Page 30 of Nine Months to Bear
Call Area 51, because we’ve got a case of body snatchers.
My mother is calling to check on me at—I check the time—10:39 P.M.? That is definitely outside standard operating hours for Margaret Aster’s maternal instincts, if they exist at all.
“It was… productive,” I lie. “Busy with client consults.”
“Wonderful. And how’s the Hadley case progressing? The one with the endometriosis complication?”
I nearly drop the phone. My mother remembering a patient’s name? Asking for a follow-up? I feel like I’ve slipped into some parallel universe where Margaret Aster actually cares about my work. It’s unsettling.
“She’s responding well to treatment,” I say carefully. It’s not a lie. Georgia’s last appointment went well. I told her I was optimistic about her chances of conception this month.
Apparently, my optimism wasn’t enough to match whatever bargain barrel deal Walsh was able to waft under her nose. Loyalty is priceless… until it isn’t, I guess.
“Good, good,” she murmurs. I can almost hear her smiling. “I always said you had excellent clinical instincts. Like me.”
I fight the urge to snap my fingers and shout,A-ha!In thirty-two years, my mother has never offered unprompted praise without some kind of catch. At least that much hasn’t changed.
Tired of waiting for the trap to snap closed, I decide to be blunt. “Mom, what’s this about?”
She pauses. I picture her tapping her fingernails against her wine glass. “Brian Thompson’s wife told me the most interesting thing at Pilates today,” she says finally.
My stomach drops.
The president of the hospital board’s wife is getting spiritual in sound baths with Dr. Walsh, so I have zero reasons to believe whatever she had to say to my mother is going to be good news for me.
I brace for impact.
“She mentioned she saw you in the Safonov Holdings building today. Looking quite… flustered.” She lets the word hang, double meanings and euphemisms clawing over each other to get the first bite at me. “Were you there?”
“I—well, I—er, yes,” I stammer. I’m too exhausted to construct a believable lie. There are probably one thousand different security camera angles of me on Safonov property, so there really isn’t any point to lying anyway. “We had a meeting about a… a potential collaboration.”
I know exactly what I want. Do you?
I fight back the shiver that curls down my spine.
“Oh?”
That’s her fakest forced casualness yet. It tells me everything I need to know.
Thisis why she called.Thisis why she cares.
“The hospital board was just discussing his business ventures yesterday,” she mentions. “Stefan has such an impressive portfolio. And those eyes… Blue and brown. So striking.”
“Mom—” I try to interrupt, but she’s on a roll, and something about her enthusiasm makes my chest ache with a stupid, childish hope I thought I’d outgrown.
No matter how old you get, you always still want Mommy to love you. All the more so if she’s never done it before.
“He is rarely seen with women unless they’re exceptionally promising—socially or professionally.” The way she says it, I know she’d be fine with either choice. “He must see something special in you, Olivia.”
I should correct her. Tell her it’s not what she thinks. But the words get stuck in my throat because she sounds… proud. Of me. For once.
“It’s just business,” I manage weakly.
“Business and pleasure often mix well for successful people, darling. I’ve always told you that.”
“That’s not?—”
“The hospital board would absolutely love to know about your business with a man like Stefan Safonov,” she continues, ignoring my protest. “With his portfolio, and those eyes, he’d be a great business partner. Ineverysense of the word.”
