The Offering (36 page)

“You claim you never suspected the child might be yours until two months ago, when you saw a photo, then you realized that he looks like your daughter. When you studied the newborn right before you left the hospital, did you note a family resemblance?”

I snatched a breath. “My husband had just been killed, so I didn't even want to look at the baby. I had experienced enough loss; I didn't want to feel the pang of losing anyone else.”

The lawyer pressed his palms together and brought his hands to his lips, almost as if he were praying. “I was sorry to hear of your husband's passing, especially at such an unfortunate time. But you
didn't answer my question—did you note a family resemblance when you saw the child as a newborn?”

I closed my eyes and forced a laugh. “Newborns don't look like much of anyone. Their heads are misshapen, their faces puffy, and their eyes are usually closed. No, I didn't note a family resemblance.”

“Let's move on, then. Aside from the fact that the Amblours and their child flew home earlier than you thought they should, during your first meeting, during the months of your pregnancy, and during the actual birth, did you ever see or hear anything to make you doubt the Amblours' ability to be good parents?”

I hesitated, intimidated by the sheer size of the question. The word no rode the tip of my tongue, but it wasn't entirely accurate. “I saw some things.”

“Ah. Did you see pictures of inadequate housing?”

“No.”

“Did you witness Damien Amblour losing his temper? Did you see him strike his wife or anyone else?”

“No.”

“Were you given any reason to believe my clients were not financially able or willing to support a child?”

“No.”

He chuckled. “I should say not, especially since they were paying you more than your husband earned in a year.”

“Objection.” Mr. Pippen spoke up. “The late Mr. Lisandra's salary is not relevant to this line of questioning.”

“I'll withdraw it.”

The French attorney glanced at his notes, then cleared his throat. “Isn't it true, Mrs. Lisandra, that you had absolutely no reason to fear for the future health or safety of this child while you were involved with the Amblours?”

A lump formed in my stomach, weighing me down. “I had reservations and questions. I wondered how Simone could be happy in a marriage that seemed so . . . stiff. I wondered how Damien
could be so fixated on having a biological heir, and I worried that the baby might be a girl—I don't think Damien would have been thrilled with a girl. I wondered what kind of mother thought it was okay to give a kid a grand piano for her fifth birthday. I wondered about all these things, but I believed the child I was carrying was
their
child, so I pushed my hesitations aside. I didn't think I had a right to be concerned.”

“What if, Mrs. Lisandra, a subsequent genetic test reveals Julien Louis Amblour to be Mr. Amblour's biological offspring?”

“Objection.” Mr. Pippen glared at the opposing attorney. “There is no reason to believe anything of the sort.”

“Objection noted,” the court reporter said, clicking away at her machine.

“We shall see what the court decides.” Mr. Bouchard began again. “If you had these concerns during the pregnancy, why did you wait two years to voice them?”

I faltered in a maze of confusing thoughts. “Like I said, I thought I had no right to express my concerns. I can't mother every child in the world; I can only protect the children God has entrusted to me. I didn't begin to feel responsible for Julien until I saw his picture.”

“So you didn't feel responsible for him during the pregnancy?”

“Of course I did, but I saw myself as a babysitter, not a parent. I deliberately tried to remain detached because I thought my responsibility would end when I handed him over to the Amblours. But now that I know he's my son, I
am
responsible for him, make no mistake about that.”

The Frenchman's brow lowered. “The matter of his parentage has yet to be settled.” He pulled a photograph from his briefcase and slid it toward me. The picture revealed a sprawling estate—green vineyards, a huge stone home, lovely gardens. Without being told, I knew I was looking at Domaine de Amblour.

“Julien Amblour lives here,” Mr. Bouchard said, “and he is currently heir to a vast fortune. He is reportedly in good health and happy in his family. Other than you, Mrs. Lisandra, who would
benefit from wresting this child from the only parents he has ever known and bringing him to a country that will seem foreign to him?”

Despite my determination to remain calm, his words cut deep, infecting me with doubt. Phrased that way, no thinking person would want to remove Julien from the Amblours' custody. But I had good reasons for wanting my son to come home. Righteous reasons.

