The Offering (8 page)

“Code for what?”

“They're rich. I guess it's the most tasteful way to say they'll pay anything if you'll do this for them.”

“At least they were subtle about it.”

I handed him the second folder. This couple had sent an eight-by-ten color photograph of themselves, and Gideon blinked when he saw a picture of two middle-aged men. Andre and Hugh had been together six years and planned to marry as soon as the option became legal.

Gideon read the letter aloud: “ ‘We're now living in Vermont, and we'd go anywhere to have another baby. We are currently raising Samantha and Stephanie, twin girls from China, and more than anything we want the girls to have a brother. So we are looking for a gestational carrier who would be willing to transfer at least three embryos—”

Gideon frowned at me. “Where do they get the embryo?”

“From their sperm and an egg donor, I guess.”

“Who's the egg donor?”

“I don't know. Men make deposits in a sperm bank; women must sell eggs to an egg farm—er, bank.”

He shook his head. “Abuela won't believe any of this. And they're asking you to carry triplets? Isn't that a lot riskier than a typical pregnancy?”

“I think triplets are a long shot, but I don't know. I'll have to ask Natasha about it.”

Gideon kept reading: “—transfer at least three embryos and then selectively terminate any female fetuses. We are a committed couple, dedicated parents, and want to bring more love and joy to this world. What better way to do that than to have more babies?”

My husband scowled. “Did I read that right? They want to terminate females?”

“I've already scratched them off my list.” I took the file and pushed it away. “I'm surprised Natasha gave me that couple. I thought she knew I would never terminate a pregnancy.”

Gideon said nothing as I opened the third file and handed it over. The photo paper-clipped to the first page featured an unusually striking couple. The husband was tall and big boned, his blond hair full and shining, his beard perfectly clipped. Though the man could have been anywhere from forty-five to sixty, the woman couldn't have been more than forty. She stood tall and pencil thin beside her husband, her pale face unlined and her brown hair long and flowing. Both of them had large blue eyes and the look of people who had never broken a sweat. I had no trouble imagining them in a penthouse on New York's Fifth Avenue or in a country mansion in some exotic locale.

“Damien and Simone Amblour,” Gideon read. “From the Loire Valley, France.”

“My turn.” I scooted closer to read the letter aloud.

“Dear Friend:

“My husband and I live in France, in the beautiful Loire Valley on the western coast. Our home is called Domaine de Amblour—it is a working vineyard and
maison d'hôte.
My husband inherited the estate from his father, who inherited it from his father. Altogether, I am told, six generations of my husband's family have lived on and worked this bountiful soil.

“Damien and I have been married five years with no children. He does have two girls from a previous union, but I am sad to say the girls want nothing to do with the estate or their father. We desperately want a son or daughter to live with us, to bless our home and learn how to live off the bounty and beauty of this land. I was born and raised in Paris, but since coming to the Loire Valley, I cannot imagine living anywhere else. This place is a paradise on earth.

“Though our vineyard is abundantly fertile, our union has not resulted in a child. Surrogacy is not legal in France, so we have turned to the United States for help. If you choose to work with us, we will come to the U.S. to meet you, as we will come
if you need us for anything. We are most eager to care for you, provide for you, and to be present for the child's birth. If you choose us, we would appreciate being notified the moment you suspect birth is imminent. We will have to fly over, but we will make every preparation to arrive as soon as possible.

“I hope you will be the one through whom God answers our prayers.

Most sincerely, Simone Amblour.”

I felt Gideon's gaze on my face as I finished reading.

“Wow,” he said, rubbing his jaw. “All the way from France.”

“I didn't realize surrogacy was illegal over there,” I added. “I thought Europe was a lot more liberal about issues like this.”

“Apparently they're not more liberal about everything.” Gideon slumped in his chair. “What a life—growing up in a vineyard? They sound superrich.”

“
All
these people sound rich,” I pointed out. “Most couples have already spent a fortune on medical treatments before they even consider surrogacy. And they know they're going to need lots of money for this—I found a financial estimate in the envelope.”

I pulled out a list of expenses the intended parents would have to pay. “Look at this—almost twenty thousand dollars for the agency fee, twenty-five thousand for the surrogate's living expenses, another twenty-four hundred per month for the surrogate's miscellaneous costs, two thousand for the medical screening, a thousand to buy the surrogate maternity clothes, up to twenty-four thousand for medical expenses, a thousand for the psychological screening, five thousand for the attorney, four hundred for life insurance on the surrogate mother, money for a criminal background check, and the list goes on, depending on the surrogate's needs. I added it all up. At the very least, a couple who applies at this agency will be shelling out one hundred thousand dollars.”

Gideon whistled. “Life insurance, huh? How much do you think they'll take out on you?”

I gaped at him, horrified he'd even notice that particular expense, then saw the twinkle in his eye.

“You are a bully.” I tried to punch him—always a mistake, because his reflexes were lightning fast and his muscles like steel. He caught my fist and pulled me off my chair, then settled me firmly on his lap.

“That's better.” Encircling me with one arm, he picked up the fee schedule with the other. “Did you figure out how much you'll earn?”

I nodded. “If the pregnancy is successful, it'll add up to more than sixty thousand dollars. And I can be frugal—I don't need maternity clothes; I still have things from when I was pregnant with Marilee. So I could keep most of the money from the clothing allowance.”

He crinkled his nose as he read the fine print details I hadn't mentioned. “What's this support group payment?”

“They have a monthly support group for the pregnant women. When I get pregnant, I'll get a hundred bucks a month for going to the meeting.”

“Are you sure you'll have time for that?”

“I'd make time, Gid. Imagine being paid a hundred dollars just for sitting in a room. And they'll give us money for health insurance we won't need because we're already covered through Uncle Sam. Tricare takes care of everything that's pregnancy-related.”

