Once the meals were delivered, Patrick went quiet. He cut his burger in half and lifted one half to his mouth, then paused. His face was hesitant. “Anyway. I’ve been thinking…”

“About?”

“About your baby.”

“You’ve been thinking about my baby?”

He nodded. “You said it didn’t have a father. Well … what if you told people I was the father?”

I blinked.

“People know I stay over at your house sometimes. It would stop all the questions. I know you hate all the questions. We could say that we’re a couple.”

“In the nicest possible way—why would we do that? What I mean is … what’s in it for you?”

“What?” He looked shocked. “Nothing.”

“Then why? I mean … what would you tell your girlfriends?” I asked. “Telling a girl that you accidentally impregnated a friend can be a real mood killer. Besides, it’s more complicated than you’ve considered. What happens down the track, after the baby is born? Are you going to tell people that you are involved in my baby’s life?”

He blushed, but said nothing. It confirmed to me that he hadn’t thought it through. “I don’t know. We’ll figure it out.”

“We’ll figure it out? Patrick—why would you even want to?”

He studied my face for a long while. I tried to do the same to him, but I had no idea what was going on inside that pretty head of his.

“Fine,” he said. “It was just an idea.”

His cheeks were still pink. I didn’t get it. Anyone would have thought I’d slapped him, rather than let him off the hook.

“It’s an appealing idea, I’ll admit,” I said. “And you’re right, people would believe it. Marion would be thrilled.”

He picked up his burger again. “If you change your mind, say the word.”

Patrick insisted on paying, which was a little weird, but I didn’t question it, lest things get weirder. He could afford it, and after all, he’d slept on my couch for several years now. He owed me. Judy and Trish smiled at Patrick with creepy enthusiasm as he approached the counter to settle the bill. When I couldn’t watch anymore, I pushed through the double doors into the evening and straight into a person.

“Oh!” I exclaimed, staring into the face of Lorraine Hargreaves, chief resident of obstetrics at St Mary’s. “Dr. Hargreaves. I’m so sorry.”

“Lorraine,” she corrected. Thankfully she didn’t appear hurt. “I didn’t see you there, Neva!”

Dr. Hargreaves was a formidable woman—tall, attractive, well proportioned. She bordered on intimidating, but with a few grays littering her raven hair, and a slight overbite on her front teeth, she had enough imperfections to make her approachable.

“Well, I see the rumors are true.” She reached forward, letting her hand skim, but not quite touch, my belly. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“Best job in the world, motherhood. Even if you love your job as much as we do.”

I couldn’t help a smile, being part of a “we” with Dr. Lorraine Hargreaves.

“Yes,” I said. My hand traveled to my belly. “Yes, I’m looking forward to it.”

“You don’t need an ob-gyn, I suppose?”

I laughed, imagining Grace’s face. “Probably wouldn’t look good for the birthing center if I got myself an ob-gyn,” I said. “Besides, I couldn’t afford you.”

“I’m sure I could do you a deal. But you won’t need me. You do a great job at your birthing center.”

“Thank yo—”

“So? Who is the lucky guy?”

“Oh, um…” The idea of telling the chief resident of obstetrics that my baby didn’t have a father was vomit inducing. “Actually…”

“Evening, Lorraine.” Patrick appeared beside me, hand extended.

“Well, well … Patrick!” Dr. Hargreaves shook Patrick’s hand, and whistled. “Haven’t you two kept this quiet? I know a few women at the hospital who are going to have a broken heart, Patrick. And men, for that matter, Neva.” She chuckled. “It’s a match made in heaven, now that I think of it. I hope Patrick’s been taking good care of you?”

“Oh, no, actually he’s—”

“—trying but she’s very independent.” Patrick’s warm hand enveloped mine. “Perhaps you can convince her that she should take it easy in the last trimester, avoid any situations that could make her stressed?”

I blinked at Patrick.

“I’m surprised anyone should have to tell her that. Let him help you, Neva. He obviously wants to.”

Patrick’s arm was strewn casually round my waist, his fingers interlaced with mine. He grinned at me and nodded imperceptibly.

“Fine.” I smiled at Lorraine. “I will.”

*   *   *

When Dr. Hargreaves was gone, I stared at Patrick.

“She’s going to think we’re both nuts when she finds out you’re not the father of my baby, you know.”

“Probably,” Patrick agreed. “If she finds out.”

“She will find out.”

“Only if you tell her. I’m not going to.”

Again, I scanned his face, looking for some way to make sense of things. I couldn’t find a single, solitary reason. “Why, Patrick?”

“Are you really that dense?”

“Let’s say I am.”

Before he could respond, my phone alerted me of an incoming call with a short buzz. I frowned. It was very late for a call. And I didn’t recognize the number.

“I’d better get this,” I said. I accepted the call. “Neva Bradley.”

“Hi, Neva … it’s Lil.”

“Lil.” I frowned. Lil had never called me, not once in eight years. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry, I’ve got bad news. Your gran’s in the hospital.”

14

Grace

I glanced at my phone—11:01 P.M. Neva had called twice, which must have been some sort of record, although she had called practically every day since the day we found out she was pregnant. Today, I couldn’t bring myself to call her back. I was still reeling from the last phone call I’d received, three hours ago.

I hadn’t recognized the number, but that was nothing new. Clients called me at all hours, from various numbers. Sadly it meant that I was completely unprepared for what was coming.

“Is this Grace Bradley, the midwife responsible for Gillian Brennan’s delivery?” asked the voice. Nothing about that question put me at ease.

“It is. Who am I speaking with?”

“My name is Marie Ableman. I am an investigator with the Board of Nursing. I am calling because a complaint has been lodged against you by a Dr. Roger White at Newport Hospital. Dr. White was the physician looking after Ms. Brennan and her baby after they were admitted to the hospital.”

Wow. He’d done it. He’d made a complaint. I almost felt proud of him. Almost. It wasn’t the first time I’d been abused by a doctor, of course, and I was fairly sure it wouldn’t be the last.

“These home births keep me in business,” he’d muttered when we met in Emergency.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“They’re irresponsible, and they always end up like this, with a patient being rushed in in need of emergency treatment,” he said unapologetically. “Then the doctors are left to clean up the mess.”

“With due respect”—I used every ounce of restraint and professionalism I had left, for the sake of my client—“there is no mess. We are here to admit an infant with a cleft palate. Even if she were born here at the hospital, she’d have required the same treatment. The mother has a perineal tear—pretty standard for a vaginal birth and hardly a mess.” I kept my voice civil but it dripped with thinly veiled hostility.

“Listen,” Patrick said. “I’m a pediatrician at St. Mary’s Hospital. I oversaw this birth, and it was quite safe. We can iron out all the details later, but our first priority is the patient and her baby. Can we all agree on that?”

“Yes,” the doctor said a little gruffly. “Yes, we can.” Then he pointed at me, his face a snarl. “But I want her details. I’m going to report her.”

Patrick stepped between me and the doctor’s finger. “Now, just a min—”

“You can have my details,” I said, already in my purse, searching for my accreditation. “There you go, write it down. I have nothing to be ashamed of.”