The Sweetest September. Liz Talley

About twenty percent of women experience spotting in the first trimester of pregnancy. Usually caused by implantation of the fetus, but since you’re past that point of your pregnancy, I don’t think that’s the issue.”

      “Oh.” Dread knitted inside her. What was wrong with her? Had she done something wrong? She’d had some wine and, oh, hell, a couple of vodka martinis before she knew she was pregnant.

      “When was the last time you saw your doctor?” Dr. French asked, noting something in the thin folder before setting it on the counter by the sink. The technician left, shutting the door softly, and the pretty nurse who’d taken her blood pressure slid inside the examination room and with a warm smile, started doing whatever it was nurses did behind the exam table.

      “Two weeks ago. Uh, when I had the pregnancy confirmed.”

      “And did he or she do a vaginal exam?”

      “Yes.” Shelby sat up and wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing her arms. She didn’t want a vaginal exam. She couldn’t handle something that made her any more vulnerable than what she currently felt. Tears sat on the horizon waiting for an excuse to make a debut.

      “Hmm.”

      “What’s that mean?” Shelby tried to not sound panicked. Her life had been flipped topsy-turvy, and the ground beneath her feet felt as thin as the paper gown she shivered in. Dear Lord. How did single mothers do this and not lose their minds? She felt out of control...and there was no one to hand the reins over to.

      On her own.

      Dr. French lifted his head from the chart and gave her a sincere, comforting smile. “Relax, lots of changes are going on in your body—like the alteration of pH levels, which can allow yeast to flourish. Any disruption of the cervical cells, like having intercourse, can cause those inflamed cells to bleed.”

      “I haven’t had sex. Um, since that night.” Shelby looked at the closed door. John sat right outside in the small waiting area. Did Dr. French suspect John as the father?

      Silly, Shelby. Sure, the good doctor had question marks in his eyes when John hurried her in the back door like it was some secret abortion clinic and he was the preacher’s son, but that didn’t mean he suspected his friend of being the father.

      “We’ll take a look and see if that’s what’s going on. A woman’s body during pregnancy is a mysterious thing.”

      Shelby stared blankly at him.

      “If you’ll just lie back and scoot your bottom right down here,” he said, flicking on the gigantic lightbulb at the foot of the table.

      “Oh, God,” Shelby breathed.

      The nurse placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay, Shelby. Try and relax.”

      At this Shelby laughed...almost hysterically.

      Yeah, sure.

      Five minutes later, Shelby stood inside the small curtained dressing room, hands trembling and stomach pitching. As she pulled on her wrap dress, she beat back the self-pity threatening to wash over her.

      Never had she felt so alone.

      And there had been plenty of times in her life she’d stood by herself—the time she’d gotten lost as a child while on vacation, the time she found out her first love had only used her for sex, when she moved to Europe not knowing a soul and most recently in a bathroom at Boots Grocery. But enduring a pelvic in an unfamiliar office with the stranger who knocked you up standing outside scraped the bottom of the you’re-so-alone barrel.

      Shelby curved her hand over her still-flat stomach, imagining she could feel the heartbeat beneath her hand.

      Still with me.

      Tugging on her boots, she whisked back the curtain and cracked the door so the doctor would know she was dressed. Sinking on the funky pink chair beside the wall of cabinets, Shelby pulled her purse into her lap and pretended she couldn’t hear the conversation between Dr. French and John.

      “How do you know this woman again?”

      Long pause. “I told you. She’s an old friend.”

      Shelby almost snorted. Yeah. Two and a half months of old friendship.

      “Her patient information sheet says she’s from Seattle.”

      “Yeah.” Aggravation in John’s voice.

      “I’m not trying to pry.”

      Another long pause.

      “Okay, maybe I am. You call and say it’s an emergency of the female variety, bring in a pregnant woman I’ve never seen before and then expect me not to ask any questions? I’m an old friend, too.”

      More long silence.

      A sigh.

      “Fine.”

      John’s voice again. “Is she okay?”

      “Sorry. Patient confidentiality,” Dr. French quipped. A door shut and then Dr. French stepped into her exam room, annoyance in his eyes fading as he smiled. As the door clicked shut, he picked up her chart and grabbed a pen from his scrub pocket. Clicking it, he grabbed a prescription pad. “The good news is that at present, you’re not losing the pregnancy. I checked your blood work and you have a slight infection. Here’s a script for a cream that can help.”

      Shelby opened her mouth to ask—

      “No, it won’t hurt the fetus.”

      “Baby,” Shelby said. What grew inside her had ceased being a fetus. It was her baby...and she supposed John’s, too.

      “The small amount of cramping you’ve had is likely the uterus stretching a bit, making a nice home for your baby, and perhaps contributing to the bleeding. Still, I’d like to put you on limited activity for the next week as a precaution. Feet up. Lots of rest. It’s evident you’re tired and stressed.”

      Shelby gave an embarrassed laugh, brushing her hair back, suddenly self-conscious about the no doubt tangled mess of curls...not to mention the mascara shadow under her eyes, which made her look like a heroin addict. She wasn’t interested in any man, but Dr. French was awfully attractive. How the tiny town of Magnolia Bend had netted both John the smoking-hot farmer and Jamison the sexy ob-gyn was beyond her. “I suppose it’s been a bit stressful these past few weeks.”

      “Your body’s going through a lot of change, so maybe a little doctor-ordered rest will be good for you...and hopefully once the inflammation is gone the bleeding will stop.” Sticking his hand out, he shook hers. “I’d like to see you in a week. I’ll be glad to forward my notes and your chart to your regular doctor in Seattle when you return home.”

      “So I need to stay in town?”

      Dropping his hand, he took a second to think about her question. “If at all possible, yes. Miscarriage can be a complicated process. I don’t think the fetus, uh, baby, is in danger, but until we see if this cream works, it would be better for you not to travel. So put your feet up and focus on taking it easy for a week. If the bleeding becomes heavier or doesn’t lessen in three or four days, call me.”

      Then he was gone, leaving her once again alone in the exam room. Shelby tucked the prescription in her purse, and found a tube of soft nude lipstick. If she were a bit more presentable, she’d feel stronger...like she could handle walking back out into the reality of her life.

      She lingered a few moments, combing her hair, wiping away the traces of tears, and then left the room, running straight into John, who was lurking at the door.

      His hands curved around her upper arms, steadying her, and Shelby tried not to think about how good it felt to have someone so solid beside her. “Whoa. You okay?” he asked.

      Not even close.

      She lifted her gaze and saw worry swimming in his eyes. “I guess. I don’t seem to