'In that case, perhaps we should brew it with a bit of apple bark and saffron.'
'And-and I haven't had a period in five months.'
Peter tensed visibly and turned to her slowly. 'How long?'
'Five months.'
His eyes narrowed. 'Am I to assume, then, that you are pregnant?'
Annalee managed a thin smile.
'That would be a safe assumption,' she said.
'West? The musician?'
'Yes. His first name's Taylor, Dad, in case you forgot.'
'You're certain?'
'About it being Taylor?'
'No, about the pregnancy.'
Annalee searched her father's face and voice for clues as to what he was thinking and feeling. At first reading, the signs weren't encouraging.
'I'm certain. I had the test. And, Peter, before you ask the next obvious question, I want you to know that I'm very happy and excited about the whole thing.'
'That's nice.'
'Please, don't be flippant.'
Peter pulled on a loose, terry-cloth T-shirt. Annalee could see him processing the implications of her news. His displeasure was clear. But that was no surprise. Little pleased him that he did not initiate or control.
'And Taylor?' he asked.
'He'll still be on the road a lot with the band. But sooner or later we'll be getting married.'
Peter snatched up a ten-pound dumbbell and absently did half a dozen curls, first with one arm, then the other.
'You love him?' he asked suddenly.
The question startled Annalee-especially coming, as it had, before any inquiries about Taylor's income or earning potential.
'Yes… yes, I love him very much.'
'And he's serious about his music?'
'He is. Very serious.'
Annalee could barely believe what she was hearing. This was a side of her father that for years she had thought was reserved for paying customers only.
'I have a friend-a patient, actually-who's a vice president at Blue Note Records. Do you know that company?'
'Only the best jazz production people in the business.'
'I can get Taylor's band a recording audition.'
'Peter, that would be wonderful.'
'After the marriage.'
'That's sort of up to-'
'And if my friend says they're good enough, I will back the production of their album.'
'I see.'
'Provided the two of you and the child choose to make your home here at Xanadu-at least until you are on your feet financially.'
'That's a very generous offer.'
'Annalee, you are my only child. I want you to have a good life.'
'I understand,' she said, still surprised and a bit bewildered by his reaction. 'I can't say for sure that Taylor will go along with your conditions. But I think he will.'
'So do I,' Peter said. 'And of course, I would like the child to be delivered here at Xanadu. We'll get the finest midwives in the world to attend you.'
'Peter, I–I had kind of decided that I wanted to have the baby born in a hospital and delivered by an obstetrician.'
'Oh?'
Annalee strongly sensed that her father already knew what was to come next. 'I've already been to see one. She's agreed to take me on as a patient.'
'She?'
Annalee sighed. 'Sarah. Sarah Baldwin. I went to see her at her hospital.'
The explosion she expected did not happen.
'I know,' Peter said simply.
'What?'
'I saw you in the audience on the evening news. To say you stood out in the crowd would not be doing you justice.'
'Why didn't you say something?'
'I am saying something. Now that I know what your visit there was all about, I'm saying a great deal. I will not have my grandchild brought into this world in some germ-infested, antiseptic-reeking, mistake-prone hospital. And especially not by Sarah Baldwin.'
'But-'
'Annalee, there's a copy of yesterday's Herald and this morning's Globe on the bench over there. Both of them contain stories about Sarah. I assume you haven't read them or heard the news last night. Otherwise, you would surely have mentioned it.'
He waited patiently as she scanned the papers.
'Did she put you on those herbs?' he asked.
'Yes. I–I thought that was something you would approve of.'
'There is nothing Sarah Baldwin could ever do that I would approve of, except maybe to abandon altogether her destructive efforts to combine medicine and healing.'
'But-'
'Annalee, there are some men coming to see me at two o'clock this afternoon. I think you should be present at that meeting.'
'Who are they?'
'Two o'clock. My office. And please, not a word to Sarah Baldwin-at least not until you hear what these men have to say. Agreed?'
Annalee studied the pain and anger in her father's face. She knew Sarah had hurt him by leaving. But until now she really hadn't appreciated how much.
'Agreed,' she said finally.
CHAPTER 16
July 8
Lydia Pendergast bent at the waist and slowly, ever so slowly, stretched her hands downward toward the floor. To one side of the small examining room, Sarah, chiropractor Zachary Rimmer, and one of the pain unit nurses watched expectantly.
'Down and down she goes,' Lydia said, 'and where she stops nobody knows.'
She was a sprightly woman in her early seventies who had become virtually bedridden by low back pain and stiffness. A number of orthopedists and neurosurgeons had pegged degenerative arthritic spurs as the cause of her disability. They cited the uncertainty of the corrective surgical procedure, as well as her age and the advanced condition of the spurs, as reasons why they could not operate. Finally, one of them had referred her to the MCB pain
