Chapter 23
Marlowe
Dr. Lowe’s office was on the second floor of one of the older buildings in Charlevoix.
The steps creaked as she walked up to a door that opened into his waiting room.
Marlowe hadn’t expected the office to smell faintly of cedar and lemon polish.
She had imagined something more antiseptic—sterile air, beige carpet, maybe a framed print of a watercolor sailboat.
She’d never been to a therapist before. The waiting room of Dr. Paul Lowe, Psy.D.
, L.P., looked like a study tucked inside an old university building: bookshelves to the ceiling, thick dark rugs, a vase of eucalyptus that had long since dried.
She checked her reflection in the glass of a picture frame.
Her hair was smoothed back and lipstick was intact.
Not that it mattered. This was an evaluation, not a business meeting.
He wasn’t going to ask her to sell his house.
After years of selling upscale properties in Naples, Florida, she refused to meet someone looking anything less than professional.
But maybe today, that look wouldn’t work.
In an attempt to look motherly, Marlowe had ditched her work suit and was dressed in navy corduroy slacks, a white turtleneck and a navy quilted jacket.
She’d considered baking him some snickerdoodle cookies but Sam had told her that was ridiculous.
“Overkill, Marlowe. Overkill.” Sam had been right.
She’d just sat down on a sensible brown plaid sofa when the office door opened. A man with tousled hair and glasses looked out. “Mrs. Quinn?”
“Right. That’s me, only it’s Miss. Call me Marlowe.” Marlowe gathered her tote bag and stood. Her flats made a soft sound on the rug as she followed him inside.
Dr. Lowe was not what she’d expected. Taller, for one thing.
She was used to towering over some men. His gray cardigan was zipped halfway up and made him look more like a professor than a psychologist who evaluated potential surrogate mothers.
The glasses helped, as did that slightly studious tilt of the head that said he thought before he spoke.
“Marlowe,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Paul Lowe. Thank you for coming.”
His handshake was firm, not overdone, and his brown eyes held that professional steadiness people in his line of work probably practiced in mirrors.
Yet behind it, there was a kind of curiosity she couldn’t quite name.
Maybe he was assessing her every move. That thought sent a chill skittering down her spine.
Urgency stiffened her. She had to pull this off.
Since Sam’s sad discovery, Marlowe was the only pony left in this race.
“Thank you for seeing me,” she said, as he circled around a battered desk to a black office chair. “We’re eager to move this process along.”
He motioned to the chair opposite his desk. “I like to keep these sessions conversational. No clipboards, no couch unless you prefer one.”
“I think I’ll skip the couch,” she said lightly. “That feels a little too Freudian.”
He smiled, and for a moment, she felt the tension ease.
“So,” he began, taking his seat and flipping open a leather-bound notebook. “You’re here as part of the psychological evaluation for surrogacy for your sister Izzy.”
“Yes.” She folded her hands in her lap. “This is for my sister and her husband Skipper. I suppose you’ve read the file.” She could see a crisply typed document. If only she could read upside down.
“Yes, I’ve seen the basics,” he said, fingering the edges of the notebook. “But I like to hear it in the candidate’s own words. Tell me why you want to do this.”
The question hung there a second longer than she’d expected. Marlowe was good at speaking. After all, she made her living persuading people to fall in love with homes, to imagine themselves by fireplaces and under vaulted ceilings. But this was different. This was personal.
“My sister Izzy can’t have children,” she said slowly. “She had to have a hysterectomy when she was in her thirties. Fibroids. It was supposed to be minor, but… well, it wasn’t.” She inhaled. “She’s always wanted a big family, and two years ago she adopted Holly.”
“And she was single at the time?”
“Yes, amazing, right?” She smiled and he nodded.
“Very, but brave.”
“By then she’d opened a bakery and ended up hiring her first husband as pastry chef.” Marlowe paused. Did this sound crazy? “With time she married Skipper. Second time around thing.”
A spark glowed in those brown eyes as if he wanted to hear more.
She hated to tell this family tale, which probably sounded stupid.
“You see, they married the first time when they were very young. Didn’t work but now they’ve found each other again and this time their marriage is great. Solid.” She had to throw that in.
“Any other children in the picture?” Dr. Lowe picked up a pen, ready to take notes.
