abandons distressed wood nightstands and jumps into the husbands’ conversation. “They’re getting a baby soon too—January, I think. I heard they got the most wonderful birth mother, really desirable, your absolute dream—Heather W. She’s white, blue eyes, bright, a college student, I think, or maybe she wanted to go to college, remember I told you about her, from the message boards, John? They say she has that adorable little boy?”
John swirls the ice cubes in his drink, and there is silence. Paul wonders if John also resents these all-consuming adoption and infertility message boards. At first Paul had humored Eva’s obsession, even enjoyed coming home to the sagas of her online world, rolled his eyes when she had to get a wrist brace because of carpal tunnel syndrome from hours at the keyboard. These days, it was taking her ninety minutes twice a day just to keep up with her posting.
“John,” Francie repeats, “remember me telling you about that perfect birth mother, Heather W.?”
To Paul’s relief, John finally raises his eyes to his wife’s piercing pigeon glare and nods. Though they have known each other casually for two years, Paul is sure he wouldn’t be able to pick John McAdoo out from one of a dozen puffy, rich, Scotch-ruddy, fifty-something executives sagging around a boardroom table. The guy made his money in the Silicon Valley dot-com world and is now semiretired, doing some hobby brewery, the Soaring Scotsman. His beer, offered to Paul before dinner, sits full, bitter and undrinkable.
“Oh, that’s nice. Good for the Severins.” Eva comes to the rescue, still constructing the same perfect bites; turkey, berry, stuffing, swipe.
In the quiet that follows, the clinking of silverware against plates, Paul puts his fork down and looks around the dining room. Hanging over the table is a chandelier that he recently saw in a trade magazine for $2,600, wholesale. It has feldspar finish with three loopy tiers, amber shell shades, and clear crystal trim. If a client asked his opinion, and more often now they do, Paul would never recommend it for an authentic period Tudor dining room like this.
By accident, Paul meets John’s eyes in one of those awkward, mid-chew, looking-around moments that he hates at dinner parties when the conversation doesn’t come easily.
“So—” John swallows his bite, though not quite all the way; Paul can still hear the mashed potatoes in his throat when he garbles, “Did you two ever get a baby?”
“John!” Francie’s neck flares red. “Eva is due at the same time as our birth mother.”
John puts down his napkin, swallows harder, and addresses her in low tones, though there are only four of them in the room—everyone can hear. “I can see that. I meant, before they got one the natural, old-fashioned way, did they—”
“How a child joins your family is irrelevant, and I hope you won’t say anything about natural or old-fashioned with all your implications when our son arrives.” Francie never raises her voice, but her hand has a tremble to it as she reaches for her water glass.
“I thought I remember you saying, last year, they got picked…” John falters on, genuinely confused, and Paul feels for him. These can be tricky waters.
“We don’t. We didn’t,” Paul jumps in. “I mean, this will be our first.” He reaches over to palm Eva’s round, warm belly, coated under one of his thick cabled wool sweaters, and is rewarded by her own squeeze to his knee, Thank you.
“It didn’t work out,” Eva says breezily, as though Amber’s baby was a weekend trip they were going to take that had been canceled. Paul remembers the reality, like living underwater: dark, rain-soaked days, chronic crying, Eva’s endless baths. It wasn’t the first baby they had lost, and tragically, it would not be the last, but when Amber’s adoption fell through, Eva took it on the chin. Not that it didn’t hurt Paul too. Sometimes he pictures their lost offspring like a heartbreakingly pathetic, underdog baseball team striking out, twelve little batters in a row. But now, late in the game, his hand still on her belly, he feels the roll of lucky number thirteen, their hopeful home run.
“You were picked very quickly,” Francie says. “You and Paul had just joined the agency, after they hired Chloe Pinter. You never had to deal with the case manager before her. Remember her, John? She was awful! She let our portfolio sit, languish, for a year before telling us we weren’t getting good feedback from birth mothers. They