The Baby Gift

“It’s simple,” she lied. “I wanted to try Internet banking—”

“But why?” he prodded. “Are you thinking of changing the farm account, too? That farm’s an important business in this county. I don’t want to lose it.”

She turned her collar up against the cold wind. “You won’t lose it. I did it as an experiment, that’s all. To streamline things. I thought I could give more time to the family business if my own’s handled automatically.”

He raised one eyebrow. “Now that sounds good. But is it the truth?”

“Of course, it is,” she said, lying with spirit. “I’ve got to run, Wendell. We’ll have coffee another time. Tell your wife hello. And that I’m starting her some begonia cuttings.”

She edged away from him, smiled again and got into her truck. Her heart banged in her chest.

Wendell stood in the snowy lot, looking like a man who didn’t intend to be thwarted. She gunned the motor and escaped.

He was prying into her money matters, but money was his business. She didn’t want him to know what she’d been doing. Not him or anyone else.

She’d changed her finances so all her bills were sent electronically to a St. Louis bank. No one in town saw them and no one in town knew what she was paying or to whom.

She had things to hide. She had fought hard to keep them hidden. But once again she had a frightening sense of urgency, that time was running out. Now, she thought. I’ve got to do something now.

HE HAD SPENT five weeks living in a flat, featureless wasteland of ice, taking pictures of nomads and reindeer and a way of life that was probably doomed.

He had slept in his clothes on pine boughs, bark and reindeer skins in a tent made of felt and hides. He’d kept from freezing at night with a portable stove that burned peat and pine branches. He stank of smoke and he hadn’t bathed or shaved for over a month.

Now he was in Moscow, with what felt like a permanent chill in his bones. He stood in the lobby of one of the city’s finest hotels, looking like a cross between the abominable snowman, an escaped prisoner and a bag of rags.

Other patrons looked at him as if he exquisitely pained their senses of sight and smell. From across the lobby, the pretty desk clerk shot him furtive glances of positive alarm. Josh Morris didn’t care.

He’d picked the Hotel Kampinski because after five weeks in Siberia, he wanted every luxury in the world, and the Kampinski had them all. It lavished its guests with saunas and masseuses, a gourmet restaurant and fine rooms. It had phones and computers, fax machines and color television.

He wanted to get in his room, unlock the private bar and open a bottle of real American whiskey. Then he’d climb into the marble bathtub and stay there all night, soaking and sipping and feeling his blood start to circulate.

Tomorrow he’d put on the Turkish robe the hotel provided, send his clothes out with orders to burn them and have new ones brought from the American store on Arbat Street.

And then, as the grand finale, he would call his delightful daughter and talk to her for an hour, maybe more. To hell with the long-distance rates.

Josh wanted to phone her tonight—he hadn’t even stopped over in the village of Kazym to clean up and rest. He’d promised Nealie he’d get through tonight if it was possible, but it was ten o’clock in Missouri now—past her bedtime.

After he talked to her tomorrow, he’d go shopping and stock up on Russian souvenirs for her. The nesting Matryoshka dolls, a set of Mishka bears, a small—but real— Fabergé pendant. Nothing but the best for his kid.

Briana wouldn’t let Nealie wear the pendant yet—she’d say the girl was too young and make her put it away. But Nealie would have it and plenty else, besides.

He thought of buying Briana something—Baltic amber or Siberian cashmere—but she didn’t like him to give her gifts. Still, she would look beautiful in white cashmere with her dark, dark hair and eyes….

A pang of bitter yearning struck him. He’d lost Briana. But he still had Nealie, and Nealie he would spoil to his heart’s content.

He reached the registration desk, set down his camera bags and gave the clerk his name and affiliation. “Josh I. Morris. Smithsonian magazine, Washington, D.C., U.S.A.”

“Ooh, Mr. Morris,” said the desk clerk in her lovely accent. “Oh, yes. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you.”

He probably wouldn’t recognize himself, he thought.

“I made reservations for two nights,” he said. He usually booked himself into the more downscale Mezhudunarodnaya, but he needed serious de-Siberiazation.

“Your magazine extend it to four nights,” she told him. “They send message that you are to stay and rest a few days.”

He shrugged. It was a bonus, like battle pay. Besides, they probably expected him to pick up some file shots of Moscow while he was here.

