Page 45 of Not the Bodyguard's Widow
“That is my plan. I understand my placenta previa could change that.”
“If you went into labor now, at twenty-six weeks, it would definitely change things. But in another ten to fourteen weeks, statistically, the placenta should move, and you wouldn’t have a problem. I have two nurse midwives on staff. Would you like to meet with them?”
“No.” Kimberly bit her lip. “I have someone in mind. I have spoken with her. But if I can’t do a home birth, I’d like you to be in charge of my delivery.”
“I can work with that. We’ll schedule another ultrasound in four weeks—give this little one time to grow and see if the placenta moves.” Dr. Song took a boxlike device not much bigger than her palm out of the drawer. “Let’s see how baby’s heart is doing.” Dr. Song set the handheld device on Kimberly’s stomach and moved it around. Within seconds, the room was filled with the whop-whop-whop of a human heart. Dr. song smiled. “Your little one has a good, strong heart.”
Alex tried to swallow. He had never heard a sound like that. He looked down at Kimberly and found her smiling. Dr. Song pulled a measuring tape out of her pocket and measured Kimberly’s baby bump. “Perfect. You can sit up now.”
Alex placed his free hand between Kimberly’s shoulder blades and helped her up.
Dr. Song typed into her tablet. “Someone will call you about your glucose test tomorrow. Do you have any questions for me?”
“Just one.” Kimberly scooted herself closer to the end of the table. “Last Friday, when I had my ultrasound, the doctor said I needed to be on bed rest for several weeks. Is that true?”
“Have you had any bleeding since last week?”
“No.”
“You don’t need to be on bed rest. However, I would suggest not lifting anything heavier than a gallon of milk. Leave the laundry to someone else; get someone to pick up anything you drop.” Dr. Song moved her focus to Alex during her last statement. “No marital relations.”
Alex felt heat rising at the back of his neck. Kimberly blushed.
“I would suggest you go on several short walks a day, nothing strenuous. Avoid hills. And not a mile each. And make sure you’re eating regularly. I tell most of my patients it’s fine to eat like a hobbit: eat first breakfast, second breakfast, eleven o’clock snack, lunch, and so forth. Several small meals with both a protein and a carb is preferable to three big ones. You are slightly underweight, I assume from how sick you were during your first trimester. An ice cream cone or three a week is on your suggested list for sugar and calcium, providing your glucose test comes back normal. Any questions from you?” Dr. Song addressed the last question to Alex.
Alex had dozens of questions, but it was highly unlikely Dr. Song knew any of the answers.
* * *
Kimberly set her paintbrush down. She’d painted more over the last three weeks than she had all year. Between the Harmon’s normal security, Elle, and Alex, she felt safer than she had in forever. So she was sleeping, and the characters flowed from her paintbrush. She turned the painting over. Dr. Stork was perfect. She debated about naming the doctor after an old wives’ tale. Mama bunny wore maternity clothes to balance the narrative. The working title, “Bunny Gets a Brother,” needed tweaking. She’d let the editor have a go at that. This was the fifth time she’d started this book. And the first time she felt confident in finishing it.
Elle stuck her head into the screened porch area where Kimberly sat. “I’m off. Alex is at the front gate. See you tomorrow.”
“Have a good evening, Elle.” Kimberly waved without fully turning around. Elle wasn’t getting much practice being a real bodyguard unless bodyguards sat around all the time. A few minutes later, she heard Alex cross the kitchen and come out onto the porch. Dipping her brush in the vermillion, Kimberly didn’t bother hiding what she’d been working on as she had with Jeremy.
“Dr. Stork, I presume?” At the rumble of Alex’s deep voice, warmth spread through her soul.
“Do you think it’s too cliché?” Kimberly picked up her thinnest brush and dipped it in indigo.
“I can’t say I’ve read a lot of children’s books in the last thirty years. Other than the ones I’ve read of Leigh Benz this week. I wouldn’t worry. Your characters thrive on the cliché.”
“You’ve been reading my books?”
“I wanted to see what the mystery side of your life looks like. Abbie had ten of them in the library. I think she is missing one.”
“No, you read them all.” Jeremy had only read the first book, the one she’d published six months after they got married. Since most children’s book authors, in fact, most authors, failed to live above the poverty level on their author income alone, Jeremy had cautioned her against being too optimistic and told her to keep the money she made in her own account so she could buy a few things now and then. Three weeks later, she’d had her first miscarriage, and Jeremy had never asked about the books again. “My life isn’t mysterious. I write out a rhyming story and doodle on the page.”
“You do more than that. You weave difficult scenarios into your books. I’m assuming Candy the Otter is based on Mrs. Ogilvie.”
“Candace wanted a story about cancer and terminal illness she could read when she visited the children’s hospital. She wasn’t thrilled I named my otter Candy.”
“I think it’s my favorite so far. A bald otter wearing a feathered coat.”
“I liked the knitted turtleneck shell.” A picture of a big, protective bear named Alex formed in her mind.
“Abbie is hosting the family dinner at her house this Sunday. Dr. Song has told her not to go very far. We’re invited.”
“I know. She called and invited me earlier. I still feel like a trespasser. Your family was so kind to me on Mother’s Day. I know you’ve been avoiding it, but we need to talk about what we will do later.” Kimberly stood and went to clean her brushes. “And I’ve been doing a lot of research. I think if I come clean and pay the insurance company, you shouldn’t have any repercussions—if the FBI ever gives me back my money.”
