A Family Worth Waiting For: The Midwife's Miracle Baby

‘I have to be here in the morning, Dad. She expects me.’

‘She’s not your responsibility, Claire.’

‘Dad … she’s my mother.’

‘You’re young, you’re supposed to be selfish and irresponsible. I can manage.’

‘I know but … she’ll fret if I’m not here.’

‘Darling, she probably won’t even be aware.’ His voice cracked and Claire had to swallow hard.

‘She’ll know,’ Claire insisted. She walked into the room and kissed him on the head. ‘I’ve got my mobile. Call me if you need to. I mean it, Dad. Anything. See you in the morning.’

Claire pulled out of her driveway, her mind preoccupied with her mother’s illness and her father’s devotion. He deserves a medal, she thought as she pulled up at the lights. She chewed absently at the inside of her lip, worrying about the future.

She gave herself a mental shake as the car behind her hooted to let her know that the light had turned green. Her thoughts should be on the evening ahead and Campbell. If she was going to worry about anything tonight, it should be him.

He’d wanted to come and pick her up but she had insisted on going to the restaurant independently.

‘Is that so you can make a fast getaway?’ he had asked.

‘Huh! My plan is foiled,’ she had quipped, and he had laughed and left it alone.

Not for the first time, she admonished herself for her rash acceptance of his invitation. Once the euphoria from little David’s birth had ebbed, her doubts had resurfaced. She’d even attempted to page him and cancel, but he must have already left for the day.

If she had known his home phone number she would have tried him there. But she didn’t, so here she was, feeling rather like she was driving to her doom instead of a pleasant evening with a nice man.

Her gaze fell on her mobile phone and she pushed aside the temptation to ring the restaurant and cancel through a third party, like a coward. She also quelled the urge to just drive around for a few hours and then go home.

Stand him up? After he’d hunkered down on his hands and knees in a pool of amniotic fluid and helped her deliver a baby? And not just any baby, but one that a lot of obstetricians would have baulked at delivering. That seemed pretty churlish.

So. She’d go. As a thank you and nothing else. She’d be polite and companionable and beat a hasty retreat as soon as was possible. Easy. Simple.

And if her thoughts turned fanciful, all she need do was picture her mother. Remember her just as she had left her this evening, lying in bed, ravaged by a cruel disease, waiting to die. That should do it.

Claire arrived at the restaurant only a little late. She hadn’t really known what to expect. She’d assumed it would be something posh and a la carte. So to find a small Italian joint off the beaten track was a pleasant surprise.

Claire had been unsure what to wear so had decided on a very plain sleeveless linen shift dress with a modest neckline and an even more modest hemline, falling below the knee. She had chosen it because of its simplicity. She hadn’t wanted to wear anything too provocative and give Campbell the wrong idea.

If she’d known that the moment she’d slipped it over her head the dress went from simple to sexy, she’d never have worn it. It was the colour. A bright fire-engine red, which complemented her olive skin and accentuated the richness of her black hair. The colour naturally drew attention but, once gained, the vision of her in it was one not easy to forget.

* * *

Well, she sure knew how to make an entrance, Campbell thought as two waiters nearly collided in their haste to seat her. She did look ravishing, and Campbell understood the effect she was having on them. But the most important thing was that she was here with him, finally. The wait had been worth it.

A young Latin-looking waiter, the apparent victor between the two, ushered her to the table where Campbell waited. He half rose politely as the waiter pulled her chair out and then spread a starched linen napkin on her lap, lingering a little longer than Campbell felt was appropriate. Victor or not, Campbell was going to break his fingers if he touched Claire again. Anywhere. At all.

Claire could feel Campbell’s scrutiny as the waiter fussed and took her drink order. She was pleased to be sitting because Campbell in casual mode was a sight to behold. Having seen him in nothing but suits and ties, it was an unexpected pleasure to find him in faded denim jeans and an open-necked polo shirt, which clung to the firm muscles of his arms and chest.

They regarded each other steadily over a wax-encrusted Chianti bottle complete with flickering candle. Damn! The lingering memory of his devastating kiss swamped her traitorously. Claire could feel her resolve weakening and the internal struggle she had fought with herself from the minute she’d met him seemed less important by candlelight.

‘I thought you were going to stand me up,’ he said, the candlelight accentuating the blond highlights in his hair.

‘So did I.’ She smiled and he laughed.

‘I’m pleased you didn’t.’ He raised his water glass. She raised hers and they clinked them together.

‘This place is nice. Kind of quaint. Authentic.’

‘It’s my favourite place to eat out. You can keep all those fancy places with their nouvelle cuisine. Me, I like good hearty food and lots of it. Places that serve you up a teaspoon of food in the middle of a huge plate just don’t do it for me. I hope you’re not disappointed.’

‘On the contrary.’ She shrugged her slim shoulders, her bob brushing against them. ‘I agree. I can’t bear the pretentiousness of those places.’

‘So you’re not one of these women who just nibble when they go on dates?’

‘Absolutely not. If you think I’m going to sit here and pick at a garden salad all night, think again. I’m in the mood for lasagne.’

‘Your choice in cuisine is matched only by your choice in clothes,’ he complimented her. ‘You look amazing tonight. That dress and the candlelight … wow!’

Claire blushed and laughed. Their gazes held and locked. The heat between them could have lit a thousand candles.

The waiter arrived to take their order and Claire released her breath. Campbell ordered lasagne for her and marinara for himself. He also ordered a bottle of red wine, which arrived promptly.

‘To the birth centre.’ He raised his glass.

‘To breech births,’ she countered.

‘To little Davy,’ he agreed, and clinked his glass against hers.

‘Thank you for today, Campbell. Your ability and professionalism impressed me. You said you studied in France for a while?’

‘Yes. There’s an obstetrician there, Henri Busson, he’s quite well known.’

‘Yes, I’ve read some of his papers.’

‘He has his own private clinic. Women come from all over Europe to give birth there. He really is the leading expert in alternative birthing practices.’

‘Alternative birth?’ Claire shook her head. ‘Is it just me, Campbell, or has the whole world gone completely crazy? Surely things like inductions and Caesareans should be alternative birthing practices? What they call alternative these days is really just natural childbirth. When did it all get so screwed around?’

‘I guess when doctors decided to interfere.’

‘I’ll drink to that.’ She smiled and swallowed some of the rich, full-bodied wine.

‘You’d get along so well with all my sisters.’ His voice was laced with humour.

‘All? How many do you have?’

‘Four.’