She frowned slightly. “You have many messages—many, many.”

He frowned. From the Smithsonian? Did they have another assignment for him already? Was that why he was getting the royal treatment? Good Lord, he thought, were they plotting to send him somewhere even worse? What was worse in winter? The South Pole?

Visions of emperor penguins danced unpleasantly in his head. He didn’t want another cold-weather assignment. He wanted to get back to the States and see Nealie.

He shoved the faxed messages unread into his camera case, took his key and headed for the bank of elevators. His room was on the fourth floor, overlooking the Raushskaya Embankment and the Moscow River. Beyond the river were the lights of the Kremlin.

He took the faxes from the case and laid them on the gilt and glass table next to the phone. The parka, his hat, gloves and boots he put into the laundry bag he found in the closet.

He stripped down to his skivvies and began running his bath. His underwear would soon join his other clothes in the trash. He unlatched the bar, opened a bottle of whiskey and filled a crystal tumbler.

Then he carried his messages and his glass into the bathroom. While he ran the bath, he yanked off his underwear and kicked it under the sink. At last he settled naked and belly deep in the hot water.

He read the first fax. It was from his agent.

“Morris, Adventure magazine says the Pitcairn Island assignment may be shaping up. Be prepared to move fast if it does. Remember you’re contractually obligated. You’ve owed them an article since hell was a pup. Best, Carson.”

Josh snorted, crumpled the fax paper and flung it into the gilt wastebasket beside the sink. Adventure had been trying to put that freakish assignment together for years. It was never going to happen. He wished he’d never signed the damned contract. Adventure’s editors were crazy, and their assignments bizarre.

He settled more luxuriantly into the water and read the next message. It was also from his agent.

“Morris, Know you’re coming off a tough assignment, but would you consider shooting a piece on Greater Abaco for Islands? Would not take more than a few days. Writer is Stacy Leverett. Would start in two weeks—Feb. 15. Short notice, but Gullickson caught bad bug in Dominica. Best, Carson.”

For Josh, this was a no-brainer. Abaco with Stacy Leverett? Go to a Caribbean island with a statuesque blonde who looked great in cargo shorts and had a taste for short-term relationships? Just what the doctor ordered for a poor frostbitten man.

The third fax was yet another from the agent. Carson curtly reminded Josh that he was still on call for another Adventure assignment, Burma. His permission from the Ministry of Tourism might come through within four weeks, and he needed to be ready. But, cautioned the message, remember that if the Pitcairn assignment jelled, it was the magazine’s top priority.

Josh gritted his teeth. Burma would be a rough assignment and dangerous—typical for Adventure. At the moment, he would rather think of the Bahamas and getting Stacy Leverett out of her cargo shorts.

He’d go to Missouri for a week and see his daughter, then the Bahamas, then, if need be, Burma. At least Burma would cancel out Pitcairn.

He sipped his whiskey and looked at the next fax. It, too, was from his agent. Good Lord, didn’t anyone else in the world write to him?

“Morris, Your ex-wife called from Missouri at ten o’clock this morning, New York time. She says please get in touch immediately. It’s crucial. Best, Carson.”

Briana? Briana wanted him to call? It was crucial?

She did not use words like crucial lightly. She hardly ever contacted him when he was in the field.

Unless something was wrong. Very wrong.

Visions of the Bahamas and statuesque blondes fled. Instead his mind was taken total hostage by a slim brunette woman—and a very small girl with very big glasses.

Troubled, haunted by images of his ex-wife and his daughter, he went on to the next fax. Again it was from Carson.

“Morris, Your wife called again at one. She says she needs to talk to you as soon as possible. Please phone her, no matter what the hour. She says it’s an emergency. Yours, Carson.”

The last fax was from Carson.

“Morris, Your wife phoned again at four, Eastern Time. She says please call as soon as possible. It’s urgent. Yours, C.”

Josh swore under his breath, not from anger but from a deep and instinctive terror. He rose out of the tub, knocking the glass of whiskey to the floor. It shattered, and he stepped on it, cutting his heel. He hardly felt it.

He wrapped a towel around his middle and grabbed the bathroom phone.

Getting connected to Missouri from Moscow was approximately as difficult as arranging a rocket launch to the moon. Josh’s imagination ran to places that were haunted and dangerous.

