Chapter 7
Emma
Friday… here we go
I'm sitting in a doctor's waiting room wearing sunglasses indoors like some celebrity avoiding paparazzi, except I'm just a lawyer trying to hide a pregnancy appointment from my entire small town.
And I'm wearing a scarf. In Florida. In the summer. In ninety-five-degree heat.
I look insane. I'm aware I look insane. But the alternative is someone from Pelican Point seeing me at an OB-GYN in Hibiscus Harbor and texting half the town before I even make it to the parking lot.
The waiting room is mercifully empty except for one woman reading a magazine and a receptionist who keeps glancing at me like she's trying to decide if I'm in hiding or mentally unstable.
Probably both at this point.
I parked in the back of the lot. Waited fifteen minutes in my car watching the entrance like I was on a stakeout. Timed my entrance for maximum emptiness. Signed in using my maiden name like that's going to help when they have all my insurance information.
I'm a lawyer. I should be better at covert operations than this.
The magazine woman leaves. It's just me and the receptionist now. This is my moment. I can check in, get called back quickly, and—
The door opens. A pregnant woman waddles in, approximately eight months along, glowing and beautiful and completely comfortable with her situation. She's wearing a shirt that says "BABY ON BOARD" with an arrow pointing to her belly.
I sink lower in my chair and pull my scarf up higher.
"Emma Dawson?" the receptionist calls out. Loudly. Across the entire waiting room.
I don't move. Maybe she's calling someone else. Maybe there are multiple Emma Dawsons in Hibiscus Harbor seeking covert medical care sitting right here in the waiting room.
"Emma Murphy?" Louder this time. "For Dr. Martinez?"
The pregnant woman looks at me, the only other person in the room. The receptionist looks at me. I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole.
I stand, sunglasses still on, scarf still wrapped around my neck like I'm about to rob a bank.
"That's me," I mumble.
"Great!" She smiles brightly. "First prenatal visit?"
"Could you maybe say that louder? I don't think they heard you in Miami."
She blinks. "Sorry?"
"Sorry. Yes. First visit."
"Wonderful! Dr. Martinez will be right with you. You can leave your sunglasses and scarf here if you'd like—it's pretty warm in the exam rooms."
I clutch my scarf tighter. "I'm fine."
She shrugs and hands me a clipboard with approximately nine million forms. I follow the nurse down a hallway, past cheerful posters about fetal development and breastfeeding, and into an exam room that's decorated with more baby-themed artwork than a daycare.
"Go ahead and change into the gown," the nurse says. "Dr. Martinez will be in shortly."
She leaves and I'm alone with a paper gown and my spiraling thoughts.
This is real. I'm at a prenatal appointment. There are pamphlets about "Your First Trimester" and "Preparing for Baby" stacked on the counter. A poster showing fetal development week by week. A box of tissues that I'm probably going to need.
I change into the gown, sit on the exam table, and try to remember how to breathe like a normal person.
Dr. Martinez knocks and enters—a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and an easy smile. She doesn't comment on the fact that I kept my scarf on.
"Emma." She extends her hand. "I'm Dr. Martinez. Congratulations."
"Thank you." My voice sounds so small.
She settles onto a stool, pulling up my chart on her tablet. "So, first prenatal visit. Let's start with the basics. When was your last period?"
I tell her. She calculates, nods, makes notes.
"That puts you at about six weeks. How are you feeling?"
"Nauseous. Exhausted. Emotionally unstable. Obsessed with pickles."
She smiles. "All completely normal. The nausea usually peaks around nine to ten weeks and then starts to improve. The exhaustion is your body working overtime to build a human. And the pickle thing—" she laughs, "—I had a patient who ate nothing but jalapenos for three months."
"That's horrifying."
"Pregnancy is weird. But you're handling it." She makes more notes. "Any spotting? Cramping?"
"No."
"Good. Let's do an exam and then we'll talk about prenatal care, nutrition, what to expect."
The exam is quick and professional. Dr. Martinez explains everything as she goes, answering questions I didn't know I had. When she's done, I'm back in my paper gown feeling simultaneously relieved and terrified.
"Everything looks great," she says, washing her hands. "You're measuring right on track for six weeks. Now, let's talk about support. Have you told your partner?"
I stare at my hands. "Not yet."
Her expression shifts to concerned. "Emma, you need support during pregnancy. This isn't something you should go through alone."
