Fertility: A Novel Read Free

had to persevere and get him in for an interview, or Bonner would have her head on a platter. His address was displayed on her computer screen right above his phone number — he lived just a couple of blocks away. She decided to make a deal. “I understand completely, Dr. Smith. The interviews will be conducted throughout the day, and I am scheduling you last. We’ll expect you at 4:30. That will give you a chance to catch up on your rest.”
    Rick was too tired to argue. And that would give him at least a semblance of a night’s sleep. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Nancy,” he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “I am so glad you’re taking my needs into account in this investigation. And will you be scheduling me another day off this week to make up for today?”
    Howland wasn’t getting into that rat’s nest. She replied sweetly, “I’m sorry to say I have no authority to make those decisions or I’d be certain to give you another day off.” She paused, waiting to see if he’d make another smart comment. Relieved when he didn’t, she wrapped things up. “We’ll see you at 4:30 in room 700.”
    Rick’s fatigue led him to surrender. Had he some sleep under his belt, he would have kept up the repartee. Who knew? Maybe Nancy was a babe. And even if she wasn’t, maybe she’d be an eager and enthusiastic partner, which held a charm of its own. But for now, all his desires were folded into his need to lie down and close his eyes. He hung up, set his alarm for 4:15 and got into bed. In less than a minute he was breathing slowly and rhythmically, enveloped in the rapture of long-deferred sleep.

 
     
    CHAPTER THREE
     
     
    Mark Arkin awoke that Monday morning with his arm around his wife. He and Catherine had succumbed to their exhaustion on a loveseat in the family lounge of the pediatric intensive care unit — the PICU. They’d been up with Ariel much of Saturday night as she fussed with what looked to be a nasty diaper rash. It was the nanny’s day off, so they consulted the pile of baby books Catherine had amassed during her pregnancy. Then they applied ointment and kept her dry, but got no relief from the baby’s incessant crying until four on Sunday morning. When she awoke around seven, the crying began again.
    Mark Arkin didn’t remember anything like this from when he had been married to Linda. Maybe that’s because he had rarely been at home during their children’s first years — or, for that matter, their later ones. He had never had any qualms about the long hours he kept. There had been no way to scale his industry’s mountain while attending parent-teacher conferences and soccer games.
    This time was different, though. Mark had never thought he’d be one of those fools — an alter kocker in his mother’s parlance — who left a perfectly good wife for a new, younger model. He had been too busy amassing his fortune to chase skirts. Besides, he had been satisfied with Linda — who was both nice-looking and highly competent at running the family, the houses and their social life without any help from him. But when he met Catherine Malloy during an interview for an article she was writing for Fortune on his meteoric rise from the streets of Flatbush, he fell hard. At forty-seven he found himself besotted by the thirty-year-old natural beauty.
    It took a year of pursuit, including a legal separation from Linda, before Catherine would even entertain the idea of going out for a drink. She refused to sleep with him until his divorce was final for over a year — something about the “one-year rule” that she had heard from a radio psychologist. The titan of real estate was powerless to sway her. The truth was, her unavailability added to her allure. Mark was fifty years old before he finally won Catherine over. And here he was, two years later, married to the woman he was crazy about, and scared that their baby would die fifteen days after taking her first breath.
    As he sat on the