Once upon a time a captain of industry met a queen of fashion. This was in the early post-industrial age, in north central California, in the county of Marin. The captain, a bit of a pirate named Keith, was actually an attorney by education but a businessman by instinct. He made his fortune developing and distributing the beverage idea of a bankrupt client. The idea was iced tea brewed from various flowers and tastefully spiked with vitamins; the client had paid Keith’s invoice with the transfer of recipes, and Keith’s marketing acumen had taken it from there.

Keith was forty-eight and never-married when he met Melissa at a gathering in Tiburon. She was forty-two and recently delivered from her second childless union. Their realtor Paul introduced them; they stood facing each other in Paul’s showcase living room, where they were expected to begin admiring Paul’s lover’s artwork, with an eye toward purchase. Instead they admired each other. Keith was tall, fit, with good teeth, brown eyes, and a full head of dark hair. Melissa looked Greek or Italian: olive-skinned with almost black hair, thick and wavy, dark eyes, a solid but graceful figure. She dressed well – she was a fashion consultant/personal shopper after all – and she silently approved of Keith’s cashmere and denim.

They were married within three months. Friends counseled each of them to wait, he to protect his assets and she to consider her earlier attempts at marriage. “What’s the rush?” each was asked, and “If the relationship is worth pursuing, then it can stand a little test of time,” each was advised. But the fact was, the couple wanted to start a family, and they heard their biological clocks loudly ticking.

The wedding was as magnificent as two hundred thousand dollars. They pitched the party in Sausalito and had almost five hundred guests. Melissa looked exquisite in antique lace and seed pearls. Keith was imposing in cream angora. The guests moved to three different bands and the fountains flowed with good champagne. Even though the party went long and well, the couple had the energy to consummate their union on their wedding night. That was the advantage to such a short acquaintance before marriage; they’d by no means burned out yet. “Rrrr,” Keith rumbled as he climbed on Melissa that night. “I can’t seem to get enough of you.” And “Mmmm” she murmured as she curled around him the next morning: “time to get up.”

Melissa was disappointed when her period started two weeks after the wedding, but she didn’t get concerned until two cycles later. At first, she figured they were making love so often that Keith wasn’t getting the time to build up a good sperm count. But after a month of marital bliss, the couple’s activity decreased. They weren’t intimate every night. That ought to be enough of a break for Keith, Melissa reasoned. So she consulted her gynecologist.

For the next half year, Melissa took her temperature each morning before she got out of bed, charted her ovulatory pattern, and made sure they did it when she was likely to be fertile. To say the act lacked spontaneity is a bald understatement, especially when Melissa spent her post-coital minutes with her feet up against the wall, maintaining her pelvis in the position most encouraging to the little swimmers. Keith and Melissa tried to have a good attitude about their efforts, but each missed the good old few months of their courtship.

Melissa became more depressed with each period. She saw her doctor again, who prescribed an ovulation enhancer and ordered tests for each of them, but she also consulted an astrologer, a Tarot interpreter, her two closest friends, and a bisexual midwife acquaintance named Anne. Keith directed his attention to business; he was in the process of taking TechTonics from a West Coast concern to a national venture.

The medical test results were discouraging. It turned out that Melissa’s uterus was positioned at a difficult angle for conception. In addition, she was peri-menopausal and not ovulating regularly.  Keith had a subnormal sperm count coupled with low motility. It was unlikely they’d conceive without intervention.

“Women over forty shouldn’t try to have babies,” Dr. Winterscheidt commented to his wife that night, after he’d given the news to Melissa and Keith. “I know that’s a weird thing for a reproductive clinic director to say, but older women are just asking for trouble.” Natasha disagreed. “You’re looking at it with blinders on, Bill. You only treat women who have problems – the others aren’t referred to you – and you shouldn’t generalize from your medical practice to all of womankind.”

Melissa’s counselors advised her to do whatever was necessary to have a baby. The stars and the cards were auspicious. Her friends were familiar with the in vitro fertilization (IVF) process. Anne told her to move quickly, while she still had some viable eggs left, or she’d find herself carrying a fetus made of Keith’s sperm and some other woman’s ovum. Keith approached the question analytically. Their relative infertility seemed entirely age-based, but they were fit for their ages and stood to outlive the statistics. It was expensive science, but they had the money. He saw no reason why they shouldn’t take advantage of the available technology. They agreed to go for it.