He bled on the marble floor. While the transatlantic connections buzzed and hummed, he had time to pull the shards of glass from his heel and pack the wound with tissues.

Briana, Briana, Briana, he thought, his pulses skipping What’s wrong?

From across the ocean, he heard her phone ringing. He pictured the little farmhouse—tight and cozy. He pictured Briana with her dark hair and mysterious dark eyes, her mouth that was at once stubborn and vulnerable. He imagined his daughter, who resembled Briana far more than him. His bright, funny, unique, fragile little daughter.

Then he heard Briana’s voice, and his heart seemed to stumble upward and lodge in his throat.

“Briana?” he said.

“Josh?” she said in return. She didn’t sound like herself. Her tone was strained, taut with control.

He heard voices in the background, those of adults, those of children.

“Are people there?” he asked.

“It’s Larry’s birthday,” she said. “Just a minute. Let me take the phone into the bedroom so we can talk.”

He heard the background noise growing dimmer. “There,” she quavered. “I shut the door. They can’t hear.”

“Briana, what’s wrong?” he said desperately, but he already knew. “Is it Nealie?”

“Oh, Josh, she’s sick. She might be—so sick.”

He had the sensation of falling toward a devouring darkness. “How sick? Is she in the hospital?”

“I don’t know how sick. It’s—it’s in the early stages. She doesn’t know yet. Nobody in the family knows. You’re the first one I’ve told.”

“Briana, what is it? What’s wrong with her?” Damn, he thought, his hands were shaking. His hands never shook, no matter what.

“It’s a—an anemia,” she stammered. “It’s very rare. And—and serious.”

“How serious?” He sat on the edge of the bathtub, his head down. He felt as if he was going to pass out.

“She could—she could…”

Briana started to cry. Josh put his hand over his eyes. “Okay,” he told her raggedly. “You don’t have to say it. What can be done? What can I do?”

She seemed to pull herself together, but she still sounded shattered. “Can you come home? I mean come here?”

“Yes. Yes. I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll book a flight as soon as I can. But what can we do for her?”

“Oh, Josh,” she said, despair naked in her voice, “I’ve thought and thought. I think there’s only one thing. One thing in the world.”

“What? I’d do anything. You know that.”

She was silent a long moment. He knew she was having trouble speaking.

At last she whispered, “To save her, I think we have to have another baby.”

CHAPTER TWO

JOSH WAS STUNNED, stupefied.

“What?” he said.

“I—I said,” she stammered, “I—I think we have to have another baby. To save her.”

“Another baby.” He repeated the words, but they made no sense. They fell like great, meaningless stones on his consciousness.

Briana began to talk, low and swiftly. She said Nealie had something called Yates’s Anemia.

Josh had never so much as heard of such a disease. Now she was telling him his child—their child—might die of it.

“It’ll lead to aplastic anemia,” Briana said. “Her blood count’s unstable. Her system can’t fight infection. She gets tired too easily. She bruises too easily. When she’s cut, she doesn’t heal right. She could have complete bone marrow failure. Or other diseases. Even—stroke.”

Stroke? How could so young a child have a stroke?

He shook his head to clear it. Briana sounded as if she were on automatic pilot now, as if she’d rehearsed saying this to him a hundred times. Her words tumbled out in a breathless rush.

“Wait,” he begged her. “You’re sure of all this?”

“Yes. Yes. I took her to a doctor in St. Louis. She had a complete blood count and a—a chromosome test. It had to be sent away to a special lab. She has what they call chromosome breakage. It’s Yates’s anemia and it’s life-threatening. It’s one of the hereditary anemias.”

He put his hand on his bare stomach because he was starting to feel physically ill. “She inherited it?”

My God, he thought, was it from me? Did I somehow give my own child a death sentence?

Briana seemed to read his thoughts. “Yes. But, listen, Josh. She had to inherit it from both of us. We—we both carry a recessive gene.”

“Briana—I don’t get it. This runs in both our families? I never heard of it.”

“Neither did I. It’s recessive—and rare. Very rare. We couldn’t have known.”

We couldn’t have known. He knew she meant to comfort him, but he felt no comfort, only a growing desperation.

