Muriel Jensen - Daddy To Be Determined

Tonight it seemed that a male vocalist was in rehab, an actress on Broadway beat her baseball-playing husband’s Jaguar with his own bat, and “Natalie Browning, the darling of the nightly news on Philadelphia’s Channel 6, apparently is no one’s darling at home, considering her story about Moss Laboratories, the now-infamous sperm bank. It was a story she stumbled upon while availing herself of the lab’s services.

“‘She appears beautiful and sexy,’” according to an old boyfriend who preferred to remain anonymous, “‘but she has the cold heart of an old maid. No wonder she had to go to a sperm bank.’”

Natalie stared at the screen, aghast, then threw her pillow at it, barely suppressing a scream. That action brought on a coughing fit.

She knew the anonymous former boyfriend was Artie Webb, producer of the Channel 4 nightly news, whose advances she’d spurned at a weekend news conference in Boston three years earlier. He’d been married at the time—to Karen Kaufman—but his ego had never forgiven Natalie. Jolie Ramirez, unfortunately, was just doing her job.

Natalie clicked off the television, called the airport and made a reservation to fly out to Portland, Oregon, on the red-eye. Then she went into her bedroom to pack.

Tomorrow morning she’d probably be front page news and the subject of every radio talk show on the Atlantic seaboard. She didn’t want to be around for that, and she still had four weeks left of the three-month leave she’d taken to get pregnant.

Six weeks ago, the story had developed and the professional in her had come to the fore, pushing her own concerns aside in the interest of protecting and informing the public.

She’d suspected as she had filed the story that she might become part of the news—an undesirable consequence for any good reporter. But she hadn’t counted on Channel 4 taking its exploration of her involvement in the story to such lengths.

Even as she threw clothes haphazardly into her suitcase, she understood that such things happened. Enemies in the business were vengeful, and the only response was silence.

But this was the final straw in a long series of events that conspired to make her feel like a failure as a woman. What, after all, could contribute to that feeling more completely than the inability to reproduce, and having that news spread over the entire East Coast network?

She threw several pairs of shoes into her case, along with her makeup bag, an extra box of tissues and several chunky sweaters. Dancer’s Beach, Oregon, would be chilly in November.

She was willing to admit to herself that she was running away, and she knew that was probably cowardly. But she needed a comforting shoulder and there was nobody around who could provide one.

Her mother had been against the whole sperm bank thing in the beginning and was happy to say “I told you so.” Natalie’s brothers were geniuses, but generally clueless about her. And what friends she had time for in her busy schedule all had husbands and children, and she couldn’t burden them with her problems.

But she’d recently reconnected with her cousin Dori in Dancer’s Beach. They’d been great friends as children, and Natty suddenly longed for her smiling understanding.

It occurred to her seven hours later, at about nine o’clock the following morning, that it would have been wise to call first, despite the lateness of the hour when she’d made her decision. Because there was no one home.

A smiling older man walking by with a golden retriever on a leash said politely, “The Dominguez family is away for a few weeks.” His eyes went to her suitcase, then to her probably puffy face and red nose. “Is it important that you reach them?”

She sighed and shook her head. The long plane ride had made it feel like a brick with ears. “No, thank you.” She walked down the steps and was snuffled by the friendly dog. “I made a last minute decision to visit without calling first. Can you recommend a motel?”

The man pointed up the street. “See that greenand-white Craftsman on the corner? That’s Lulu Griffin’s B-and-B. Very comfortable. Good food. And Nugget and I just walked by. The Vacancy sign is out.”

“Thank you.” Natalie shook his hand. “I appreciate your help.”

“It was my pleasure.”

As the man and the dog walked on, Natalie headed for the bed-and-breakfast, barely able to breathe, and feeling lower than she’d ever felt in all her twenty-six years. With her demanding mother and her genius brothers, she’d always felt inadequate.

Then, after years of trying to fit a little social life into her busy schedule and finding the singles scene soul-deadening, she’d met Kyle Wagner. A young actor with fire and passion, he’d seemed like her dream come true. Until they’d become engaged and his fire and passion turned to complacency and only mild interest in her life.

But she’d wanted a baby more than she wanted anything, and she’d almost settled for Kyle—until he told her he didn’t want children until he was in his forties.

She’d broken the engagement and turned to the sperm bank. And then she hadn’t been able to become pregnant, even under perfect conditions.

What was left for her? she wondered as she climbed the steps of the B-and-B. She now had no man, no baby and very probably no job.

Nothing could save her now. Natalie Felicia Browning had blown her life.

Ben Griffin lifted five-year-old Roxanne out of the bathtub and wrapped her in a thick blue towel. He sat on the closed lid of the john with her and helped her dry off. She had his dark eyes and hair, though hers hung in thick ringlets—when it wasn’t snarled in knots.

“I wanted to wash my hair,” she complained as she held tightly to Betsy, a small rag doll with black button eyes and a painted heart-shaped mouth. “Julie Callahan Griffin made that,” he used to remind himself when the pain of her loss had been so enormous he had to say her name or burst. The doll was never more than a hand’s span away from Roxie, awake or sleeping.

“We washed your hair yesterday,” Ben reminded her.

“Vannie gets to wash her hair every day,” she argued.

“Vannie has very short hair. And she blows it dry.” Vanessa was seven, and the decision to cut her hair had come at the end of the summer, when she’d returned from camp. She hadn’t explained why she wanted to cut her long, golden-brown hair, but she’d been adamant.

Since their mother had died a year and a half ago, Ben had done his best to allow them whatever was in his power and wouldn’t hurt them.

Roxie swung her head from side to side so that her long hair flew out. It would have slapped him in the face if he hadn’t drawn back.

She giggled, then declared, “I don’t want to cut my hair.”

“I don’t blame you,” he said, helping her into lavender flannel pajamas patterned with pink kittens and blue puppies. “It’s very pretty.”

“Can I wear lipstick to Marianne’s tomorrow?”

Marianne Beasley owned and operated the day care where Roxie spent several hours every day.

“Nope,” Ben replied. She asked this question every night. “Sorry.”

“Can I get my ears pierced?”

This was a new question. Having finished putting her pajamas on, he turned her toward him to look into her eyes. They were bright and frighteningly intelligent. “Do you even know what that is?”

“Yeah,” she said, pulling her little lobe out for him to see. “A lady sticks it with a needle and it doesn’t even hurt! She puts a little hole right there and you can wear different earrings in them every day.”

“No,” he said, knowing he had to say it firmly or she’d be cajoling him all night long. “You have to wait until you grow up a little more.”