A Bond Between Strangers
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Scarlet Wilson
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PROLOGUE
JOHN CARTER’S feet thudded along the pavement in rapid, regular beats. The early morning sun was beating down on his back, trickles of sweat pooling around the waistband of his shorts. He rounded the corner of his street, slowing to a stop outside his house.
He leaned forward, taking slow, practised breaths as his heart continued thudding against his chest. He’d been running this same route along the San Francisco Bay area for the last two years, but it didn’t seem to get any easier.
He grabbed his water bottle from his waistband and took a slug. Right now he was wishing it contained anything but water. The flag on the mailbox was up. The mailman had been early today.
John took a few moments to stretch out his aching limbs. His hamstring twitched again. Damn. He’d agreed to play five-a-side soccer tonight with some English colleagues. The last thing he needed was a pulled hamstring.
He reached into the mailbox and pulled out the barrage of catalogues and envelopes. A frown creased his face and he walked up towards his porch. He sat on the decking outside as he sorted through the mail, glancing at his watch. In another fifteen minutes’ time he’d have had a quick shower and be at work, ready to spend most of the day in the operating theatre. There wasn’t even any point going into the kitchen. The fridge was virtually empty and so were his cupboards. He’d discovered as much when he’d got home late last night, starving after spending hours in the office. He didn’t even have any coffee left. No matter how much he tried to avoid it, he was really going to have to do a grocery shop some time soon.
He flicked past the usual array of catalogues containing clothes, make-up, candles, jewellery—or the latest ‘diet’ miracle—all addressed to his ex-wife, Tabitha Carter.
Without blinking an eye, he tossed them all into his nearby rubbish bin. It wasn’t as if she’d come looking for them. Wherever Tabitha had ended up, doubtless she’d re-sent for them all. Two years on, many tears and tantrums later, his divorce attorney still hadn’t tracked the woman down—though thankfully he had managed to acquire her signature.
The only thing she wanted from him these days were the alimony cheques.
His fingers stopped their automatic trawl through the mail. The usual bills and free offers were ignored. One envelope was different from the rest. Bulkier. Heavier-quality paper, premium bonded. And although there was no emblem, he’d recognise their mail anywhere.
This was it. The final nail in the coffin of his disastrous marriage.
He sighed and looked out over the family-friendly cul-de-sac where they’d lived. Tabitha had never fitted in here. She’d hated the fact that everyone’s kids played out in the front yards. She’d hated little people trooping in and out of their home in a search for cookies or someone to fix their bikes.
This was the perfect family home.
Just not for them.
The initial fertility tests had created more toddler-sized tantrums than he’d ever seen. The discovery that Tabitha didn’t have any viable eggs had taken her months to recover from. The selection of an egg donor had almost resulted in their first major fallout. The first round of IVF had been fraught with difficulties—mainly because Tabitha hadn’t followed any of the instructions she’d been given.
The second round of IVF had resulted in an ectopic pregnancy. At this point Tabitha had refused to tolerate any more treatment.
And by this stage John had been inclined to agree. The cracks in their marriage had migrated into a fully fledged San Andreas fault.
Tabitha’s leaving hadn’t really had an impact on him. Emptying the joint bank account and driving off in his new car hadn’t created more than a few minor inconveniences. It had also gave him free rein to buy the Ducati motorbike he’d really wanted.
He’d just been happy she’d left the house intact.
But the thought of never having kids, never having the family that he’d always wanted, cut him deeper than he could ever have imagined.
There was still time. He still had some chance of meeting someone new, someone who might want to settle down and have kids. But at his age, thirty-nine, the chances seemed to be reducing every day. It had been three years since they’d tried IVF—two years since Tabitha had left. And in two years? He hadn’t had one date that had remotely interested him. Too young, too old. Too career orientated, and the best one—the women who were only interested in him because he was a doctor.
Just like Tabitha. Once bitten, twice shy.
He turned the letter over in his hands.
This was it. His final dealings with the clinic. The letter telling him that the remaining viable embryos had been destroyed.
And for now his hopes of fatherhood would have to be put to one side.
He tore open the envelope, pulled out the letter and scanned the page.
He gave a jolt. As if a bolt of electricity had just ran through his body. He stood up, his body on autopilot, his eyes never leaving the page as he tried to take in the words. ‘…our sincerest apologies…never in our clinic’s history…wrongly implanted…numerous messages.’
He marched into his house. Sure enough. The answering-machine was blinking. He hadn’t looked at it in the last three days—work had been crazy. Sixteen messages. He didn’t even need to listen to them. He started stripping off his running gear as he strode into the shower. Work was the last place he would be today.
Somewhere out there—someone was carrying his baby.