Briana went on as if possessed. “Her bone marrow isn’t at failure stage—yet. It might not fail for years. Or it might start tomorrow. There’s no predicting it. But she hasn’t been well, Josh. Not well at all…”

She talked about strange drugs he’d never heard of. She used terms that sounded as mysterious as witchcraft. But everything she said boiled down to one fact—for Nealie’s illness there was no simple cure and no sure one.

The best chance was a transplant involving either marrow or umbilical cord blood. By far the best donor of either would be a healthy sibling.

Nealie had no sibling.

Briana paused, then plunged on again. “If she has a crisis, she’ll need a donor immediately. But finding a match can take months, years. We need to find a donor before a crisis occurs.”

“I understand that,” he said. “But how much time are we talking here? It’s inevitable this disease gets worse?”

“Yes. It’s inevitable.” In her voice resignation warred with determination to fight.

Josh swallowed. “So…how long could she live?”

He heard her take a deep breath. “Without a perfect donor? The average life expectancy is—she’d live to be fifteen. Maybe longer. Maybe not. She’s—already outlived some children who’ve had it.”

A shifting blackness wavered before his eyes. He shut his eyes and began to think, God, God, God. He didn’t know if he was cursing or praying.

He said, “With a perfect donor?”

“She might get well.”

Might, he thought, pressing his eyes shut harder.

Briana said, “So I’ve thought about it, Josh. I’ve thought about all of it. The best chance for her—is for us to have another baby.”

He fought to think. “But we both carry this gene. We could have another child who’s sick.”

“No. There are ways to make sure we have one who’s healthy.”

He frowned, eyes still shut. “What do you mean?”

“Josh, I’ve talked to the doctors about it. I mean, it can be done. It’s complicated to explain. It’ll be easier to talk about it face-to-face.”

“Just tell me.”

She was silent a moment. “We don’t even have to touch each other. We can have my eggs artificially inseminated.”

His eyes snapped open in shock. “What?”

“There are tests,” she said. “The doctors can tell if there’s a healthy embryo that’s a match for Nealie. If there is, they can implant it in me—”

This was crazy, Josh thought. This was mad-scientist stuff, fantasies out of a future world.

Was she really saying they’d have a child but they wouldn’t touch? That under the cold lights of a lab, strangers would quicken the eggs into life without either of them being there? And that then tests—not nature—would decide which of these tiny entities would survive and which would not?

Something deep within him rebelled.

“You want us to play God, Briana?”

“Josh, it’s for Nealie.” Her voice broke, and with it so did his heart. There was no answering her argument.

Still, he tried. “Look, I love her, too. You know that. But have you thought about—”

“I’ve thought of nothing else.”

“Briana, let’s talk this over—”

“I can’t talk much longer right now or people will get suspicious. Rupert’s already banging on the door.”

Josh could hear him. Larry’s boys were little louts, and they were the plague of Nealie’s life.

Oh, God. Nealie’s life. Nealie’s life.

“Aunt Briana, come out!” It was Rupert’s voice. “Neville made the cat throw up!”

Josh furrowed his brow in concentration, as he tried to block out the kid. He said, “Briana, tell me one thing. Does Nealie know how sick she is? Does she suspect?”

“No. I told her all the testing was for allergies. I told everyone that. I’ve lied to the whole world. Only you know the truth. Oh, Josh, please come home. Together maybe we can save her.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Rupert was banging louder. Josh heard Briana shush him. “Nealie’s asleep,” she told the boy. “Be quiet. You’ll wake her.”

“Nealie’s a wimp,” Rupert shouted. “I didn’t mean to give her a nosebleed. I said I was sorry.”

Alarm and anger rose in Josh. “A nosebleed?”

“She gets them all the time,” Briana said wearily. “I made her lie on the couch with a cold cloth on her face. She fell asleep. I put her to bed. She has no energy lately.” To Rupert, she said, “Rupert, stop that. If you wake Nealie, you’ll be in real trouble.” To Josh she said, “I’ve got to go. And I’ve got to pull myself together before I face them. I’ve been dreading telling you this. I’m sorry, Josh. So sorry.”

“Tell Nealie I love her and that I’m coming home. I’ll let you know when as soon as I get a flight.”

“Thank you. Josh. Goodbye.”

She sounded almost humble—his proud, cheerful, independent Briana.

The line went dead. He sat for a moment, then hung up the phone on its gold-colored hook.

His head swam with sorrow and shock. He did something he had not done since he was eleven years old. He put his face into his hands and wept.