Gideon picked up the contract and sucked at the inside of his cheek for a moment, his brows angled downward. “This is what you sign?”

“Yes.”

“After you cut through the legalese, what are you required to do?”

“Cooperate, mostly. Natasha wrote in clauses to cover issues I feel strongly about.”

“Such as—”

“Well, I agreed to have up to five separate IVF transfers of up to three embryos each, but I refused to participate in selective reduction. If I get pregnant with triplets, triplets is what I'll carry. I won't
let them terminate one of the babies just because I might have to go on bed rest.”

His brows drew together. “You said you wouldn't risk your health. And how are you going to get anything done if you have to go on bed rest?”

I pointed to the contract and gave my worried husband a sweet smile. “The intended parents will supply a housekeeper if I end up in bed, so I won't have to risk anything. Every detail has been spelled out, including the financial arrangements. At regular intervals I'll be paid from an escrow account the agency oversees. Natasha insists on that so no one can accuse the agency of selling babies. The couple will be paying me to carry their child,
not
to hand over a baby after nine months.”

Gideon lowered the contract. “You've already made up your mind, haven't you?”

“About doing this, yes. I know I can do it, but I don't
want
to do it if you don't approve.”

“And which couple would you want to work with? The people from Orlando or the French folks?”

“I don't know. Want to choose for me?”

He laughed. “Not so fast, baby girl. Some things you have to decide for yourself.”

“But it's so hard! I mean, okay, couple number two is out, but couples one and three seem like they could be wonderful parents.”

A look of inward intentness grew in my husband's eyes, then he reached out and tapped the last folder. The French couple's file.

I clapped. “I was hoping you'd pick them.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. They just seem sort of . . . elegant. And they're older, so if they don't get a baby soon, they're probably not going to get one at all.”

Gideon pressed a kiss to the nape of my neck. “Right now, I'm not so worried about other couples. I'm thinking you and I should spend some quality time together.”

I giggled and slipped my arms around his neck, laughing as he picked me up and carried me to our bedroom.

A week away from Christmas, Mama Yanela's grocery looked as though it had been caught up in a festive frenzy. Jenna offered free samples of pastry and Cuban cider at the bakery counter while Mario arranged a row of suckling pigs belly up in the meat display case. Mama Isa wore a bright red Christmas sweater and gold spangles in her dark hair and Tumelo occasionally stepped out of the stockroom in an oversized Santa suit.

Thrilled to know I'd been approved by the Surrogacy Center, I was tempted to pull a length of garland from the window display, drape it over my shoulders, and dance to the Cuban-flavored Christmas songs playing over the intercom. But my happiness had little to do with the holiday and everything to do with the contract I had signed and returned to Natasha Bray.

Earlier that morning I had called Natasha to tell her that Gideon and I wanted to work with the French couple. She was delighted by the news, and promised to call the Amblours to arrange a meeting.

“I suppose they'll want to wait until after Christmas,” I said.

“Oh no, they'll come right away,” she answered. “They have their own jet, and I know they're eager to get started. What a Christmas present you're giving them!”

And what a gift they were giving us. No more financial worries, no more cheap practice keyboards for Marilee, no more stay-cations because we couldn't afford to go anywhere. With the money from this effort, we might finally find ourselves on firm financial footing.

And we could finally buy a house.

Obeying an impulse, I stopped at an office supply store and bought a package of file folders. Later in the afternoon, while Marilee played outside and Gideon worked on the base, I would open the package and lovingly label each of the folders: Living
Room. Dining Room. Master Bedroom. Marilee's Room. Bathrooms. Guest Room. Exteriors.

I knew we couldn't buy a house right away, but I figured I might as well use my waiting time to collect ideas, photos, and color samples. Over the next several months, I would look through catalogs and decorator magazines, ripping out photos of rooms that inspired me and filing them in the appropriate folder. I would spend Saturday at Home Depot and Lowe's, gathering up paint chips and free brochures. And I would watch the Home & Garden Television channel until I knew the lineup by heart.

By the time we signed the mortgage for our own home, I'd know the final color of every wall and the location of every piece of furniture, even if it didn't yet exist.

I had just finished showing Consuela Rodriguez where to find the
tostoneras,
or plantain smashers, when I returned to the register and found Amelia kneeling behind the counter.

I bent to help her search the floor. “Drop something?”

“It's nothing.” Amelia wiped her red nose with a tissue, then stood and pointed down the aisle. “Did you help Consuela?”

I refused to be misdirected. “She's fine. What's wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, now.” I crossed my arms and glanced around to be sure no customers stood within hearing range. Amelia would never open up if a customer hovered nearby.

Her chin wobbled. “It's nothing I want to talk about.”

“Last night Marilee mentioned that you'd been crying. She prayed for you.” I lowered my voice. “Are you in trouble with your mother? Or did you and Mario have a fight?”

“I'm not fighting with anyone.” Amelia swabbed her nose, then lifted her gaze to the ceiling and sighed. “And if you must know, I got my period yesterday.”

I almost laughed. “And that upsets you?”

“It would upset anybody who'd been trying to get pregnant for almost two years.” Her voice dropped to an intensely quiet note.
“I keep praying, and every month I think the Lord has answered my prayer, but then I get my period and faith seems to be nothing more than a cruel joke.”

I stared, shocked speechless. If Amelia could call prayer a cruel joke, she was more discouraged than I'd ever been. I swallowed and tried to think of something to say. “Amelia, I'm so sorry. I knew you didn't have kids and I kinda thought you might be trying to have them, but I didn't realize—”

“I can't talk about it now.” She sidled past me and eased out of the checkout stand. “Excuse me, but I need to get some fresh air.”

I caught her hand before she could get away. “Why didn't you say anything before this?”