Rick Mofina - Whirlwind

“You listen to me, Mason Varno. I’m tired of running. I want to go back to the motel and think some more while I tend to my baby.”

“Your baby?”

“Yes, my baby. And we’re not going anywhere. Is that clear?”

He stared at her for several icy seconds before he smiled.

“It sure is, darlin’.”

Bel Air, California

Chelsea Drew-Flynn needed a shoulder.

She called Tara Powell, her trusted pal and confidante, and without hesitation Tara invited her out to California. As busy as she was with her new baby girl and her job, Tara always had time for Chelsea.

They’d met aeons ago at a charity gala in San Francisco, and though Tara was ten years younger than Chelsea, they got along as though they’d been lifelong friends.

Chelsea didn’t take her company’s corporate jet out of Denver. She flew commercial, executive-class and hired a car service at LAX.

Tara and her husband, Worthington, headed their own production company. Their last three films had each grossed over a hundred million dollars, and they also had a hit crime drama on HBO.

Chelsea loved their house, how it was tucked deep into a gated community on a winding lush road concealed by foliage.

Their estate offered breathtaking views of Los Angeles. The mansion had eight bedrooms and every room had a sweeping vista. The foyer was made of Italian limestone and they had an infinity pool in the back with a stunning panorama of the city. The property was private, thick with greenery, surrounded by palms, avocado and citrus trees.

The driveway was overflowing with luxury cars. Chelsea’s driver put her bags at the door where Chelsea was met by Tara. They hugged and exchanged kisses over music and the vibrant hum of a party in full swing.

“So great to see you,” Tara said.

“I’ve arrived at a bad time.”

“You’ve arrived at a perfect time. How was your flight?”

“Good.”

Tara was dressed in an elegant yet semiformal turquoise ensemble.

“I love those shoes,” Chelsea said.

“I got these in Venice when we went for the film festival. They’re so comfortable.”

Above the conversations and laughter spilling from the large living room where the glass wall had been retracted to lead to the pool, Chelsea glimpsed a number of world-famous faces.

“Worth’s hosting an investors’ party for our next project. I’ll get Miguel to take your bags up to your room so you can freshen up if you like. Then you can meet some people, get something to eat, and we’ll steal away and talk, okay?”

“Sounds terrific. How’s Cheyenne? Can I see her?”

“Absolutely, she should be waking up soon, and I’m sure she’d love to see Aunt Chelsea.”

“Hey, there she is-my favorite gold digger!” Tanned and smiling, Worthington gave Chelsea a crushing hug.

“Hi, Worth.”

“If you want a break from running your mining empire, I can get you in a picture.”

“You can’t afford me.”

“Everybody’s got a price, Chelsea.” He winked. “Can we get you something, a drink?”

“Maybe later, I’m just going to freshen up a bit.”

Chelsea took a quick shower, fixed her face, changed into a floral print dress then joined the party. Tara escorted her through knots of people scattered about the living room and pool, introducing her to actors, directors, screenwriters and agents as servers moved from circle to circle with trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres.

After some twenty minutes of mingling, Tara received a text on her phone then leaned to Chelsea’s ear.

“Cheyenne is up. Let’s go.”

Tara led Chelsea upstairs to her daughter’s bedroom, where eleven-month-old Cheyenne was standing in her crib with her nanny close by.

“I already changed her, ma’am,” the nanny said.

“Thank you, Aisah.” Tara took the baby into her arms. “We’re going to stay here with her for a while. I’ll let you know when we’re done.”

The nanny left, and Tara passed Cheyenne to Chelsea, who kissed her cheek and inhaled her sweet baby scent.

“Ohhh,” Chelsea said, “can I take her back to Denver with me?”

Tara smiled as her friend coddled and cooed away. Ever since Tara had become pregnant with Cheyenne, her only child so far, Chelsea confided her desperation to have a baby. She couldn’t have children. Her one marriage had ended badly, and now at forty-nine, Chelsea yearned to be a mother. After much consideration she had decided to use a surrogate through an agency.

“How is it going? You sounded worried when you called.” Tara said.

“There’ve been delays.”

“Are you having second thoughts about the agency?”

“Frustration.”

“But you had your lawyers check them out.”

“Yes, Howard did some due diligence for me. The agency had a good reputation. Remember, I told you that Isabel Hardwick had heard about them and assured me that they had a good record of coming through because they have a worldwide network.”

“But the delays worry you?”

“Yes. Hedda Knight, the lawyer who runs the agency in Chicago, had cautioned me that once in a while a surrogate has second thoughts.”

“You still haven’t met yours?”

“No, the agency is somewhat unique that way. That’s their policy. I offered to take care of all her needs, everything, but the agency said it took care of those matters. I’ve seen pictures of the mother and the donor father, their files. I don’t know where they’re from, but their health is perfect. They’re gorgeous young people. She was due to deliver a baby boy, my son.” Chelsea’s voice cracked, her eyes suddenly filled with tears. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, sweetie.” Tara passed her a tissue.

“Thanks. She was supposed to deliver a few weeks ago, and now things are uncertain.”

“Did you consider going to another agency?”

“Yes, but the waits are long.”

“Why not find your own surrogate and take care of it yourself?”

“I was considering that, but it’ll mean waiting another year when I still don’t know what’s really holding up my case.”

“Did you consider legal action?”

“Yes, but I don’t want to scare the mother off. I just want my son.”

“What do you think is really going on?”

“I don’t know. I think she’s having second thoughts.”

“Could the agency be holding out for a client willing to pay more?”

“That would be illegal. I mean, Howard hinted there were a lot of gray areas, but I don’t care. I just want a child, you know?”

“I do, Chelsea.”

After giving the situation some thought, Tara said, “Offer the agency more money, a gift, a bonus…call it whatever, but offer her more. And remind this Hedda Knight of what you told me earlier about helping her with other clients.”

As Chelsea weighed the suggestion, Tara continued. “That way if Hedda’s holding out for more, or if the surrogate is having second thoughts, you’ll remain in play. And, you can hint, without giving the name, about Sula Bartholomew. Do you know her? Her family owns the potato chip company?”

“Yes.”

“Sula is looking to go with a surrogate, and she’s put it out there that she’ll go into seven figures. You lay that all out for Hedda and see what happens.”

Chicago, Illinois

Krystal wore a little too much makeup.

That was to be expected of a twenty-two-year-old cosmetician who worked at a mall in Indianapolis, Hedda Knight thought.

She had agreed to meet Krystal at a downtown Chicago coffee shop after she’d responded to one of Hedda’s online ads.

Krystal was “so intensely serious” about becoming a surrogate because she needed to boost her savings. Her boyfriend, “Dack,” had dumped her. She was going to move to L.A. to study acting. A psychic- a real one -told her she was destined to be famous.