WHEN THE WIND BLOWS

by ANE MULLIGAN

Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but when dreams come true, there is life and joy. Proverbs 13:12, NLT

CHAPTER 1

Holding the edges of the paper gown together with one hand, Jenna Andrews used her hand to lay her folded skirt on the padded green chair, hiding her underwear between it. She climbed on the end of the exam table and waited. As she rubbed her upper arms for warmth, her gaze moved from the stark white walls to the metal tray awaiting the doctor. A silver speculum lay next to the white tube of KY jelly. A caddy filled with empty vials taunted her from the counter. She cringed. One more needle, one more tube of blood would surely send her over the edge.

Her throat tightened, but she refused to cry. This is going to pay off. Squeezing her eyes closed, she visualized her arms no longer barren, cradling a baby—her baby. She could smell its sweet scent, feel the softness of its skin—and hope, however small, replaced despair. She opened her eyes to reality. If that hope was to be realized, it'd better happen soon. Her biological clock was losing time.

Twenty freezing minutes later, Dr. Farrell strolled in followed by his freckle-nosed nurse, Patti. She handed the doctor a pair of latex gloves.

"Good morning, Mrs. Andrews. I love your hair. Where do you get it done? I'd adore getting mine highlighted like yours."

Like a ventriloquist, she managed to maintain her trademark smile even as she chattered. Did the woman ever frown?

I used to smile like that.

Of course she had. "A pastor's daughter should always presents a cheerful countenance."

With Patti's help, Jenna stuck her feet in the stirrups and shimmied down on the table. Staring at the textured ceiling tile as the doctor gently probed, she forced her thoughts to the upcoming day. She had a new client with a whole-house remodel. The layout had been determined, and now came the fun part. Color palettes swirled through her head, obliterating her discomfort. European in style, the house called for rich colors, flowing from room to room, with textured fabrics tying the design together. Pale gold Venetian plaster in the kitchen— 

The snap of rubber when the doctor pulled off his gloves yanked her back to the exam. She glanced at him. He wasn't smiling. Doctors smiled when things were good. Beads of sweat formed at her hairline in spite of the cool temperature.

He patted her shoulder. "Get dressed and Patti will bring you to my office. We'll talk there." He and the nurse left her alone to dress.

A dart of fear pierced her stomach as the door clicked shut. Slipping on her skirt, her hand stopped. What if she had cancer? He hadn't made eye contact with her. That wasn't good.

With shaky hands, she yanked the peasant blouse over her head, catching her gold hoop earring in the gauzy fabric. "Cr—" Salt and light. She bit off the expletive. Just in time, too. A tap on the door and Patti entered.

"Ready, Mrs. Andrews?"

She quickly pushed the tail of her blouse into her skirt and tried to smooth it down, then ran her fingers over the back of her hair to be sure it wasn't sticking out. She didn't want people thinking her frowsy.

The cheery lilt of Patti's voice grated on Jenna's last nerve as she followed her through the beige carpeted hallway. A wilting fichus tree stood at the end of the hall, dropping leaves into its gray ceramic pot. Somebody needed to give the poor thing some water. Muffled voices punctuated by laughter filtered through a closed door. At least someone was receiving good news. 

Patti tapped on a closed door, then opened it and stepped aside, gesturing to a seat in front of the doctor's walnut desk. A framed photo displayed a dark-haired woman—the doctor's wife Jenna presumed—surrounded by seven shiny-faced children.

And I can't even have one. Unless the doctor found something new to help.

Her gaze darted from the picture to Dr. Farrell. His frown as he studied her chart did nothing to encourage her. He closed the folder and pulled off his glasses. She squirmed under his gaze.  

"Jenna, did you have an abortion?"

Her heart stopped. No words would come.

"I'm not here to judge you."

He wouldn't judge her, but his judgment was the least of her concerns.

He sighed. "Whether microscopic or macroscopic in nature, cervical damage from lacerations during an induced abortion frequently results in a permanent weakening of the cervix. This weakening may result in an 'incompetent cervix', a serious medical condition in any pregnancy which often results in miscarriages like the ones you've had."

Looking at the edge of his desk made the words easier to say. "Mark and I are desperate for children. I wouldn't abort one." Her gaze flitted to the ceiling, waiting for a bolt of lightening.

He tapped her chart with the edge of his glasses. "Jenna, you have an incompetent cervix." His tone, resonating with finality, whipped her.

"Isn't there anything that can be done?"

