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Bailey was likely to spread. What if his every personal habit and dietary quirk became fodder for staff jokes?
    Since he and Bailey were stuck with each other, they needed to have a serious discussion about respect. She might not be a patient at Safe Harbor, but she was anemployee. And the reputation of the hospital and its new fertility program—not to mention Owen’s personal privacy—trumped everything else.
    He had a busy day ahead, but tonight he’d hash this out with her. This time, he didn’t intend to let her one-up him, either.

Chapter Four
    Bailey had given up long ago on understanding men. While there seemed to be some decent ones around, like her friends’ husbands, in her experience you couldn’t count on them. They disappeared when you needed them, like her father. Or they flaked out emotionally, like the young man she’d foolishly married at nineteen and divorced at twenty-one after she realized he was more interested in playing video games than in having a relationship.
    The most puzzling man of all was Dr. Owen Tartikoff. She’d been hearing for months how abrasive he was, and she’d seen his arrogance for herself, yet this morning he’d grinned as if elated to see her scuffing into the kitchen in her oversize sleep shirt covered with anime figures. He hadn’t groused about the trucks roaring into the supermarket lot last night. Amazingly, he hadn’t even mentioned the fact that she’d dumped his shaver and cologne into a bathroom drawer, which she’d done specifically to annoy him.
    Maybe he was on drugs. She didn’t think so, though. A surgeon with a failing like that wouldn’t last long.
    Fortunately, he left early, giving her a chance to spend Saturday morning lounging around the house undisturbed, catching up on her internet contacts and taking a long nap.After lunch, Bailey arrived at the Edward Serra Memorial Clinic for a shift as a volunteer peer counselor.
    Housed in an annex next to the city’s community center, the perpetually underfunded program had been established by pediatrician and activist Samantha Forrest as an alternative to traditional clinics. Here, pregnant teens, abused moms or anyone who needed a sympathetic ear and some guidance could wander in without worrying about appointments or paperwork.
    The other volunteers included Nora, who was meeting with a young married couple this afternoon to discuss family planning, and Nora’s husband, Leo, a police detective who sometimes counseled teen boys in need of a father figure, although he wasn’t on-site today. As for Bailey, she didn’t consider herself an expert on anything beyond nursing, but she was glad to serve as a caring friend.
    While Nora used the counseling room, Bailey went outside to a picnic table with a woman who’d wandered over from an exercise class at the community center. Sitting across from her in the leafy shade, Renée Green had a strong rectangular face, light brown hair laced with gray, and tired eyes.
    â€œI’m only sixty-two but I just don’t have any purpose for living.” Despite the July warmth, the woman folded her arms as if warding off a chill. Her loose-fitting tan blouse and polyester pants weren’t exactly summery. “I’ve got an okay job as a receptionist and I manage the payments on my small house. But since my husband died two years ago, I don’t feel like anybody needs me.”
    â€œThat’s a tough one.” Bailey tried not to squirm on the hard bench.
    â€œAren’t you going to tell me that life has meaning and I should get involved in something?” Renée unfolded her arms and rested them on the table.
    â€œYou might try dyeing your hair. That could perk you up.” Most women in Southern California colored away the gray.
    The older woman barked out a laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”
    â€œIt’s a start,” Bailey pointed out. “Work on