“No, only Holly and they adore her. But Izzy had some eggs saved before her surgery and she’d like another child. You know, a child that’s hers and Skipper’s, even if she can’t carry it.”
Dr. Lowe nodded, scribbling something. “And you volunteered?”
“I did. So did my sister Samantha. We were sort of in a friendly competition, I guess.” She smiled faintly. “She’s older than I am. But recently Sam discovered a health issue. She’s no longer a candidate.”
He looked up. “How do you feel about being a surrogate, emotionally? Carrying a child that isn’t yours?”
Good. They’d moved on from Sam’s health issue, and she’d practiced the next bit the night before after doing research online.
“I’ve thought about that a lot,” Marlowe said.
“I know some people think it’s strange or emotionally risky.
But for me, it’s love, not biology, that binds people together.
Holly feels like an important part of our family.
I adore her. If carrying a baby can give Izzy that joy again, I’d be proud to do it.
” There. Had that been convincing? She studied Dr. Lowe’s expression.
He nodded again, slower this time, as if weighing her words, “You don’t have children of your own, correct?”
Marlowe shook her head. “Nope. Never. I’ve never been married. And frankly, I never would have been as brave as Izzy was in adopting a baby alone.” Had she revealed too much? Cripes, this was a mine field.
“Brave.” He seemed to turn that word over in his mind. “Yes, I guess it would be. And now? What is your situation?”
The question was simple, but the searching tone made it feel larger. She hesitated. This felt like a key moment.
“Now I’m, well, I’ve been seeing someone for a few months,” she said finally. “It’s getting serious.” That admission brought anxiety swirling into her chest. Should she have said that?
Something flickered in his eyes that looked like real curiosity, “Would you say your relationship might change your perspective on having children of your own?”
“Maybe,” she admitted. “I hadn’t thought about it. I didn’t realize that until recently.” Gosh it was warm in here. Why had she left her jacket on? Trying to look casual, she shrugged out of it.
Dr. Lowe gave a slight nod. “Sometimes saying things aloud brings clarity.”
She laughed softly. “I guess that’s why people pay you.”
“That’s one reason,” he said with a faint blush.
Marlowe’s gaze drifted around the office as he jotted something down.
His walls were a collection of framed diplomas and certificates.
University of Michigan and Northwestern.
But she couldn’t read the smaller print.
Between them hung a few photographs: a soccer team, the kind taken at a college field with late-afternoon shadows, and one candid shot of him mid-game, hair windblown, laughing.
Not a single photo of a wife, partner, or children.
“You played soccer,” she said.
He glanced up. “I did. In college.”
“Striker?”
“Midfield.”
“Of course,” she said. “Looks like you’d be the type who controls the play.”
He chuckled, clearly not used to being analyzed himself. “I suppose that’s one way to put it.”
“Do you still play?”
“Not much. I coach a youth soccer team at one of the schools in town.”
“Oh, do your children go to school there?”
He hesitated and Marlowe wanted to kick herself. She’d gone too far.
“No wife. No children,” he finally said, tilting back in his chair. “I know it sounds funny, but I enjoy the coaching. I answered an ad in the paper.”
She turned that over in her mind. “Coaching. That’s kind of what you do here.”
“In a way, yes. It feels good to get back into soccer and I enjoy the kids.”
He’d stopped taking notes and she could tell his mind had shifted. But he didn’t look annoyed. “You from around here originally?” she asked.
“Grand Rapids,” he said after a pause, as though surprised by the personal question. “Did my undergrad in Ann Arbor. Then Chicago for my doctorate.”
“I was wondering if you were from Charlevoix. You have that calm, northern Michigan thing about you.”
“Not sure what that means but thank you. I think,” he said and cleared his throat. “But we should probably—”
“Get back on topic?” she finished, smiling.
He returned the smile, though a trace of color stayed in his cheeks. “Something like that.”
“All right, then,” she said. “Ask away.”
He adjusted his glasses and checked with his notes again. “Let’s talk about your work. You’re a realtor?”
“Yes. I sell homes in Charlevoix and Petoskey. Vacation properties mostly.”
“That can be demanding—unpredictable hours, stress. Would pregnancy interfere? I hear that women can become tired and you are…”
Was he dancing around the age thing?”