“Why should he live in a foreign country with people who are not of his blood?” I met Bouchard's sanctimonious gaze without flinching. “Why shouldn't Julien know the woman who gave him life, and why shouldn't he learn about the brave, unselfish man who died serving his family and his country? Why shouldn't he know his grandmother and grandfather, his aunts and uncles, his cousins? Why shouldn't he live here and inherit a position in the family business? He deserves to know about his great-grandparents' escape from Castro and Cuba. He has a right to know his big sister. He ought to know his father was a hero and he has seeds of greatness in him. Julien deserves all this and more.”

As my voice grew louder and more confident, Mr. Bouchard averted his gaze and kept his eyes on his notes. I couldn't help thinking that he didn't care about what I had to say; he was only waiting to take another jab.

Fine, then. Punch away.

“Ms. Lisandra,” he said when I'd finished, “according to your medical file, you reported hemorrhaging on the weekend of April sixth and seventh. This is a common symptom of miscarriage, yet you continued to behave as though you were still pregnant with the Amblours' fetus. Why did you do that?”

Troubled by the question, I glanced at my attorney. What was he getting at?

Mr. Pippen nodded, silently urging me to answer.

“Because I thought I was still pregnant—and that kind of
bleeding doesn't always mean miscarriage. I had the same kind of spotting when I was pregnant with my daughter, and it meant nothing.”

Bouchard shuffled a few papers. “According to your medical records, you missed two scheduled ultrasounds at the beginning of your pregnancy—one on the eighteenth of April and another on May eighth. Why did you miss those?”

“Haven't we already talked about this?”

“I'd like to hear about them again.”

I sighed. “The first cancellation wasn't my fault—the doctor's office didn't have power, so they canceled all appointments.”

“Why didn't you set up a scan for the next day?”

“I tried, but they couldn't fit me in the schedule.”

“Is it not true that an ultrasound on that date—April eighteenth—would have revealed an empty uterus? That you were not, in fact, pregnant at all?”

“I don't know what it would have revealed.” I felt myself flushing. “I'm not a doctor.”

“The ultrasound you missed on May eighth—care to explain that one?”

“I was sick, but I kept my doctor's appointment.” I pressed my damp palm to the tabletop, repressing the urge to crawl over the table and slap the man. “I was so nauseous I could barely lift my head off the pillow that morning, but I went to the office and we heard a fetal heartbeat.”

“Because you were pregnant?”

“Because I was pregnant, sure. But I
thought
I'd been pregnant all along. We missed the ultrasound because the machine wasn't working.”

“Were you not concerned about skipping this ultrasound? And if you'd had it, is it not true that it would have revealed only a gestational sac?”

“I'm not a doctor; I don't know what it would have shown. But I wasn't worried about missing the ultrasound because I knew it
wouldn't make anything better or worse. I knew I was pregnant, and all I wanted was to deliver a healthy baby.”

“A healthy baby . . . which you
did
deliver and surrender almost exactly when the Amblour pregnancy would have been forty weeks. A child you delivered without any great concern. A baby you barely glanced at before you let the Amblours leave the country.”

I gripped the arms of my chair to keep myself firmly in my seat. “I . . . was . . .
grieving
 . . . for my husband.” From the corner of my eye I saw Mr. Pippen straighten. He was probably only seconds away from suggesting that I take a break.

I sank back and covered my eyes, forcing myself to calm down. Was this man suggesting that I purposely got pregnant with Gideon's baby so I could wait two years and then bring a case against the Amblours? Perhaps he thought I could be persuaded to drop the matter if his clients would deposit more money in my bank account.

Or maybe he only wanted the court to hear these details and question my sincerity. Even DNA evidence might not be enough to persuade a judge who believed I had concocted a scheme to blackmail the venerable Amblours.

