Not only is Waldren the male equivalent of his wife in the ridiculously good looks department, but also those hands…only Michelangelo could have sculpted them. Well, he is a wide receiver.

“Anyway,” Sarkar says. “Here comes the favor request. Greta Moss has suddenly decided that she wants to deliver with a midwife, not an ob-gyn. She told me that she wants her baby to be born the way she herself was born: on a kitchen table in Copenhagen.”

“We’re all out of kitchen tables,” I say. “And look out the window. It sure isn’t Copenhagen out there.”

“Come on, Lucy. Please. Greta really wants this,” he says. “And I think the publicity for the hospital, for you, for the midwives, would be great.”

“Well, yeah, maybe, but it would not be good for my schedule or Troy’s schedule or Tracy Anne’s schedule. We are booked solid. When is Greta Moss due?”

“Any moment,” he says.

“As in any moment, even this very moment?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Forget it,” I say. “It can’t be done.” I’m also thinking, Damn it, this guy thinks he can waltz in here, ask for a favor, and I’ll do it. He thinks that just because he’s charming and just because I’m a midwife that—

A knock on the door. Tracy Anne’s head appears.

“Katra Kovac has gone into labor. Birthing room 3,” she says.

Rudi Sarkar squints his eyes in a fake-funny evil pose. “Did you have your colleague poised to come in here to show me just how busy you are?”

“Sure. Tracy Anne was listening at the door. There’s really no Katra Kovac. There’s really no scared, unmarried seventeen-year-old girl who’s going to give birth. No, there are only big shots like Greta Moss and Hank Waldren. Sorry, Rudi.”

“Oh, come on, Lucy. For me?”

But before he can say something like “Aw, c’mon, sweetie pie. Pretty please with sugar on it?” I say, “Gotta run. New member of the human race is on the way.”

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

FENDING OFF RUDI SARKAR’S arrogant request was a small challenge compared to the problem waiting for me in birthing room 3. Tracy Anne and I move quickly toward the room. Even after years of delivering babies, I still always feel the happy anticipation when a mother is about to bring a new life into this world.

Katra Kovac has quite a few obstacles facing her in the next few hours—a young, first-time mother and recent immigrant, I think from Eastern Europe, and there’s no sign of the baby’s father. But Katra is strong, healthy, and enthusiastic, with the full support of her mother and father.

I follow Tracy Anne into the room. It’s empty. What the hell? No nurse, no other midwives, most alarmingly, no Katra Kovac.

“Tracy Anne, is this the wrong room number?”