Claire’s signature perfume smelled like wilted lilies, and she set a cardboard bakery box directly over the damp ring my coffee mug had left on the laminate. The box cost four dollars at the supermarket down the road, still carrying the neon orange discount sticker on the plastic window.
“You still have the yellow chairs,” Claire said, pulling one out with a screech of metal legs on the worn linoleum.
She placed her phone face up on the table, the screen immediately lighting up with a silent notification. Her long, pink nails tapped twice against the glass, a rhythmic clicking that filled the quiet of my small kitchen.
Evan stood near the refrigerator, his shoulder barely clearing the wooden spice rack I had hung myself three years ago. He adjusted his leather watch strap, pulling it one notch tighter before checking the face, though he had only been in my house for five minutes.
“We need to discuss an arrangement,” Evan said, his voice flat and transaction-oriented. “A formal one.”
“It is about the family name, Marianne,” Claire said, her voice rising into that high, sweet register she used when she wanted to borrow my car or needed me to cover her shift at the bakery. “Our father always wanted to see it continue. He used to talk about the family legacy when we were girls, remember? He would sit on the porch and tell us how important it was to keep our roots in Oak Creek.”
I rolled my silver wedding ring around my finger, the metal cool and slightly loose since my divorce three years ago. “The doctor said your last round did not take?”
“Three times, Marianne,” Claire said, and her voice cracked on the final word, her shoulders dropping in a way that made her look suddenly small. “The clinic in Grand Rapids said my lining is too thin. They said another attempt would be a waste of resources.”
“They have the embryos ready,” Evan said, his hand dropping to his side where his fingers twitched against his trousers. “Cryopreserved. Six of them.”
“We just need a safe place for one of them to grow,” Claire said, leaning across the table so her perfume filled the space between us, almost choking out the smell of my morning toast. “Just one healthy pregnancy.”
“At thirty-eight, Claire, my body is not the same as it was when I had Chloe,” I said. “A pregnancy now is not a simple matter of taking vitamins and waiting it out. The physical toll is different.”
“The doctors said you are remarkably healthy,” Claire said, her fingers reaching across the bakery box to catch mine. “They looked at your dental clinic health record from last year when you had that physical.”
“How did you get my medical records?” I asked, keeping my voice quiet and direct.
Evan cleared his throat, his eyes darting toward the window where my old Buick LeSabre was parked in the gravel driveway. “We have connections at the county health office, Marianne. It was just a quick inquiry to ensure we weren’t asking something impossible.”
“We only need nine months, sweetie,” Claire said, her voice dropping to a whisper that sounded too practiced. “Just nine months to make our family whole.”
I looked at the discount sticker on the bakery box, the orange paper peeling at the corner. “You should have asked me before looking at my records, Claire.”
“We were desperate,” Claire said, her fingers tightening on mine. “You have no idea what it is like to see those negative tests month after month. Every clinic visit feels like a funeral.”
“We are prepared to make it worth your while,” Evan said, his hand moving to his pocket. “We will handle everything.”
“I don’t need you to make it worth my while, Evan,” I said, looking at his clean, pressed shirt. “This isn’t one of your listings.”
“It is a family matter,” he said, adjusting his watch strap again. “But it requires businesslike precision.”
