Sub-Zero. When something came with red knobs, the price was two grand higher, which made every woman in the world want to have the red-knobbed appliances in her kitchen. It makes no sense, but that’s the way it was. Andy would have shaken his head and dragged her off to Sears or Walmart, where his parents had always shopped. Andy was frugal, and she had always admired that. He had always had money to lend her when she used up her allowance ahead of time. He never asked for it back, but she made sure she paid him exactly when and what she’d promised. Andy told her more than once that she was the only one he could trust.
That particular day, they’d made a pact with each other to never, never, ever divulge a whispered secret. She’d been so thrilled, so giddy that Andy thought that much of her, she felt like she was walking on air. Even though Andy never said the same thing to her, she assumed he felt the same way. Otherwise, why even bring it up or discuss it. No, they were always on the same page. She was sure of it.
Sara uncorked an outrageously expensive bottle of wine and poured it into a flute that looked like it would shatter if you even breathed on it. She found a package of stale crackers and a chunk of cheese that had a corner with no mold on it. She devoured it as she finished the wine, then poured another full glass.
While she was up and moving, she opened the china buffet, which was where she kept all of Andy’s mementoes. She rummaged until she found the eight pieces of paper that Andy had entrusted her to take care of, which she had. She looked down at the sheaf of papers that looked wrinkled and ready for the shredder. That would never happen, not on her watch.
They were from the fertility clinic. Seals in place. Andy’s signature where it said “donor.” While it said donor, the word that should have been on each piece of paper was client, along with an assigned number. Only it wasn’t Andy’s name on the eight pieces of paper even though it was his signature. Because he didn’t want anyone to know what he was doing or why he’d chosen to use an alias. He’d even asked for her input. In the end, he had chosen the name Windsor for Sara’s last name and Andrews for his own first name. All eight pieces of paper bore the signature Windsor Andrews, with an s at the end. They had laughed like two lunatics at their antics.
Sara remembered the discussion they’d had over what they were doing. She’d said she just heard guys donated their sperm for money. Why didn’t he take the money? was her burning question. Andy’s answer was simple. He was going into the military. Things happened, things went wrong. Andy said he wanted to be sure if anything went awry that he could have a bloodline to fall back on. She’d accepted it all because it actually made sense to her.
And now . . . she was the sole owner of eight slips of paper saying she could be inseminated and deliver eight children that would all look like Andy and her. Assuming, of course, that all donations, contributions, or whatever they were called were swimmers. And that was exactly what she was going to do. The best part, though, was knowing that the snot Andy had married knew that he had made eight donations or contributions.
Sara had no doubt that Bella Ames was searching for Andy’s progeny. That’s how she thought of them, even if they were just sperm cells. And if she, Sara, the woman of many aliases, had anything to do with it, Bella Ames would never find them.
Sara fanned out the eight pieces of paper and stared at them and the dates. Andy had made his deposits to the fertility clinic on the same day of every month for eight months; then he’d asked Sara to create a checking account under the name Windsor Andrews and pay the storage fee every month while he was deployed, a duty she relished and happily performed each and every month.
As she stared at the signed receipts, she couldn’t help but wonder if Andy ever shared their secret with snotty Bella. While she wasn’t sure, she didn’t really want to know if Andy’s wife knew how close Sara and her