He looked at me. “You must be Grace. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

He grinned, revealing almost-perfect-but-not-so-perfect-that-they-looked-fake white teeth. I raised my eyebrows at Neva. Finally? How long had he been around?

“I’m Patrick,” he said. I waited for the rest. Patrick Whoseummywhatsit, doctor of this and that, and God of all things medical. That was how all doctors introduced themselves in my experience, particularly when they were addressing midwives, who—according to them—were a bunch of uneducated cowboys. But not Patrick. He didn’t even give me his last name. And before I could ask him for it, he was already wandering over toward my clients.

“Hi, there, Gillian, David,” he said, pulling up a chair and sitting. “I’m Patrick. I’m a pediatrician. Neva’s filled me in on what’s going on. I’m sure you are worried, but try to leave all the worrying to me and concentrate on delivering this baby. Cleft lips and palates can be corrected with surgery. And you’ve had proper prenatal care, so I say we remain optimistic. In fact, let’s get excited. We’re about to meet one of the most important people in your life.”

I glanced at Neva and she shrugged. Yes he’s special, her expression said. Indeed, he was rather special. In a couple of sentences, he had managed to turn the somber mood in the room around. It was very un-doctorlike. I liked him immediately.

“Okay, I’m going to sit back now and let the pros do their thing,” he said. “Neva is one of the best midwives in town, and if Grace is her mother, then you’re in fantastic hands.”

Patrick rose even further in my opinion. A doctor who wasn’t taking over? Who called us—the midwives—pros? Where did Neva find him? And more important, how could I make sure she kept him?

“Right, let’s get you moving,” Neva said. “I’d like to see this baby come before sunup!” She brushed past Patrick, giving him a nudge with her elbow. He smiled at her, and I saw something in his eyes. He liked her. Hope fizzed inside me, but I tried to push it down. Dared I even hope that this gorgeous man was the father of my grandchild?

Neva moved Gillian onto a birthing stool, where she spent the next three hours. Labor progressed steadily, and as the sun peeked through the blinds, she began to bear down.

“Try not to push,” I told her as she began to crown. I squatted by her feet. “Just pant. Slowly, slowly. Good girl. I want the head to come out slowly.”

“Here it comes,” Neva said, moving in close with a towel.

As the baby’s face came out, Neva cooed. Patrick had moved in closer and was studying the baby’s face. The baby had a cleft lip and palate, no doubt about it. But Patrick smiled encouragingly at the parents. I had an overwhelming urge to hug him. What a wonderful doctor. What a wonderful man.

“The head’s out,” Neva said.

I hooked my fingers under the baby’s shoulder to bring it under and around the pubic bone. Then we waited for the next contraction. The atmosphere was exuberant, exactly as it should be for a first-time home birth.

“Here we go,” I said as Gillian began to moan again. Neva moved Gillian’s husband down next to me so he could watch his child being born. “I want one more big push.”

“Come on, Gill,” Neva urged.

With the next push, I caught their baby girl. She was big, maybe nine pounds or more. She cried immediately.

“A girl!” we all cried.

With the baby in my arms, I hesitated. It had been so long since I delivered a child with a doctor present, I’d forgotten the protocol. I always gave the baby straight to its mother, to allow it to be comforted by her smell, her touch, but from memory, doctors liked to examine the baby first.

“Give her to her mother,” Patrick said. “She wants to meet her parents before she sees my ugly mug. And there’s obviously nothing wrong with her lungs.”

I didn’t know whether to be glad or disappointed that Patrick was disproving so many of my preconceptions about doctors.

We moved Gillian to the bed, and I placed the baby, still covered in vernix and blood, on her mother’s stomach. Neva stood at Gillian’s side, rubbing the baby with a warm towel. I watched the scene, holding my breath. Gillian lifted the towel from the baby’s face to look at her daughter. I thought about saying something, but decided against it. They needed time.

“Oh!” Gillian said eventually, in a half sob. She tried to swallow, blinked back tears. “Her face.”

I nodded to Neva to come and take my place at the end of the bed. The placenta was still to come, but I had to be with Gillian. I joined her at the head of the bed and gazed down at the newborn squirming on her mother’s breast.

“Oh, Gillian.” My hand flew to my mouth. The baby’s top lip rose to meet the base of the left nostril, leaving a gaping black hole in the center of her face. The rest of her face was fine—perfect, in fact. I peeled the towel back farther, revealing ten perfect fingers and toes, and a big round belly. She squinted up at us crossly. My heart exploded. “She’s … beautiful.”

I couldn’t keep the beam off my face. Neva was smiling too, but she wasn’t looking at the baby. She was looking at me.

“She is beautiful,” Gillian said, as if seeing her for the first time. “Look, David. Look at her little hands and feet.”

I smiled as the new parents marveled at their new daughter. Had it really been twenty-nine years since I’d done this myself? Just like then, these parents had fallen hopelessly in love with their child in an instant. Everything was as it should be.

“Okay if I take a look at her?” I stood back as Patrick approached.

Gillian closed her arms around her daughter. “Do you have to take her?” A look of fierce protectiveness covered her face.

“Maybe just another few minutes, Patrick?” I asked.

Patrick smiled. “I’m not taking her anywhere. I can examine her right where she is, if that’s okay. It’s the best place for her, right next to Mom.”

Gillian loosened her grip slightly. She nodded. “Yes. That’s okay.”

“Good. Now, let me see.” Patrick opened the towel. “Hello, beautiful.”

Neva was watching Patrick. Her expression was soft and unguarded.

“Does she have a name?” he asked.

“No. Not yet.”

“Okay, well, I’m just going to have to call you ‘little one.’”

Without removing the baby from her mother, he did a once-over, listened to her lungs, checked her reflexes. “Good. Very good.”

Patrick smiled throughout the examination and when he was finished, he rewrapped her towel. “I’m sure you’re anxious about the lip, so let’s talk about that first. The good news is that we can do a lot with surgery. The operation is very common, and very successful. The palate is a little more complicated, but the prognosis is good.…”

Patrick continued, patiently answering the parents’ questions in layman’s terms, not a trace of the arrogant brush I liked to paint doctors with. He was so likable. I sidled up to Neva, who was inspecting the placenta in a kidney dish. “So—?”

Neva didn’t even look up. “No. He’s not the father. And I’m not interested.”

“All right. All right.” I held up my hands. “Keep your hair on—”

“Anyway, he’s not the type to settle down with one woman. Why would you, when you can have them all? For God’s sake, you’re already in love with him! Can you imagine how it is around the hospital?”

I nodded slowly.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing. It’s just…”

“Spit it out, Grace.”

“Well, he did drive an awful long way, in the middle of the night, to help you out, Neva. And you were very comfortable asking him to do that. Maybe there’s more going on than you—”

“Grace?” Patrick approached from behind, and Neva studiously returned her attention to the placenta. “I’m going to arrange for a transfer to the local hospital,” he said. “I want the baby to be looked at sooner rather than later.”