The Baby Connection

CHAPTER TWO

“MY PLANE LEAVES SOON,” Noah murmured near Mel’s ear, hating the fact that he would have to get out of this bed they’d rarely left all weekend.

Mel snuggled into him with a little moan of pleasure—a fainter version of the sound she made when she climaxed. In response, he went hard as a rock.

Damn, he didn’t want to go yet. He studied her golden skin, the way her dark hair shone in the gray light leaking through the hotel curtains.

She had the best smell—reminding him of that old-school tropical drink, the Zombie—sweet with a peppery stinger. The cocktail was red, too, which felt like Mel’s color. Intense and fire-bright.

He would have to hustle once he got to Fort Bragg to get his advance work done before he flew out with officers headed to Iraq, where U.S. troops remained to advise and train Iraqi soldiers.

Not the way he usually approached a big assignment, but he wasn’t sorry he’d spent his last free days with Melodía Ramirez. She was one of a kind. A straight shooter and passionate as hell, with a laugh like liquid silver.

She reminded him of himself after J school—hard-driving, totally on fire for the work. Which was how she was in bed, too, he’d been happy to discover.

She lifted her head to shove her thick hair out of her face. He helped her with the rest, running his knuckle along her cheek, enjoying the buttery firmness of her skin—strong and soft like her personality and her name. She had the best mouth. What she could do with that sweet tongue of hers…

She noticed the tent he’d raised and smiled, taking hold of him. “How much time do we have?”

“Enough for what you’ve got in mind.” He rolled her onto her back, she shifted her hips and he entered her, easy as breathing.

All weekend long, when they weren’t having sex, they were talking nonstop and they kept at it all the way to the airport. Mel had a million questions and more ideas than that. At the terminal curb, she bounded out of the car. “I had a great time,” she said, clearly trying to sound cheerful despite the wistful mood that had descended on them both.

“Me, too, Mel.” He pulled her against him, holding tight. I’ll miss you. He had the urge to say it. She was a smart, sexy woman who knew who she was and what she wanted. In life and in bed. It didn’t get much better than that.

“I wish I could go with you,” she said, quickly adding, “to take pictures.” As if he might think she was being clingy. Not Mel.

She stood on her own two feet. He liked that about her.

“Me, too,” he said. “Sadly, I’m taking my own shots, since they won’t spring for a photographer. I’m no Mel Ramirez.” But he wanted her along for more than her camera.

Predictable, he supposed. The result of that postcoital glow, when it all seemed perfect. That was where he’d gone wrong with Pat, his girlfriend for almost a year. Because she was a reporter, he’d figured she would roll with the punches, but he would return from weeks on the road to stony silence and slammed doors, then tears and bitterness when she finally did speak. It was a mistake he hadn’t made since. He knew better than to let anyone or any place sink its hooks in him.

“You’re my hero, you know,” she said.

“God, don’t say that. I’m just a news monkey. I’m all about the byline.”

“We both know better than that.”

He’d told her how hard it had been to convince his editor there were still important stories in Iraq. “If I don’t hit this one out of the park, I’m dead.”

“I have no doubt you will.”

“Talking with you has been good. You remind me why I’m in this crazy business. I owe you for that.” To lighten the moment, he added, “And for the sex. Man, do I owe you for that.” He wrapped both arms around her and she tucked in tight. Damn, she felt good in his arms.

Don’t drag this out. He released her for the crucial reality check. “I’m not good about staying in touch,” he said. “Once I get deep into an assignment, I’m lost. The bases have good internet and cell reception, but away from there, there’s next to nothing, so I—”

“We had a great weekend, Noah,” she said. “That’s what matters.”

She was making it easy for him. He leaned in and kissed her goodbye. “You’re something else.” He couldn’t get enough of her eyes, which crackled with intelligence, humor and fire. They stayed with him on the plane.

Her mother’s story stuck with him, too. She’d risked her life in Salvador to speak out for the truth. And Xavier Sosa, who had died trying to force the world to see a reality it refused to admit.

Mel would carry Sosa’s mission forward, with her eye and her art, exposing truths, large and small, beautiful and surprising, hard to look at, but crucial to see. She was strong-willed, idealistic, but practical, too, with her head on square and her heart as big as hearts got.

Noah had had a weekend he wouldn’t soon forget with a woman he doubted he ever would. Her scent lingered on his clothes all the way to Fort Bragg—one last pleasure to hang on to before the hard work ahead.