He looked up at the ceiling, pulled his upper lip in and chewed the bottom of his mustache. "We put in a cerclage, a stitch to hold you cervix closed in your last pregnancy, but it didn't hold. I'm not saying you'll never carry to term, only God knows for sure. I'm saying you may have to suffer another half dozen or more losses with no guarantee of a viable fetus."

A scream clawed at her throat. She had to get out of there. Grabbing her shoulder bag, she stood. "Dr. Farrell, I'm a preacher's kid. There is no way I would have had an abortion. My dad would have killed me." She couldn't admit it. She tried to swallow, but her mouth had turned dry. As dry as her womb. 

He nodded. "That crossed my mind. Don't be too hard on yourself. Sometimes things are taken out of our control. Maybe you'd like to get another opinion."

She lost control once a long time ago—she wouldn't do it again. Tensing every muscle, she held herself erect. "I have to go."

Keeping her eyes downcast, she fled through the reception room, not even stopping to check out. Flying down the stairs, her heel caught on the second to the last riser. Stumbling, a sob shook her shoulders as she grabbed the handrail. Don't cry—not here. If there were ever a day to take the elevator, this would have been it. But no, not even today could make her willingly enclose herself in a death box on a chain.

She kept a tight rein until she reached the parking lot, but as she unlocked the Mustang and slid behind the wheel, tears coursed down her cheeks. 

She'd denied it for so long she'd begun to believe it had never happened. But it did. And what came later was all her fault. The three miscarriages in as many years. Babies torn from her incompetent body—the last one at twenty weeks. The tiny casket, the empty words spoken over a small grave. Three children would never splash in the river or play in Spring's warm grass. All because of her.

In her mind's eye, she saw Mark's disappointed face. This kind, generous man deserved to have a child. This wasn't his fault. But he was paying for it just the same. Her sobs slowly subsided. Her shoulders slumped. She opened her purse and pawed through it for a hankie. Of all the days not to have one. A check of the glove compartment was futile. A runny nose, tears dripping off her chin, and she couldn't even find a used tissue. Months of pent-up grief turned to indignation. She struck the steering wheel, then turned on the engine and shot out of the parking lot into the midday traffic, burning rubber.

At the end of the block, blue lights flashed behind her. Just great. A perfect driving record spoiled by her lack of self control. She pressed her foot to the brake. When she stopped, she opened the window and held out her license. "Sorry, officer."

As he wrote out the ticket, the wind kicked up a small cyclone of dust, mesmerizing in its hop scotch dance. As it parried the edge of the road unpredictable in its course, it scattered the dust from selected dandelions but skipped over others.

Twenty minutes later, ticket stashed in her purse, Jenna yanked open the door to the office. The reception area, painted in hues of golden wheat, was empty. The green and burgundy paisley sofa sat empty. More important so was the cherry desk. She hoped her administrative assistant, Marianne, was out getting lunch and not out sick. Jenna needed her this afternoon to draw up contracts for the new client. And to run interference on the phones. She didn't want to talk to anyone.

The door to the samples room flung open and her business partner, Daphne Addams, trailed by Marianne, nearly collided with her.

"I need the – oh!" Daphne looked up. "My word, you look like Scarlett O'Hara being chased by carpetbaggers."

"I got a ticket on my way back."

Daphne's blonde eyebrows arched. "What did that doctor say to you?"

Shaking her head, Jenna hurried into their shared office, placed her shoulder bag and Daytimer on the corner of her desk, then crossed to the large bank of windows. The hilltop location of their first-floor suite showcased a spectacular view, and the skyline of Atlanta in the far distance looked like a remote island beneath the gathering storm clouds. Like her heart—alone and isolated. How had her life gotten into such a mess?  

Daphne entered the room and fumbled around in the files. A moment later, a soft hand touched her shoulder.

"Come on, Jen. Let's sit down. Tell me what happened."

But before she could answer, the door flew open hitting the wall, and Marianne burst into the room. "Jenna! Daphne!"

"Couldn't you just knock like a normal person?" Daphne's tone conveyed amused tolerance.

Marianne dragged behind her a young man with a crew cut and three cameras drooped around his neck. His lanky companion, who appeared to be a journalist from credentials on the lanyard and the bold way he looked around, trailed them. What were they doing here?

"You won! Design Divas won!" Marianne hopped up and down like a barefoot child on scalding blacktop.

"I swanney, there's a blonde hiding under all that red hair." Daphne shook her head. "Stop gyrating like an Irish Setter and tell us what this is all about. Who are these two gentlemen?"

All Jenna wanted was to be left alone. Instead she had an office full of people. Now was not the time to let go—she needed to be articulate.

