But by far the most difficult part of the packet to complete had been the personal profiles. The questions had been probing, requiring each of them to delve into their most intimate thoughts and feelings-about their marriage, about adoption and parenting.
They had been asked to search their hearts and souls, then spill their guts on paper. All the while knowing that a potential birth mother would read what they had written-knowing the words they chose would influence whether that birth mother would select them to parent her child.
The process had been made all the more nerve-racking for Kate because they had been told that the profiles were the most important component of all they would do. For the great majority of the birth moms, Ellen had explained, giving up their baby for adoption was an emotional decision, not an intellectual one.
So, Kate had sweated over her profile. She had poured out her heart and soul and longings-praying the whole time that something she said would strike a chord in one of the birth mothers. Praying that somehow, she could make the other woman see how much she longed to be a mother. And how much she would love her baby.
"The only thing left is our photo album. I finished it last night and planned to run it across to Citywide in the next couple of days. No chance you're heading to the south shore today or tomorrow?"
"No chance. Although I may go over on Friday."
"I'll keep that in mind, though I didn't want to wait that long."
"Type A," he teased.
"You think?" She laughed. "I just want it done."
"Ready to sit back, relax and wait for a baby to fall into our laps, huh?"
"Relax?" She cocked an eyebrow. "Maybe you can, but not me. I'm more excited and anxious than I was when we had all that paperwork stretching before us. Now it's real. Now it could actually happen, anytime."
"Take a deep breath, sweetheart. Remember what Ellen said? It could take a year. Even longer. That year's going to pass pretty damn slow with your panties in a wad the entire time."
He was right. She knew that. But knowing it didn't change the way she felt. Kate sighed. "I know, Richard. I remember what she said. It's just that I've…that we've-"
"Waited so long already." He reached across the table and covered her hand with his. "I know, sweetheart."
She curled her fingers around his, grateful for his understanding. "Love you."
He smiled. "Love you, too."
From outside came the squeal of the school bus's brakes, coming to a halt at the stop at their corner. It came every day at 8:10 sharp. Richard looked at his watch and swore. "I've got to go. I'm late."
"Me, too." They both stood, carried their dishes to the sink, grabbed their things and hurried for the door. There, Richard kissed her. "You haven't forgotten our dinner with Sam Petrie and his wife have you?"
"Of course not. Dakota's, 7:00 p.m."
"You got it. Why don't you wear your red silk? I love that on you."
She laughed. "That's a pretty sexy choice for a weeknight, counselor."
"And Sam Petrie could be a major supporter in my run for D.A." At her shocked expression, he grinned. "Just kidding. You're beautiful in anything. Wear whatever you like." He kissed her again, then stepped out onto the lower gallery. "I'll call you later."
She watched him go, then grabbed her coat and purse and headed out after him.
10
One of the many pluses of owning her own business, Kate had decided within her first month in operation, was the location she had chosen. Just three blocks down Lake-shore Drive from their home, most days she was able to walk to work.
Once upon a time the structure had been a guest house for the large home on the adjoining property. Both had been built well before air-conditioning or the Causeway, when wealthy New Orleanians had escaped the stifling heat of summer by trekking to the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain and the fabulous homes they had built along the lake.
She had found and fallen in love with the dilapidated cottage, and bought it-despite Richard's argument that it would cost too much to build out, that a location more on the beaten path, in one of the shopping areas or strip malls, would attract more patrons.
Kate had stuck to her guns and as she had known they would, customers had found her. None of the other coffee cafés had what she had: a panoramic view of Lake Pontchartrain, century-old live oak trees in whose high, thick branches egrets roosted at dusk, a feeling of history, and an undeniable charm that was the Old South.
Her regulars weren't the strip mall types. They weren't the two-point-two kids, minivan-and-dog types that heavily populated Mandeville. No, The Uncommon Bean seemed to draw the North Shore's uncommon residents. Artists and writers, college students and misfits, retired professionals, freethinkers, debaters and loners.
Even her employees were unique. Sometimes too much so, Kate thought as she stepped through The Bean's front door only to discover her two managers, Marilyn and Blake, deep into one of their famous discussions. She shook her head. Anyone who didn't know them would swear not only that they were arguing, but that they hated each other as well.
And no wonder; the two couldn't be more different. Marilyn was a blond bombshell with a Minnie Mouse voice and an IQ to rival Einstein's. At twenty-five, she was working on her fourth college degree, this one in ancient religions. Blake, on the other hand, at twenty-eight, was still on his first go-round at college. Gay and proud of it, he was outspoken, funny and a bit too flamboyant to be living comfortably on the rather conservative North Shore. But he did anyway, he said, because he liked the trees.
Their heated discussions had become legendary with the regulars. Some swore they came in not for the coffee, but to witness the fireworks. Even so, the two never got truly angry with one another and made a good working team.
"Honey," Blake drawled to Marilyn as Kate approached, "I'm telling you, when it comes to size, all races have not been created equal."
Marilyn made a sound of disgust. "Not only are you gross, but you're playing to cliché and racial stereotype. A civilization that depends on stereotypes-"
"Excuse me," Blake interrupted, placing his fists on his hips and cocking his head at her. "But just how do you think clichés get started?"
"Usually as a form of hatred and oppression." Marilyn swiped at a spot of water on the counter, her cheeks pink. "My God, as a gay man, I'd think you'd be more sensitive to this sort of thing."
"Exactly. I mean, just for argument's sake, how many big, black-"
"Enough, guys!" Kate said, stepping in. "This is inappropriate. We have customers."
"S'okay with me," called Peter, a regular sitting in the booth closest the register. "I was kind of getting into it."
"Me, too." Joanie, a romance writer and another regular, said as she sauntered to the counter for a refill. "Grist for the mill and all that."
"No," Blake murmured. "Kate's right. But before we move on to a less…controversial subject, I feel obligated to say one more thing. Anyone who says size isn't important, either has a teeny little wienie or is having a relationship with one."
Marilyn gasped, Joanie nearly choked on her refill, and Kate fought back a laugh. Before Kate could reprimand her employee, Peter chimed in, "I've never said that, Blake. Believe me. Quite the contrary, I always say size is the most important thing."
That brought a fresh round of giggles and groans from the group. Just as it looked as if the conversation were going to slip back into the realm of the totally inappropriate, a mother and her two young children entered The Bean. Marilyn and Blake became instantly professional.