Marjorie folded the paper in half and stuck it inside her purse. If nothing else, it would be interesting to meet the guy. Lydia wasn’t generally free with her praise, yet she hadn’t been able to say enough good things about this guy.

“You’ll like him, I promise,” Lydia added.

Marjorie made a barely perceptible movement of her head, as if to say it made no difference to her how she felt about him. She didn’t care what he looked like, as long as he could give her something for this blasted pain.

—

At precisely ten minutes to five, Marjorie pulled into the parking lot of the large medical complex north of Tacoma General Hospital. The ache that had troubled her most of the day had vanished, just as she’d known it would, and she felt better generally. If she’d had a fever earlier, she was convinced it was gone now. Briefly she toyed with the idea of heading back to her apartment and forgetting the whole thing, but that would be irresponsible, and if Marjorie knew anything, it was the meaning of responsibility. Besides, her friend would be furious with her for canceling at the last moment.

Two other women were seated in the waiting room. Both were in the advanced stages of pregnancy. One sat with her hands resting on her protruding belly, looking content, while the other was knitting. The thick needles, encased in a pastel shade of yarn, moved furiously. Their smiles were friendly as Marjorie stepped up to the reception desk to announce her arrival. An older gray-haired woman asked Marjorie to fill out several forms and handed her a clipboard.

Marjorie took it and located a seat in the corner beside a dying houseplant. The yellowish leaves did little to boost her confidence in this unknown physician.

“Is this the first time you’ve seen Dr. Sam?” one of the soon-to-be-mothers asked.

Marjorie nodded. “My friend recommended him.”

“He’s absolutely wonderful.”

“And good-looking to boot,” the knitter added.

“Real good-looking!”

The two pregnant women eyed each other and shared a smile.

“I suppose all women fall in love with their doctors,” the woman with the knitting needles commented, “but I’ve never known a man who’s as caring as Dr. Sam is.”

“I’m not pregnant.” Marjorie didn’t know why she felt it was necessary to tell them that. This physician might do wonders with mothers-to-be, but all Marjorie cared about was his expertise with sharp, persistent pains.

“You don’t have to be pregnant,” the two were quick to assure her.