The man stepped forward with his hand extended. "Sam Whalen, Architectural Digest." He shook her limp hand. "I'm covering the ASID design show. I was there when they announced the winner."

She tried to piece together what Whalen said. Design Divas had an entry in the show. Was that what Marianne meant they'd won? The phone rang, and Marianne picked it up at Daphne's desk.

The photographer aimed his camera at Jenna. Smile. She hoped she didn't look as stupid as she felt.

Marianne squealed and thrust the phone at her. "It's ASID."

Jenna blinked away the floating white spots and took the receiver. She covered the mouthpiece while Daphne put her hands on Marianne's shoulders and turned her toward the door. "Take yourself out to your desk and do something useful. Find me the Fagan tile samples." 

Jenna motioned for Daphne to listen; after all, this moment was hers as well. They'd both worked hard for months. They'd been so proud when their mentor, Noah Marcotte, first saw it. He told them their unique design had everyone talking. All they could think of was winning that award and how sweet the victory would taste. But how wrong she'd been; it had turned as tasteless as wallpaper paste.

"This is Jenna Andrews." 

"Mary Wright here, American Society of Interior Designers. Congratulations."

Daphne mouthed, "Wahoo!"

"Design Divas is this year's winner of Atlanta's Dream Home Design Award. If they aren't there already, Architectural Digest is sending their team over to interview you."

Jenna's hand trembled. What kind of questions would Whalen ask? Please don't let him ask about her inspiration for the room.

Breathe deep.

"Ms. Andrews?" Mary Wright's voice intruded on her thoughts.

"Yes, I'm sorry. They're here now."

"Fast, aren't they?" Ms. Wright chuckled. "I've set up an interview for you tomorrow morning, too, on Good Day Atlanta. I'll call you back with the details in about an hour."

Turning to the journalist, Jenna attempted to flash a one-hundred watt smile. "It's true—we won."

Daphne beamed like Garfield with a pan of lasagna. The photographer snapped her picture. They sat with Whalen, answering questions, Jenna on the edge of her chair, waiting for the inevitable inspiration question.

"Let's talk about the fabrics you selected. I noticed you used an unusual assortment for a baby nursery."

Abortion—you'll never carry to term. Dr. Farrell's words kept replaying through her mind, dredging up horrifying images she'd buried for so long. She had trouble concentrating on Whalen's questions. If she could just keep the smile pasted on her lips until they left. Thank goodness Daphne carried the conversation.  

The interview lasted thirty minutes with the photographer snapping shots throughout. Wondering if she'd cried off all her makeup earlier, Jenna wished she had a compact in her pocket. She tried to catch Daphne's attention, but she'd blossomed into the photographer's dream. Good. Maybe he'd concentrate on her, and leave Jenna alone.

Finally it was over. Whalen closed his notebook and put away his pen. The photographer began to pack his camera, when the office door opened and Jenna's mother, Carolyn Fellows, stuck in her head.

"May I come in?"

"Mom?" Relief flooded through Jenna. The cavalry had arrived. "What are you doing here?" Not that she could tell her what happened, but that feeling of being all alone left her the minute her mother came in. God may have forsaken her, but Mom hadn't.

Until she finds out … then what?

"Marianne called me, and since I was out and about, here I am." Carolyn dropped her red leather handbag on the couch. "Congratulations! I'm so proud of you girls." She threw her arms around Jenna and Daphne. The photographer caught the moment, insisted on a few more photos then left with Whalen.

"Have you told Mark yet?" Carolyn asked when they were alone. "What did Kell say, Daphne?"

"We haven't had a chance to call them yet." Daphne snickered. "Our dear husbands are still in the dark."

"Well, get going, girls. Let's celebrate tonight. I'll alert Dad. And your parents, Daphne. How about The Palm? Can you get a babysitter for Pauley?"

Jenna's heart lurched. Would she ever worry about babysitters? A wave of jealousy swept over her, followed by shame. She and Mark adored Pauley. Mark loved to play with the three-year-old, but she knew what he really wanted was to play with his own child. The disappointment would devastate him. And her parents. What would they say when they found out?

Stop it. They'd just won the Dream Home Design Award. Nothing should ruin this night.

Daphne jumped up and pulled them off the couch. "Come on. This calls for new dresses. Jenna, call Mark. I'll call Kell." She punched the intercom button. "Marianne, make reservations for eight o'clock at The Palm."

Jenna smoothed her hair and straightened her skirt. She assumed a light-hearted air for Daphne's sake. "Sounds like fun."