure I abort."
He tossed the pencil on the desk and threw up his hands. "Oh, God, Eleanor," he complained. "Why me?"
"You're a medical doctor, as well as a Ph.D."
"Why not go to the clinic here? Or go to someone else? Anyone else?"
"I don't want any records. Nothing in my medical history. These things can be discovered."
He rubbed his neck, the tension spreading through his bones. "You want it kept quiet. To not hurt your chance at becoming Dean."
She hesitated. "Yes. You know that becoming Dean of Engineering is the most important thing in the world to me."
"I know." He sighed. "Okay. There are conditions that can cause a fake positive test. When is the last time you had a pap smear or a gynecological checkup?"
"Before the pregnancy test, a couple of months ago. Actually, the doctor suspected uterine cancer and had to take an endometrial biopsy. Everything was normal."
"Did you have that done at the university clinic? The one in this building?"
"Of course."
"Everything was completely normal?"
"Completely."
Wondering what the pill she'd taken a moment ago was for, he stood and walked to the window. The wind still leaped and ran, playing with the leaves. Tree branches heaved back and forth, their leaves shuddering.
"You must understand how important this is to me," she continued. "My career is the only thing I've ever cared about, ever wanted."
He turned and leaned against the wall. "How well I know."
"Now I'm up for Dean, and this," she placed her palm on her belly, "could ruin everything for me."
He looked at her slim fingers laid against her abdomen and realized the pregnancy itself was not her real problem--it was the haunting knowledge that something else had taken control of her life, even if it was only a baby. To not be in control would be the definition of hell for Eleanor Vanguard.
She hoisted the purse back onto her shoulder and approached him. Her bottom lip trembled. "I need to know. I need to know today."
Her anxiety had thoroughly infected him, as if an airborne bacteria had piggybacked her words. He, too, felt the intense need to know. Was she pregnant? If so, how? "Shit. I can't believe I'm doing this."
She exhaled heavily, visibly relaxing. "Thank you."
He walked back to his chair, in action again. "Give me a urine sample. I'll take it over to the lab tonight, and do the test myself. If it's positive, which I doubt, we'll talk about the ... you know."
She glanced around the room.
"Now what?" he asked, wondering what else she would demand from him. His foreskin?
"What do I put the sample in?"
His eyes fell on a bouquet of old flowers in a vase on his desk, given to him by a doting young coed. He removed the dried remains, the ends dripping, and dropped them into the trash can, followed by the green, smelly water. He handed her the vase.
She turned up her nose. "You've got to be kidding."
"Unless you have a urine-sample cup in that suitcase of yours, this is it."
She accepted it with a sigh. "Where's the bathroom?"
"Down the hall. Oh, and wash the thing first, so the tests don't come back showing a paramecium infection."
After flashing him a disgusted look, she left and returned with the vase, half-full of yellow liquid. He wondered where he would stash it until that evening, when he'd have time to run the test. In the faculty refrigerator?
She stuck out her hand. "Thanks again, Jeff."
He took her hand.
Her warm fingers curled around his. He liked the feel of her soft skin and her strong grip. Their eyes held for a moment. "Eleanor."
He watched her hips move under the fitted suit as she left his office. Although she looked like a page from Fortune Magazine, beneath were all the warm curves of humanity. He'd run his hand over her waist, her hips, and held the woman. But he'd been battered by the coldhearted executive.
He walked to the window and stared out at the unceasing Albuquerque wind. It seemed symbolic, somehow. As if the remains of the past lessened the value of the present; just as the sand, thrown against paint and stucco, eventually wore it away.
A dark chill passed through him. For some reason, Eleanor had spooked him. He'd been tested as sterile many times. Had that changed? Was she lying? Or was the cause of her condition something neither of them had considered?
He couldn't shake his growing sense of foreboding.
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