I looked at Mr. Pippen, who nodded and smiled as awareness thickened between us. All Bouchard had to do was convince a judge that I had chosen the wealthiest clients offered to me, gotten myself pregnant, covered up a miscarriage, conceived my husband's child, and intentionally avoided ultrasounds in order to commit fraud. No one who knew me would ever believe I could think up such a plan, but Bouchard had a way of laying out the scenario so fraud seemed a logical conclusion. He might instill enough doubt that a French court would dismiss my legitimate claim and leave Julien in France, ostensibly deciding in the best interests of the child.

Because what sort of jurist would take a two-year-old from his home and place him with a scheming surrogate?

I crossed my arms and flashed a brow at Mr. Pippen, telegraphing my newly acquired understanding. Bouchard was using this
testimony as preamble, a foundation to build in front of the judge before he swept in with his ridiculous claims.

But I would tell the complete truth. When Mr. Pippen cross-examined me, he'd ask questions that went to the heart of the matter, and I'd clearly spell out my intentions: I loved my son more than life and wanted to be his mother. And I'd be happy for the Amblours to keep all their money. I didn't want a penny from them and I'd be happy to return every cent they paid me.

Mr. Bouchard said something else, breaking into my thoughts.

“I beg your pardon?” I smiled. “Could you repeat the question?”

“I said, how much were you paid for carrying this child?”

Resolved to give him nothing but bare and indisputable facts, I gripped the edge of the table and replied.

T
he weeks after my deposition passed with agonizing slowness. While I waited, spring bathed central Florida in waves of warmth, coaxing bright green buds from the live oaks and new spears from the palm trees. Caladiums bloomed in pots around Mama Isa's front porch, and Jorge painted the metal gliders in a fresh coat of yellow to match the ribbons on the porch posts. Marilee spent hours practicing for her spring recital, and at the grocery we arranged packages of sunny marshmallow Peeps in cellophane mountains.

I wandered through those weeks in a fog, preoccupied with thoughts of France and my absent son. I was certain I would win my case—how could any judge deny a child to his biological mother? If by some chance the case went as far as an international court, how could France deny the United States access to an American citizen?

The full realization of what victory would mean blossomed in my imagination. I would have to find a way to ease Julien's transition from the Amblour family to the Lisandra clan, but that would be easy because the Lisandras were eager to welcome him. I should probably find a child psychologist to help me ease the baby's transition into a new family and a new culture. And then there was the matter of his name—should I call him Gideon Jr. or leave him as
Julien? Or perhaps I should name him Gideon Julien Lisandra? Which approach would be best for him?

I pondered these questions for hours, writing out long lists of pros and cons about each decision, and nearly every day I thought of some aspect of the transition I hadn't yet considered. How could I comfort Julien without a working knowledge of French? If I hired a tutor for myself, could I pick up enough of the language to help us through our first few weeks together? And how should we manage the transfer? Should I go to France and pick up Julien, or would it be better if the Amblours brought him to me? Maybe it would be less traumatic for all of us if we found an impartial third party to act as an escort on the long flight across the Atlantic.

I downloaded French language lessons from the Internet, but didn't find them practical because I couldn't
see
the words I heard. I bought a book guaranteed to teach me French in only thirty lessons, but since I couldn't
hear
the words, I had no idea how to pronounce them.

Why couldn't I have been a surrogate for a couple from Britain or even Spain?

I also needed a place to live. Marilee and I went to our storage unit and pulled out the dollhouse, then took it back to Mama Isa's. We set it on the coffee table, then looked at the rooms and decided that the colors of our dream house no longer felt right. I couldn't explain exactly why the house no longer seemed appropriate—probably because we had designed it for life with Gideon, and that life was finished. Now we needed to plan a life with Julien, and a little boy seemed to require livelier colors.

Twice I went out with a real estate agent and looked at homes near the grocery, but those were mostly older structures in dire need of present or future repair. Since Gideon had always been our handyman, I didn't want to buy any property that would require work beyond basic cleaning. So I ended up looking at newer homes, but most new developments were in north Tampa and far from the heart of the city. The houses were pretty and spacious, but
I'd be facing nearly an hour's drive in dense traffic if the kids and I wanted to join the family at Mama Isa's on Saturday evenings.