What You Wish For (14 page)

“I always think you’re better off on side streets as long as you keep moving.”

Maryn’s phone rang again. “I’m on my way,” she answered. She listened. “How far along? Any blood? Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm. Heart rate? Mm-hmm.” She looked at her watch. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Keep paging Dr. Williams.”

“You’re a doctor?” Wyatt asked when she hung up.

Maryn smiled. “More jack-of-all-trades with my charges. Unfortunately, I’ve been through this before, so I know what to do.”

Wyatt marveled at her calm approach to delivering a baby. He would perish at the thought of one of his students going into labor at school.

She frowned. “What makes me crazy is that I don’t take on pregnant travelers, particularly not near term. I’m strict for exactly this reason. They lied to me.” The lie seemed to enrage her more than the fact that she was about to deliver a distressed baby without a doctor. Wyatt began to wonder why she didn’t grab one from the clinic. He also wondered what kind of passengers booked special flights that couldn’t fly pregnant and/or lied about it. Spies? Smugglers? Saudi princes?

“Turn here.” Maryn pointed to a utility entrance near LAX. It felt alarmingly like he might drive right onto a runway. Hoping a plane wouldn’t land on his car, Wyatt followed Maryn’s directions. After passing an array of industrial buildings, one or two with planes large and small parked by enormous “garages,” they arrived at a cargo bay with
TC INTERNATIONAL
emblazoned on the side.

“Where are we?” Wyatt asked. It looked like an excellent place to detain a kidnap victim.

“Five minutes from LAX, at a holding facility,” Maryn answered, as if that cleared up everything. “Pull in here.”

Wyatt parked between an enormous SUV and a sizeable animal trailer.

“I can’t thank you enough,” Maryn said, turning to him. “I don’t—”

“Maryn!” A man in denim coveralls and plastic gloves hurried out. There was blood on both.

Maryn hesitated, then turned to Wyatt. “Is there any way you can wait for a few minutes, just in case? I’ll compensate you for your time . . .”

“Of course.” Wyatt was already turning off the car. He had to see what was in the building. By the time he removed his seat belt, Maryn was hurrying through the bay doors after the man.

Wyatt squinted in the shady cargo bay after the bright sunlight. Maryn and the man disappeared down an aisle. Was this the modern reinterpretation of the second coming of Jesus, born in what appeared to be a hangar-stable near LAX? He passed a series of stalls, wondering what infections might be contracted by a baby delivered on a pile of hay. At the last stall, he peered in.

It was an understatement to say that Wyatt was startled to see the stylish and aristocratic Maryn Windsor with her arm up to the shoulder buried in a horse. Even more surreal was the one tiny horse leg protruding from the mare alongside Maryn’s arm. The prone mare flailed.

“I’m sorry, Maryn.” The man held the head of the mare, soothing her. “Hugeley checked her in, and you know he wouldn’t know a pregnant mare from a lady holding a basketball. I came around forty-five minutes ago to find the groom mucking out the stables. Said all the straw was wet. When I checked on her, the placental sac had ruptured and some was sticking out. She’s been laboring but nothing’s come. I got worried and called you.”

“You did the right thing, Robbie,” Maryn said, face pressed to the mare’s flank. Wyatt stood agape as Maryn plunged a second arm into the horse. She shook her head. “It’s no good. We’ve got to stand her up.”

The laboring mare’s groan was almost human.

“It’s all right, Farasha. We’ll take care of you,” Maryn soothed as she and Robbie urged the protesting animal to her feet. “Serge promised to give him something, huh? A foal maybe? I can’t believe I didn’t . . . shhh, shhh, Farasha. It’s not your fault your owners are idiots. Don’t you worry.” She looked at Wyatt. “Can you . . . ?”

Too stupefied to do anything else, Wyatt jumped to help. It wasn’t completely unfamiliar territory, having grown up on a farm, but certainly not how he’d expected to spend his day.

“That’s a good girl,” Maryn praised the upright Farasha, urging her to take a few steps. As she did, the little leg disappeared back inside the womb. “Good job, Farasha!” They led the heaving horse on a lap of the stable until Maryn was satisfied. Wyatt marveled anew at the size and breadth of a good horse. Farasha must have been sixteen hands high and skittish, but Maryn was fearless.

They returned to the stall and Farasha lay on her side. This time, Wyatt was unsurprised to see Maryn plunge both her arms inside the mare. After some maneuvering, two miniature legs emerged from the laboring horse. This time, the foal’s nose and head appeared behind them as well.