RUPERT WAS JOINED at the door by his brother Neville, who began to kick. “Aunt Bri, Aunt Bri,” Neville called. “You’ve gotta come. The cat threw up. Mama tried to clean it up, but she started to get sick. And Marsh spilled root beer on Grandpa’s pants.”

Briana was torn between laughter and weeping in despair. It was all surreal—the downstairs decked with balloons and streamers, her rambunctious nephews, the tormented cat, the nauseated sister-in-law, her father with his pants full of root beer.

She fought the hysteria and dashed the tears from her eyes. She forced her mouth to stop quivering and by sheer willpower composed herself.

Josh was coming home. That’s what was important. He would help her face the tumultuous emotions, the terrifying decisions about Nealie. As for her feelings about Josh, she could not worry about that now.

She swung open the door and looked at her two oldest nephews. “Rupert,” she said calmly, “you are never to batter this door again. Or any door in this house. Or anything else.”

Rupert looked hangdog. He often disobeyed his mother, but Briana had a steely moral force that could wither him when she got him eye to eye.

“I thought you’d want to know about the cat,” he said sulkily.

“I got the message the first time you said it.” She swung to face the other boy. “The same goes for you, Neville. In my house, no kicking.”

“Daddy sent me to get you,” Neville said righteously. “He said he wasn’t going to clean up after that old cat. And Grandpa needs—needs soda pop for his pants.”

Briana deciphered this. “You mean club soda. Let’s go downstairs.”

“Can Nealie get up and play?” Neville asked.

“No. She needs her rest.”

“Why’s she always gotta rest?” Neville asked, hopping heavily down the stairs. “I don’t have to rest. I’m not even tired. I could go all night.”

“I wasn’t trying to hit Nealie,” Rupert whined. “Her nose got in front of my fist, that’s all. I was showing her how to box.”

“Well, don’t,” Briana ordered and herded both boys into the living room.

“There you are,” her brother, Larry, said almost accusingly. “Help me with Dad’s pants.” He stood by the sink tearing off great swaths of paper towel and handing them to Leo Hanlon, who looked bewildered.

The scene was as chaotic as Briana had feared. Glenda, her sister-in-law, was three months pregnant and lying on the couch, her feet up on a cushion. Her face had a greenish cast.

She smiled weakly. “Hi, Briana. Have you got a cracker or something? To settle my stomach?”

Little Marsh toddled toward Briana with an empty plastic mug. “More root beer,” he said. “More root beer.”

“No more root beer,” Larry said. “You ruined these pants. These are your good pants, aren’t they, Dad? Your Sunday pants?

“I just had ’em cleaned,” said Leo and did his best to glower at Marsh. Marsh glowered far more fearsomely.

Briana marched into the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator door and pulled out a bottle of club soda. She thrust it into her father’s hands. “There. Go into the bathroom and scrub those pants.”

“How do I get them dry?” Leo asked with a helpless air.

“Use the hair dryer,” Briana said. “It’s under the sink.”

“I’ll get scorched,” Leo complained.

“Take off your pants and then dry them,” Briana said.

“Oh. Well. I would have thought of that. Of course.” He took the club soda and went into the bathroom.

Larry leaned against the closed door and looked at Briana. He waggled his brows. “I bet Harve Oldman would love it if you told him to take off his pants. He’d probably pass out with happiness.”

Briana said nothing. Harve Oldman was a neighboring farmer, a bachelor and a would-be suitor. She had cut off all contact with him as soon as she knew Nealie was sick.

“Where is good old Harve, anyhow?” Larry asked. “He hasn’t been around lately.”

Briana still said nothing. She reached into the cupboard and pulled out the box of soda crackers. As she arranged half a dozen on a plate, Larry gave her a friendly leer. “I mean Harve’s well off. And he’s got the hots for you.”

“Please,” Briana said. “The cat is nauseated, your wife is nauseated. Don’t make it three of us.”

Larry shrugged. “Easy to love a rich man as a poor man.”

She didn’t answer. She carried the crackers to Glenda, who forced herself into a sitting position and began to nibble.

Briana put her hands on her hips and surveyed the living room. “Where’s the cat?”

“Hiding from Neville,” Rupert said. “Neville dragged Zorro out from behind the washer and held him upside down and shook him.”