Two months later

Phoenix, Arizona

“BE RIGHT BACK.” MEL tossed her camera bag over her shoulder, and hightailed it to the gas station restroom. It was big and shiny and very clean, gracias a Dios.

Since she’d been working for Arizona News Day she’d become a pro at identifying good restrooms from the outside. Lately, she’d spent more time in them than usual. She’d assumed it was some weird stomach flu, since her mother had complained, too. In fact, Irena had gone to the doctor that morning to find out what was causing her cramps and nausea.

Lately, though, Mel had had another idea about her own stomach upset and it had nothing to do with a virus.

She and Dave Roberts, the reporter she was working with, were about to leave for the housing development where police believed human smugglers were using foreclosure homes as drop houses, but she had enough time to test her theory about her health. She slipped into the bathroom and locked the door.

Five minutes later, she stared at the plus sign on the stick she held with shaking fingers. For some reason, it made her think of the X’s over the eyes of a cartoon character who’d been knocked unconscious. She could relate. She felt as though someone had kicked the wind right out of her. She was pregnant? How was that possible? She’d been on birth control—well, transitioning from pills to a patch. But that shouldn’t have mattered, considering the condition of her fallopian tubes. Endometriosis had so scarred them the doctor had told her she would need in vitro fertilization to get pregnant.

Someone tapped on the door. “We gotta roll, Mel.”

“Right, Dave. Coming.” She tossed the stick and the box in the trash. Her stomach surged, so she bolted back to the stall to lose what was left of lunch.

“You okay?” Dave asked when she emerged. He’d clearly heard her puke.

“The enchiladas were too spicy,” she mumbled, though Dave would never buy that—the two of them had regular contests over who could mouth-surf the hottest peppers in town.

Pushing back her panic, she hitched her camera bag higher on her shoulder and focused on the job ahead.

Their timing was ideal, as it turned out. Dave scored interviews with the smugglers’ neighbors and a family of immigrants who were held hostage in the drop house while the coyotes extorted more money from their people back home.

Mel got great shots, including one of a mournful immigrant couple sitting against the post of a for sale sign in the yard. It would make a perfect cover. So far, she’d scored three covers. Not bad for two months at a new job.

Her job was exactly as great as she’d dreamed it would be. Arizona News Day wasn’t afraid of the tough stories, allowed its journalists to take risks and gave tons of editorial space to photos.

She’d picked up shortcuts and tips from veteran photographers, honed her instincts and was proud that her candid images often seemed lit and composed as well as a studio shot.

Her editor loved her initiative and the managing editor, Randall Cox, called her “magic behind the lens,” though he seemed to dole out praise to distract them all from their less-than-fabulous salaries. Her highest compliment was that Dave, their top reporter, often asked for her to accompany him.

As the weeks passed, she’d loaded her print clips and photos into her portfolio so that it was always current and kept her eye on openings at bigger papers in other cities.

She would miss her mother, but when a spot opened up, she was ready to go. She longed to take the kind of world-changing photos she’d carried on about to Noah—whom, after a mere three emails, she hadn’t heard from in a month. Noah who, it turned out, had gotten her pregnant.

It was her fault. When they’d run out of condoms, they could have simply hit the gift shop, but, oh, no, she’d told Noah she had it handled.

Evidently not.

On the way home, she dropped into a Planned Parenthood clinic to learn how the impossible had happened. It turned out she’d missed the warning about elevated pregnancy risk while switching methods. As to her fallopian tubes, “The body is amazingly resilient, Mel,” the nurse practitioner told her sympathetically, then went through her options, giving her pamphlets for each. “Are there questions I can answer right now?”

“Yes. How could I have been so stupid?”

“No contraceptive is flawless. And we’re all human. We make mistakes. Think this through, talk about it with people you trust. Family. Clergy. A counselor. Are you in contact with the father?”

“No. He’s not in the country.” When Noah heard about this…

She cringed. She was already embarrassed by how often she replayed their time together—the sex and the conversation. She’d made too much of it, she knew. He’d warned her that he disappeared, so she had no right to feel hurt, yet she did. She’d thought they had a connection.

They did now, all right. A baby—the last thing either of them wanted.

“Do you feel faint?” the nurse asked, reaching toward her.

She shook herself back to the moment. “No. I’m just shocked. You’ve been very helpful.” She left the clinic, desperate to go home to think, but she’d promised she’d stop by Bright Blossoms, her mother’s day-care business, to take photos of the Fourth of July party.