“Can you grab these?” Maryn indicated the little hooves. “Gently. Pull down first until the head has fully emerged, then straight out.”

Wyatt did as he was told, and carefully pulled on the little legs, while Maryn eased the newborn’s head and torso out of the mare. The little hooves were slick and Wyatt’s grip kept slipping.

“Use my jacket,” Maryn instructed, so Wyatt wrapped what he suspected was a thousand-dollar suit around the slippery creature and resumed drawing the foal from his mother. When only his rear feet remained in the birth canal, Maryn called a halt. “We’ll let them rest for a minute,” she explained. “The umbilical cord is still delivering vital fluids to the little guy.” She stroked the mare. “But you did good, lady. You’re a great mama.” Farasha rolled her eyes toward Maryn, calmed by her voice. “Looks like you have a beautiful little boy here. I bet he’s going to be quite a stallion. Make you proud.”

Maryn spoke calmly to the horse for about fifteen minutes, then backed away when the mare struggled to her feet. As Farasha stood, her foal slipped completely from her womb and the umbilical cord separated. The mare immediately licked her slick son.

“Welcome to the world, little man.” Maryn looked at Wyatt, her smile breathtaking. “Quite a miracle, huh?”

“It’s . . .” Wyatt was speechless. He didn’t know what was more fierce—witnessing an act of birth, or this woman’s determination.

Maryn’s attention returned to her new brood. “Get me some diluted iodine,” Maryn instructed Robbie. When he returned, Maryn treated the foal’s naval, then stepped away, leaving it to Farasha’s loving attention.

“We need to keep an eye on them,” Maryn instructed Robbie. “The little man should try to stand and nurse within a couple of hours.”

A harried man in jeans and cowboy boots rushed up to the stall. “Maryn, I’m so sorry. I had no idea you might need me.”

“Neither did we.” Her grim tone didn’t bode well for her clients. “Thanks to your crash course in foaling, I think everything will be fine. Meet Farasha and Little Man,” Maryn gestured with one goopy arm.

“That’s quite a suit.” Dr. Williams grinned at Maryn’s mucky, wet attire, jacket crumpled on the straw.

“I’m putting it on their bill. Along with whatever veterinary services you feel are appropriate, and then some. Treat this colt like the Sultan of Brunei and spare no expense. Assholes.”

“I’ll stay and observe for a while.”

“Me too.” Maryn stroked the mare, preoccupied with cleaning her foal.

Dr. Williams smiled. “You must feel a bit like a mother yourself, delivering a four-legged son.”

It was fleeting, but Wyatt detected a wince of pain stamping Maryn’s face. She quickly recovered. “Lord, I couldn’t afford to feed a teenage boy, much less an adolescent horse.”

“What time did she deliver?” Dr. Williams examined the foal with deference to the attentive mother.

Maryn glanced at the wall clock. “About one forty-five
PM
.”

Wyatt jumped. He’d been basking in the glow of the delivery as if he’d played a significant role, and had lost all sense of time. He had a faculty meeting at two-thirty.

“I have to go!” he announced without preamble. Three pairs of eyes turned to him, and he felt like an audience member leaping into the play. How on earth did he end up in an airport cargo bay with a bunch of strangers, giving birth to a horse? “I’m sorry. I’m late.” He gestured lamely with his hands.

“Please . . .” Maryn reached toward him, looked at her mucky hands, and stopped. “I have to thank you . . .”

“No, it was my pleasure. Really. A miracle.” He backed away. “You’ll be all right . . . ?”

“Of course, of course. But . . .” Maryn looked distressed.

“Great. Think nothing of it. Lovely to meet you.” Wyatt turned and dashed down the aisle, out the bay doors, and into the sunlight. He jumped into his car, ignoring the searing leather, and pulled away before anyone could stop him.

He’d been down the rabbit hole and craved normalcy. He had a staff meeting and he needed to wash his hands. He drove too fast. He rolled down the window to air the bizarre incident out of his head. Most of all he wanted to leave behind his frustration.

He’d seen the miracle of birth and it was breathtaking. All across America young, dumb girls were getting knocked up and having or aborting babies without a thought. Women were having sex, and women were sticking pins in condoms or lying about being on the pill, and women were ordering sperm off the Internet or inserting fertilized eggs. They were blithely making babies in a variety of ways. And no matter how desperately he wanted it, or how wonderful he’d be at it, Wyatt could never, ever, simply decide to give birth to a child. He was helpless without a willing uterus, and they were hard to find.