"I know. I just wanted to be sure first. Make sure everything was... real."
"It's real." She sits back down, her voice gentle. "And I understand wanting to process things before sharing. But your partner needs to be involved. Pregnancy affects both of you."
"He'll be supportive. I know he will. I'm just—" I stop, not sure how to explain the tangle of emotions. "I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"Everything. That he won't want this. That I'm not ready. That I can't handle my career and a baby. That I'm going to fail at all of it."
Dr. Martinez hands me a tissue. I hadn't realized I was crying.
"Emma, those fears are completely normal.
Every expectant parent has them. But keeping them to yourself only makes them worse.
" She pulls out information packets from a drawer.
"Here's information on prenatal care, nutrition guidelines, what symptoms to watch for.
I want you taking prenatal vitamins daily.
Staying hydrated. And seriously considering reducing your stress levels. "
"I'm a lawyer. Stress is my job description."
"What kind of law?"
"Solo practice. Corporate litigation. I handle everything myself."
She winces slightly. "That's a lot. Have you considered getting help? Associates, support staff?"
I think about the Preston offer sitting in my briefcase. "Actually, I've been offered a merger. Partnership at an established firm. More resources, support staff, actual benefits."
Dr. Martinez lights up. "That might be perfect timing. The benefits package at established firms is usually excellent, especially for maternity leave. You'd have built-in support, which is crucial during pregnancy and after."
I know she's right. It's good advice. Smart advice. But it feels like admitting failure. Like saying I can't handle my own practice, my own life, my own anything.
"It means admitting I need help," I say quietly.
"Emma." Dr. Martinez leans forward. "You do need help.
Asking for help isn't weakness. It's wisdom.
You're growing a human while running a business.
Nobody can do that alone. And if this merger gives you resources and reduces stress—take it.
Your baby needs a healthy mother more than they need a martyr. "
I flinch. A healthy mother, not a martyr.
"Now." She stands. "I want to see you back in four weeks. Keep taking the vitamins. Rest when you can. And please—tell your partner. You don't have to carry this alone."
She leaves me with a stack of pamphlets and a prescription for prenatal vitamins. I change back into my clothes, somehow keeping the scarf on the entire time, and escape to my car before anyone else can call my name loudly across a waiting room.
I sit in the driver's seat, air conditioning blasting, staring at the pamphlets spread across my passenger seat.
"Your First Trimester" "Nutrition During Pregnancy" "Preparing Your Home for Baby" "What to Expect: The First Year"
This is happening. It's real. I'm pregnant and I have to tell Miles, and I have to decide about Preston, and I have to vote on Celtic Knot, and I have to finish the Shadow Strike case and—
I'm out of pickles.
That's the thought that breaks through everything else. I'm having a complete breakdown in a doctor's parking lot, and my brain has decided the real crisis is a pickle shortage.
I start laughing. Then crying. Then laugh-crying while clutching pregnancy pamphlets in a car that still has empty pickle jars in the backseat.
My phone rings. Brennen.
I stare at it. I should let it go to voicemail. I should compose myself. I should literally do anything except answer this call right now.
I answer it.
"Emma, it's time." Brennen's voice is strained. "I need your vote or we lose the vineyard property. Please, I'm begging you—"
"I can't make decisions right now." The words come out broken. "Brennen, I just—I can't—I have too much—"
I'm full-on crying now. Not delicate tears. Ugly crying. The kind that makes your nose run and your breath hitch.
"Emma?" Brennen's voice shifts from frustrated to alarmed. "Are you crying? What's wrong? Are you okay?"
I look at the pamphlets strewn across my passenger seat. Everything needs to be decided now. The merger. Celtic Knot. My entire future. And I can't keep hiding from Miles. I can't keep carrying this alone.
"I need to call you back."
"Emma, wait—"
I hang up before he can respond. Sit in the parking lot for ten minutes trying to breathe like Dr. Martinez taught me. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Repeat until you stop feeling like you're drowning.
It doesn't really work.
I pull out my phone with shaking hands. Stare at Miles' name in my contacts. My finger hovers over the call button.
No. Not a call. I'll break down completely if I hear his voice.
I text instead.
Me: Can you meet me somewhere? I need to talk to you. About everything.
The response is immediate.
Miles: Tell me where. I'm already in the car.
Of course he is. Because Miles somehow always knows when I need him.