“I definitely respect that.” Dr. Prioleau smiled, pushing back her chair and rising from behind her desk. “If you don’t have any more questions, I look forward to seeing you in a few weeks.”
Sydney stood from the visitor’s chair and shook the doctor’s extended hand. “Thanks, Dr. Prioleau. I’ll see you then.”
She exited the spacious office, the doctor beside her. As soon as they entered the lobby, a tingle started at the nape of Sydney’s neck, marching over her skin like an army of fire ants. She didn’t glance behind her to verify, but it seemed as if every eye in the packed waiting area was trained on her. No doubt, in the span of seconds—as long as it required to tap out a text or make a covert phone call—most people would know she’d visited her father’s office.
This—the avaricious curiosity and gossip—she hadn’t missed about living in a small town. There’d been a certain freedom and peace in living in a city the size of Charlotte. Except for her small circle of friends, anonymity had meant she could be whoever she wanted without comparison to who she used to be. No judgment. No condemnation.
Dr. Prioleau patted Sydney’s hand one last time. “I’ll see you soon, but remember, if you have any questions, concerns or feel any discomfort, please don’t hesitate to call or come in, okay?”
“Got it.”
Seconds later, Sydney stepped outside the clinic. The late morning heat warmed her upturned face, and she closed her eyes, breathing in the clean air. Fresh coffee and the scent of pancakes from the diner down the street. The sharp taste of acrylic from the workers painting the dentist’s building next door. And underneath it all, the faint, nebulous fragrance of home. Even though she’d lived in Charlotte for eight years, even with her complicated feelings about this place, that particular fragrance had always been missing.
Sighing, she headed toward her car. Just as she hit the key fob to open her doors, her cell buzzed against her hip.
“This better not be you, Katherine,” she grumbled, pulling the phone free.
Katherine Rhys owned Grant Resources, the organization Sydney worked for as a contractor. The company posted requests from agencies and corporations seeking grant writers. In the five years she’d been working with Grant Resources, Sydney had written more than a fair share of successful grants. But she’d informed Katherine that she wouldn’t be accepting any jobs for the next few weeks while she settled into a new—or old—home. She could afford not to work right now. Old-fashioned in his view of marital roles, Daniel had refused to allow Sydney to pay any of their house bills. Hell, if it’d been up to him, she wouldn’t have worked at all. But she’d put her foot down hard on that position. So, all of her earnings had gone into savings. If she chose not to work for the next year, she could. But being stagnant that long would drive Sydney crazy.
You could always work on that urban fantasy book you’ve been too chicken to finish.
Sydney flipped two middle fingers at the irritating sneer in her head. Leave it to her to not only talk to herself, but to have that voice be a know-it-all bitch, too. Since she was a teen, she’d harbored the dream of writing and publishing a book set in a seemingly not-too-distant, apocalyptic world. But it was just that—a dream.
She’d shared the desire with Daniel once, shortly after they’d married. And once was all she’d needed to decide never to make that mistake again. He’d been so patronizing, so damn logical, that she’d ended up agreeing with him. The time for childish things had passed, and grant writing, which actually earned her money, should be her focus. And in the end, he’d been right. It would be her job that provided a stable, secure home for her and her baby.
She glanced down at the cell phone screen.
Speak of the devil.
Grimacing, and then immediately feeling guilty about it, she swiped her thumb across the answer bar. “Hey, Daniel.”
“Hello, Sydney.” Her ex-husband greeted her in his cultured, deep baritone.
In spite of the strained terms they’d parted on, a rush of affection and maybe a little nostalgia trickled through her. Yes, they’d divorced, and he hadn’t agreed with her moving hundreds of miles away, but she’d been with him since she’d been twenty years old, married to him at twenty-one.
An image of her ex-husband solidified in her mind’s eye. Tall and lean, skin a beautiful mahogany, his strong, fit body clothed in one of his customary tailored suits with a tie. A handsome, distinguished, successful man who made the perfect dean of students at a prestigious private high school.
Nine years older than her, he’d been her rock, her support system, her friend for over five years. It wasn’t his fault she’d grown and decided she needed—something different. Something more. She’d hurt him with her decision to separate and then divorce. And for that, she would always bear regret.
“It’s good to hear from you. Did you get my text about getting here safely?” She’d taken the coward’s way out and dashed the text off the night she’d arrived, a week ago.
“I did. Thanks for letting me know.” An awkward pause that was becoming their norm. “How’re you feeling? And the baby?”
“Good. Both of us. As a matter of fact, I just left my dad’s clinic after meeting with my new doctor. My first checkup will be in two weeks. I’ll find out if we’re having a girl or boy,” she said, injecting a cheer into her voice to counterbalance the guilt. Selfish. There was that word again. Was she selfish for stealing these sorts of milestones from him? As the father, he had the right to share them. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she squeezed her eyes closed and fought against the urge to apologize. Again. “If you’d like, I can record the appointment for you. So, you can still...be there.”
“Sure, sure. I’d like that,” Daniel said. But his pause vibrated through the open line with tension, with frustration and anger. All directed at her. Not that she could blame him. Because she didn’t. “God, Sydney,” he exploded, but just as quickly, cut himself off. She could easily picture him straightening, composing himself, submerging his emotion behind that polite mask. To Daniel, emotion was messy, a sign of being out of control. And Dean Pierson was never out of control. “I respect your father, but a clinic? You should be going to a hospital with all the best and most advanced technologies. Your OB-GYN here was one of the best in the state. But instead you’re at a clinic being cared for by a doctor you don’t know. A doctor who—”
“Who graduated from Harvard Medical School, completed her residency at Johns Hopkins and was one of the top physicians at MUSC Health-University Medical Center before deciding to move here,” she said, quietly reciting Dr. Prioleau’s credentials. “My father wouldn’t have taken on a partner in his practice unless she was the very best. I did my homework, Daniel. Our baby’s health is just as important to me as it is to you.”