“Is it true you guys had a suicide there not too long ago?”
“A tragedy,” I said. “Phil Rifkin was one of our finest employees.”
“Entronics must be a stressful place to work,” she said.
“Not at all,” I lied. “You just never can know what’s going on in someone’s personal life.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what’s going on in my personal life,” said Lorna. “Thirst. I need a glass of wine.”
“Let’s order,” I said, reaching for the long leather wine list.
But Lorna was quicker. She grabbed the menu-there was only one, unfortunately-and flipped it open.
“Warm evening like this, I like to get a nice crisp white,” Duffy said.
Lorna was peering at the list through black reading glasses. “And I was thinking of a Pauillac. How about the Lafite Rothschild?”
I almost gulped. That was four hundred dollars a bottle, and this woman looked like she was a serious wine guzzler.
“Great idea,” Letasky said, giving me a quick look that said, I think, that for the millions we’re going to make on this deal, forget about the wine bill.
Lorna waved the waiter over and ordered the Pauillac and an expensive Montrachet for Duffy and a couple of bottles of Pellegrino for the table.
“So, Atlanta airport is one of the busiest in the country,” Letasky said.
“The busiest in the world, in fact,” Duffy said.
“Not O’Hare?”
“Nope. And we’ve got the flight records to prove it. We had thirteen thousand more flights than O’Hare this year, January to June. We serve three million more passengers.”
Lorna’s cell rang, and she picked it up and began talking loudly. A waiter came over and whispered in her ear, and she glared at him, then snapped it closed with visible annoyance.
“They insist all guests turn off their phones,” she announced. “As if anyone can hear a cell phone ring in this place. I’m going positively deaf.”
I reached down and turned mine off, trying to be subtle about it.
After dinner-Lorna ordered a lobster dish with truffles, the most expensive thing on the menu, of course, and Duffy ordered the Statler chicken-I excused myself to go to the john.
Letasky joined me in there a minute or so later.
“At the risk of stating the obvious,” he said, standing at the other urinal, “I think Tom Duffy has been deballed.”
“You know what a ‘tell’ is in poker?”
“Sure. Why?”
“People take classes in how to read facial microexpressions,” I said. “And you know what?”
“What?”
“You don’t need any of that junk to see that every move she makes, Duffy mirrors. She’s the decision maker. Not Duffy.”
“You think they’re sleeping together or something?”
“No way. I can tell.”
“I’ve seen stranger couples. This is not looking good, this dinner.”
“We’re getting jerked around,” I said. “This woman changes the whole equation, damn it. I had Duffy hooked until she showed up.”
“You think she has another candidate?”
“I’ll tell you this much-she didn’t listen to a word I said.”
“She nodded a lot when you were talking.”
“Women do that. They nod to show they’re listening. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“You’re right. You think it’s time for a little brinksmanship?” I’d told him about Chicago.
“No,” I said. “She’s not ours. We get up from the table, and the deal goes to Hitachi or whatever.”
“AirView Systems.”
The restroom door opened, and Duffy entered.
“All yours,” I said, going to the sink.
By the time dinner was over, the conversation had rambled everywhere but flight information display systems. We’d gone through three bottles of the Pauillac, and Lorna had had a great time. I silently cursed her and her immobile face.
We said good night, and I got my car from the valet and popped my phone into the hands-free cradle and turned it on.
There were six voice mail messages.
Kate’s voice was weak. “Jason, I’m-I’m bleeding.”
I went cold all over.
The next four messages were from Kate, too. She was sounding weaker and more desperate. There was a lot of blood, she said. She needed help.
“Where are you?” she said. “Will you call me back? Please?”
The sixth message was a male voice. Kurt’s.
“Jason,” he said. “I’m with Kate at the Children’s Hospital emergency room. Just drove her over here. Call me on my cell. Or just get over here. Now.”
41
I rushed into the emergency room, saw Kurt sitting in the waiting room, his face stony.
“Where is she?” I said.
“Trauma room.” He pointed, off there somewhere. “She’s okay. Lost a lot of blood.”
The big dinner was sitting heavy in my stomach. The wooziness from all the wine was gone, replaced by fear and adrenaline.
“Did we lose the baby?” I couldn’t believe I was saying the words.
He shook his head. “Talk to the nurse. I think it’s okay.”
“Thank God.”
His eyes were fierce. “Why the hell didn’t you tell her where you were?”
“I-” I began. What, I didn’t know the name of the restaurant? “She has my cell phone number.”
“Yeah, and you should have left it on. You’ve got a pregnant wife, for Christ’s sake. You’re out at dinner and you turn off your phone because you don’t want to screw up a sale? That’s messed up, man.” He shook his head.
I felt a rush of contradictory emotions. Gratitude that he’d brought her here. Anger at his indignation-where did he get off being so righteous? Massive guilt. Relief that Kate was okay. Relief that we hadn’t lost the baby. “I had to turn it off.”
“You’re lucky I was there.”
“She called you?”
“I called the house. Good thing too.”
“Mr. Steadman?” An ER nurse approached Kurt. She wore blue scrubs, had silver hair, clear blue eyes. She looked to be in her late fifties and had a reassuring air of authority. “Your wife is fine. She came in anemic, but we’re replacing the lost blood.”
“I’m the husband,” I said.
“Oh,” the nurse said, turning to me. “Sorry. She’s, what, sixteen weeks pregnant?”
“Right.” I noticed she hadn’t used the past tense. She is pregnant. Not was.
“Would you prefer to speak in private, Mr. Steadman?”
“No, it’s all right.” I glanced at Kurt. “He’s a friend.”
“Okay. She has something called placenta previa, where the placenta covers the cervix. Do you need me to explain?” She spoke in a calm, almost hypnotic voice. She had a working-class Boston accent, sounded like my mom.
“I think I get it,” I said.
“Her pregnancy is considered high-risk. She’s going to have to stay in the hospital for a couple of days, in the high-risk maternity ward, then stay in bed for the remainder of the pregnancy. On bed rest. That means lying on her side as much as possible, using bedpans. After a while she’ll be able to sit up and take the occasional car ride. But she can’t exert herself. There’s a risk of preterm delivery. At this stage of the pregnancy, the fetus wouldn’t make it.”
“What’s the risk to my wife?”
“Only ten percent of women diagnosed with placenta previa still have it when they deliver. There’s a pretty good chance the placenta will start to move away from the cervix on its own. She should be fine.” The nurse crossed her fingers.
The fetus. It was a baby, dammit. “How’s the baby?”
“The fetal heartbeat is normal. That means the fetus wasn’t distressed by all the loss of blood.”
I nodded.
“Did she have any cramping before this? Any bleeding?”