Andy Has a Party

A
ndy descended into his sunken living room to the sound of clinking glasses and muted conversations. The fund-raiser was now an Irish wake, and his home was packed with people in cocktail attire, tuxedoed waiters passing hors d’oeuvres. Summer had been in a frenzy to plan the party in two weeks.

“Great party, Andy!” A vaguely familiar man raised his glass. Andy mentally scanned the list he’d memorized. This was a two-first-names guy, he was sure. Walker Grant or Grant Walker. An influential Democratic donor. His presence was good news.

“Glad you’re here, Walker!” he guessed, gripping the man’s hand. “Did you get some beef?” Once again Summer had nailed it. The carving station, though costly, was a hit.

“Delicious. Herb would have loved it.”

The premise for the gathering was a tribute to Herb Green. The room was filled with Santa Monica’s power players, Herb Green’s political web, come to salute a lost comrade.

Tommy Sizec, at the front of the room, tinked a silver fork on a glass. He stood with Summer and Jeff Cohen, the City Council Chair. Andy hurried over. He noticed School Board President, Webb Garner, sliding that way as well. Unsurprising. Summer had pegged him as a blowhard who’d suck the spotlight out of a taco truck grand opening. Andy had to admire his newscaster hair.

Jeff spoke first. “Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you so much for coming. It’s a testament to Herb that even his absence can pull together one of the best crowds in Santa Monica. I remember . . .”

Andy kept his attentive face turned toward Jeff, but mentally reviewed his speech. He and Summer had prepared carefully.

“. . . and most of all, we want to thank our hosts tonight, Summer and Andrew Knox.”

Andy stepped forward as the crowd applauded. He felt good.

“Herb Green was a remarkable man,” he began. “He was a lion, championing his political causes regardless of popularity and demonstrating a carnivore’s fondness for red meat.” The crowd chuckled. “Herb was the kind of leader . . .” Andy extolled the virtues of a man he barely knew, but kept it concise so he wouldn’t lose the crowd.

“. . . Herb’s legacy is everywhere in Santa Monica. Nowhere is his impact more evident than this room, where the best and the brightest are gathered to honor him. I, personally, know of no better way to honor his memory than to follow the path he forged, to carry on his life’s work, to keep his vision alive. That’s why I’m honored and delighted tonight to announce my candidacy to fill the seat vacated by Herb Green, lion, leader, friend.”

Silence followed his announcement. A maniacally smiling Summer began clapping loudly. Soon the whole room was applauding. Some looked pleased, many surprised, a few confused. Only two people looked distinctly unhappy. They were Tom Sizec and Webb Garner.

Hours later, the guests were gone and Andy was in his socks drinking beer.

“We made a killing.” Summer looked up from the calculator, eyes intense. The house was quiet. “KnoxPAC is flush.”

Andy felt something, a flutter, perhaps his chest puffing out just a smidge. People thought he should be on the City Council.

“For little old me?” he joked.

She waved a sheaf of checks at him. “For not having to think for themselves,” she replied. “Everyone couldn’t be happier that the Herb Green machine appointed its heir apparent with little fuss and less bother.”

“It did?”

“Not at all. We stole it. Charming Tommy is livid. But it
looked
like the Herb Green machine gave candidate Andrew Knox its blessing, and that’s what matters.”

“Tommy is livid?” That didn’t sound like a good thing.

“He got outplayed. Tommy was cohost and gathered all the key players together for the party. Guests assumed your candidacy was the purpose, and whipped out their checkbooks without asking questions. KnoxPAC reaped the haul from Tommy’s leverage. Tommy can’t protest or he’d look like an idiot.”

“Why’s he mad about me running?”

“He intended to back Webb Garner.”

“You knew this?”

Summer raised one shoulder.

“Can’t Webb run anyway?”

“Not as a Democrat.”

“Why not?”

“Because he was here.” Summer was practically licking the canary off her lips. “His presence was a de facto tip of the hat to you. It’s genius really. We hijacked Herb’s machine. Webb hasn’t got a move to make,” She snorted. “Unless he ran as a Republican.”

“And Tommy didn’t know what we planned?” Andy felt a little queasy.

“Nope. And it’s too late now. Santa Monica is too small for him to splinter effectively. You should be home free.”

“Can’t Webb run on his own, without Tommy?”

“The important checks have been written.” She thumbed the stack, and Andy knew that if banks were open twenty-four hours a day they’d have been deposited by now. “If Webb wants to get into the race, he’ll have to do something drastic.”

That didn’t sound very good to Andy. It must have shown on his face, because Summer gave him a huge smile.

“Relax, babe. The hard part’s over.”