How awful this must be for all of them.
Chapter 7
Sam
Despite the shaky start to my day, the sun comes out and the temperature climbs into the high seventies. Eager to speak to Gillian Liddy, I ride the subway into the city to borrow a Patten SUV. Of course, minutes later, my phone pings.
“Hey sugar. What’s cookin’?” My overprotective husband pretends his call is random but I know better. Slate called him the minute I departed Patten’s Fifth Avenue office.
“Just a sec.” Outside, in the company’s lot, I squint up at the guard, show him my ID, and he points out my designated vehicle. My purse in my left hand, I push the key fob, and it bleeps.
“I had a visit from our new clients.”
“And?” Suds sounds a little more chill today which I will take as a sign that my crappy day is taking a turn for the better.
“They want me to talk to the woman having their baby. The SM.” After adjusting the seat and rearview, the powerful engine roars to life.
“Sadomasochist?” He snickers.
“Surrogate mother.”
“And why are we speaking in code?”
“So we can text faster, later.”
“Efficient. And where’re we off to?” His voice moves from my phone to the car’s side speakers as I back out of my parking spot and onto the side street.
“The royalweis headed off to the Hamptons, a bed and breakfast, to be precise. It’s all on the up and up. I’d rate the safety level a ninety-nine-point seven percent.”
He chuckles and sighs. “I wish you’d waited for me to get home or asked one of the Patten guys to go with you.”
“I know, I know, and I would’ve but you should’ve seen Melissa’s face. Oh my God. I can’t imagine being so happy about having a baby and then it’s all taken away. I’ll phone you when I get there. And, if you could, just this once, trust me.”
“I do trust you, sugar. It’s everyone else I got a problem with.”
“Bye honey. City traffic. I got to pay attention to my driving. Safety first and all that.”
“Bye. Call me.” He hangs up and at the next red light, I plug in my charger and start my eclectic playlist.
Singing to the music, the sun disappears as I drive underground in the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel. Before long, concrete gives way to suburbia. Green grass, small new leaves, and yellow forsythia line the highway.
Enjoying all the sights and smells of spring, the time goes by fast. I’m almost disappointed when the map lady announces, “You have arrived.”
“Why, thank you.” I park in front of a white, Victorian mansion, stretch, and climb out.
I had no idea the popular vacation spot turns into a ghost town off season. There’s no one around except for a murder of crows who squawk at me from the power lines, reminiscent ofThe Birds. Shivering in the salty ocean breeze, I tread up the sidewalk.
A hand painted sign swings on a chain in the center of the yellow lawn. It reads Georgie’s Bed & Breakfast.
Yup, this is the place.
My sneakers pad up three pristine, powder-blue steps. From there, I stride past artfully arranged wicker furniture and not finding a doorbell, open the screen and use the gold knocker.
A white-haired man opens the door with a smile but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Gillian Liddy.” I pretend not to notice his displeasure, even when he drops the pretense of being nice and his face sours.
“Oh, I’m sorry. She’s not feeling well. Not seeing visitors.” He starts to close the door shut but I stop him with a shoulder.