Mel parked in front of the strip mall where her mother’s business nestled. An American flag proudly jutted from its eaves, waving in the light breeze. It was muggy, with monsoon clouds heavy on the horizon and the muted sunlight looked nearly golden. The magical smell of creosote filled the air from last night’s warm drizzle.

Bright Blossoms stood out among the bland shops in the mall. The bricks were painted canary-yellow and covered with tropical flowers and birds matching what Irena remembered of how her father had painted their small home not far from San Vicente in Salvador.

The place was so much like Mel’s mother—bright and colorful and cheerful. Though, behind Irena’s constant smile, Mel knew she missed her family terribly. Irena’s father had died a year after she left, and her mother, brother and two sisters never forgave her for leaving. Irena had visited three times, bringing Mel when she was five, but Irena found the trips almost more painful than missing her people from half a continent away.

Inside the building, Mel’s ears were hit with a Sousa march and a confusion of percussion. Through the glass wall, she saw the preschoolers marching around the refreshment table, wearing patriotic paper hats, beating toy drums, shaking maracas, banging cymbals or clacking castanets. A few parents sat in the tiny chairs, clapping along.

In the hallway, her mother crouched beside a sobbing toddler. Irena wiped his tears with a flag-decorated napkin. “Where does it hurt, mi’ jo?” she murmured, her voice rich as music.

“My finger,” he said, holding it out, clearly not in pain. He wanted the little ritual that came next. Her mother gently rubbed the boy’s finger while reciting the Spanish rhyme that translated as: “Get well, get well, little tadpole. If you don’t get well today, you’ll get well tomorrow.” All through Mel’s own childhood, Irena had soothed her with the incantation that magically took away all hurts, big and small.

Her mother had filled Mel’s life with poems and songs and sayings. Spanish was so beautiful, sensual and full of rhymes. Whenever Mel heard it, she remembered the comfort of childhood in the tiny apartment they’d lived in until Mel had graduated high school.

“Next time, keep your fingers away from drumsticks that are playing, eh, muchacho?” her mother said, giving the boy a hug. He nodded solemnly and ran into the parade room.

“Mamá,” Mel said.

“Melodía, you’re here.” Her mother smiled, but her eyes stayed serious.

“Is everything okay?”

“Of course. Come take the pictures.” She motioned Mel into the room. Her mother was in her element, surrounded by children. She’d never made a big deal of it, but she’d clearly wished for more babies after Mel, though it wasn’t possible. Bright Blossoms helped relieve that sorrow, Mel believed.

Mel nodded at Rachel and Marla, two of the caregivers who’d been here since they’d opened five years ago, then moved around the room taking shots of the kids marching and playing along with “God Bless America.”

As always, the song put tears in her strong mother’s eyes. The promise of America had sustained Irena through her terrible trip and the dark days and nights in a foreign land, where the warm welcome she’d hoped for had been denied over politics. She’d survived…and, in the end, thrived.

The final activity was decorating cupcakes and soon the small faces were smeared with bright frosting. As Mel took shot after shot, her mother’s words played in her head: You modern girls, you wait and wait for children. You will have gray hair and be chasing your niños with a cane if you’re not careful.

And that was without knowing about Mel’s fertility problem. Against all odds, a miracle had occurred. Mel was pregnant. What would her mother say?

“Estás bien, mi’ ja?” her mother asked, her eyes lingering on Mel’s face.

Mel forced a smile. “Will you be home soon?”

“Soon. Yes. And we will talk.” Her mother started to walk away, then came abruptly close and hugged Mel hard. “Mi cariña.” My beloved. “Mamá? What’s up?” Her mother was an affectionate person, but this felt as though they were parting for years, not an hour or so.

“Hablámos en casa.” We’ll talk at home.

An hour later, Mel’s mother shut the front door behind her and said, point-blank, “It is cancer,” pronouncing it the Spanish way—kahn-sare. “In the ovaries. There is treatment, now, the doctor says to me, that is better than before. First a surgery, then chemotherapy and, perhaps, radiation.”

“Oh, Mamá.” She threw her arms around her mother, who was holding herself stiffly erect, fighting emotion, Mel was certain.

Cancer. Her mother had cancer. She might die.

And Mel was pregnant.

She felt as though the world was closing in on her. “You’re strong, Mamá. You’ll beat this,” she said, holding back the tears, keeping her voice steady. “We’ll get you through this.” The idea of losing her mother was almost more than she could bear. Her mother was so vibrant, so alive. She had so much to live for. She was Mel’s best friend, her entire family. She fought a swirl of nausea.