CHAPTER 1
Crombie Fertility Clinic; Portland, Oregon
Hands folded across her rounded belly, Grace Templeton looked at the other pregnant woman sitting across from her in the waiting room then shifted her gaze between the two men on either side of the woman. The men were identical twins by features, but opposites in every other way. The man holding the woman's hand looked civilized—freshly shaven, hair neatly cut, clean shirt. The other man looked like he'd just come in from the range, with his day-old stubble, and worn and faded clothes, and dark hair in need of a trim. But clearly, the untidy twin had the most testosterone. He was all male, from the heavily-muscled chest evident beneath his western-cut shirt to the corded forearms revealed by his rolled up sleeves. Even his wide scratched and dented belt buckle and scuffed western boots screamed of bucking broncos and bull riding and hard-edged cowboys, and way, way too much testosterone. Grace could not even imagine the quantity of semen the man would produce if he came in to donate. Or the potency. Millions and millions of squirming, assertive little sperm, all aggressively nudging each other out while swimming around in search of that tiny egg to impregnate.
A smile tugged at her lips, causing the man to affirm her speculation by saying in a voice that was distinctly baritone, "Am I put together wrong?"
He'd also asked a question Grace was at a loss to answer. She'd been scrutinizing the man from head to toe while speculating on the quality of his sperm, not a usual subject to address with a complete stranger. "I'm sorry," she said. "I wasn't smiling because of something about you. It was a silly thought, and I have this habit of looking through people when I'm thinking."
"Then I guess being transparent is better than being put together wrong," the man said. He unfolded his crossed leg, leading Grace to surmise if he were standing he'd top out at around six-foot-five inches of lean, solid, testosteronic muscle, if there was such a word.
Feeling a thud in her tummy, she pressed her hands to it and felt the stirring of life. Five more weeks and Marc junior would make his way into the world. She hoped he'd have his father's blond hair and blue eyes and jovial personality...
The image of the child growing inside her quickly vanished when a woman swept open a door from the inner office, looked at the pregnant woman and the two men, and said, "I presume you are Susan and Sam Hansen, and Jack Hansen?" The people nodded. The woman turned to Grace then, and said, "And you are Grace Templeton?" Grace also nodded. "Dr. Crombie will be with you folks in a few minutes," the woman said. "Can I offer you some coffee?" When everyone shook their heads, the woman said, "It should not be long."
After the woman left, the man with all the testosterone, who the receptionist had addressed as Jack, looked at the others, and said, "Isn't Dr. Crombie owner of this clinic?" The others nodded. Jack's face hardened. "This whole meeting seems pretty irregular—being called in at night, the owner of the clinic present, certified letters."
Grace looked at Jack with a start. "I also got a certified letter setting up this meeting," she said, wondering if these peoples' reason for being called in was the same as hers, though she had no idea what that was. But the receptionist implied that all of them would be called in together.
"We can't imagine what they want," Susan Hansen said. "They wanted all three of us here."
Trying to dismiss her own misgivings about the meeting, Grace shrugged, and said, "It probably has to do with making a documentary film. They were talking about it when I came in for the insemination procedure. They want to interview couples and individuals, both donors and recipients, and follow them through the birth. I'm a widow, and I was inseminated with my husband's sperm two years after he died, so they'd want to show that frozen sperm's as good as fresh. Did you hear anything about a movie?"
"No," Susan said, "but maybe you're right." Her lips twitched in a nervous smile, and she added, "They might be interested in us because we're having a child we hope will be a genetic match for our son, who has a blood disorder and needs a bone marrow transplant. If the cord blood of my baby is a match, our son will be able to lead a normal life, but because Sam is sterile after having chemo," she said, glancing at her husband, "I'm unable to have more children with him, but Jack—" she touched the untidy man's arm "—being Sam's identical twin, gives us a chance of having a match. So thanks to Jack and artificial insemination this baby will be almost as close to our son genetically as if Sam were the father."
Except Jack's child would probably have scruffy hair, a stubborn chin, sinewy jaw muscles, and be born with dirty fingernails, Grace was tempted to add as a touch of humor. But seeing Jack's sober face, decided he wouldn't appreciate the remark.