Lullaby and Goodnight Page 5

  Then again, this is the middle of March. And this is New York. She should have brought her purse along.

  Or, better yet, she should have gone right to bed. She shouldn’t indulge every midnight craving that hits.

  Still, when you want something as badly as she wants that melon . . .

  She stares at the package, swallowing hard, her mouth watering. The thought of hurrying two blocks back home for her purse, and then back and forth again, is daunting. But she wants the melon, damn it. That melon. Now.

  “Short?” asks a voice behind her.

  She turns to see a man standing there. Lanky, handsome, exuding an easygoing charm. Exactly her type. Just like Jeff, and Scott, and Gil were exactly her type. And, yes, Dr. Lombardo.

  “Short?” the man repeats, and she blinks.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Are you short?” he asks patiently, motioning at the money in her hand.

  “What? Oh!” She grins and finds herself saying, “I’ve actually always thought I was on the tall side.”

  He laughs at the unexpected quip, and so does she, wondering why the heck she’s bothering to flirt in her condition.

  Then she turns sheepishly back to the grocer. “I’ll have to come back.”

  “You come back,” he agrees with a curt nod.

  He shoves the box of melon aside and motions for the next customer to step forward.

  The man behind Peyton sets a six-pack of beer and a container of mixed nuts on the counter. Out of the corner of her eye, as she turns to leave, she sees him pick up the melon and add it to his purchases.

  Scowling, she makes her way to the door. Yes, there are other containers of melon in the store. Other containers of melon in the world. But she wanted that one.

  Oh, God, she’s actually whining. Only to herself, but still . . .

  Chalking up her immature, irrational behavior to pregnancy hormones, she zips her jacket up to her neck and steps out into the windswept rain. Five minutes home, a minute to get her purse, five minutes back, and she’ll have her melon.

  No, the thieving stranger has her melon. But in ten minutes, she’ll have some melon. Then another five minutes back home again before she can actually eat it. Unless she steals a bite or two along the way . . .

  A few steps into the journey down the dark, deserted block, she’s tempted to forget about the melon. She has to be up early, and she’s too tired for all this walking.

  Besides, it really isn’t safe to be out on the street alone at night. You never know when somebody might—

  Suddenly, above the wind and rain, the sound of pounding footsteps reaches her ears.

  Somebody is upon her before she can react, a masculine hand closing over her forearm just as she turns her head.

  “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. . . .” Rocking her sleepy child on her lap, trying to soothe away the nightmare, Anne Marie sings softly.

  Sings and rocks, back and forth, back and forth; an age-old rhythm in time to age-old lyrics that have lulled many a child to slumber.

  The nursery is illuminated only by the moon-shaped night-light plugged into an outlet between the beds where her other children lie soundly sleeping. Hopefully, it won’t be long before their brother joins them again. It’s all Anne Marie can do to stay awake herself as she croons the lullaby, the one her mother sang to her, the one she sang to her own—

  No. Don’t go there.

  But it’s too late.

  Anne Marie stops singing, stops rocking, braces herself for the chilling memories.

  They pelt into her, fast and furious and startling as unwelcome summer hail, culminating in the shocking moment last summer that triggered the final descent.

  At first she was certain that she was imagining things. She had grown accustomed to seeking that face everywhere she went for a decade. Sometimes she actually found it—but only for a moment, superimposed over a stranger’s features in an ultimately cruel mirage.

  But that morning, it was different.

  That morning, it was real.

  It wasn’t the first time she had taken the boys to the Bronx Zoo. She and Jarrett are patrons; she takes them every week when the weather is good, and often when it isn’t. They never tire of the silly orangutans, the reptile house, the butterfly exhibit . . .

  It was there, among sweetly scented blossoms and thousands of fragile, fluttering wings, that Anne Marie happened to look in the right direction and spot the face.

  In that breathtaking instant, she was given a fleeting, astonishing glimpse through a magical window into the past, and it profoundly changed everything.

  Then the face was gone, swallowed up in a throng of children, all of them wearing identical orange T-shirts emblazoned with the name of a school on the back.

  Edgewood Elementary.

  Maternal instinct swept her and she wanted to run after the group; stronger maternal instinct held her in place. There were hordes of strangers packed into the garden; little boys clung to her hand on either side, their bolder brother going after a flitting monarch in the opposite direction. She had three children to watch over; she couldn’t go chasing an illusion the way Avery was chasing a pretty orange butterfly.

  But it wasn’t an illusion.

  Edgewood Elementary.

  She’s harbored the lone tangible clue for months, turning it over and over in her brain the way she used to mull seemingly impossible scenarios.

  “Mommy . . .”

  Only the realization that her son has stirred in her arms and is beginning to whimper jars Anne Marie back to the present.

  “It’s all right, Caleb,” she whispers, pressing a kiss on his feverish temple. “Go back to sleep. Mommy is here.”

  “Mommy’s sad.” A small hand reaches up to touch the tears trickling down her cheeks.

  She brushes them away with the sleeve of her nightgown, clasps her son’s fingers in her own trembling hand. How long can she go on like this? How long can she continue to live one life by day, another beneath the shroud of night?

  “You’re crying, Mommy. What’s wrong?”

  “Mommy is fine, sweetheart. Everything is fine. Hush.”

  Hush.

  Slowly, Anne Marie sets the chair in motion again, rocking and singing once more, cradling her precious child against her breast.

  “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. . . .”

  “Hey, miss, you forgot this,” says the man from the store. The one who stole her melon.

  Relief courses through Peyton. When somebody came up behind her, she was certain she was about to be mugged, or worse.

  He smiles and thrusts a white plastic bag into her hands. “Here. I bought it for you.”

  Speechless, her heart still racing, she accepts it mutely, too shaken to offer her thanks.

  “You okay?” the stranger asks, peering at her, and she nods.

  She reaches into her pocket and pulls out the five-dollar bill, holding it out to him.

  “Nah, keep it. My treat. You know, it’s not a great night to be out buying fruit,” he points out conversationally.

  Finding her voice, Peyton says only, “No.”

  “Do you have far to walk?”

  She shakes her head, still holding the fruit in one hand and the money in the other.

  “Going that way?” He gestures straight ahead.

  She can hardly about-face. There’s nothing to do but nod.

  “So am I. I’ll walk with you.”

  Peyton hesitates. He doesn’t look like a crazed killer. But then, Ted Bundy didn’t, either.

  She should tell him to get lost. New Yorkers don’t trust strangers.

  But the latent naive, mannerly midwesterner in her stirs to protest that this nice man just spent seven dollars and sixty-three cents on her. The least she can do is allow him to fall into step beside her as she heads home.

  She glances around, hoping to see that a crowd has materialized on the sidewalk and traffic in the streets.

  In the di
stance, she can see cars flying along up Eighth Avenue on one end of the block and down Ninth on the other end, but the cross street is quiet.

  Still, there are well-lit apartment buildings and brownstones all around them. If this guy tried anything, all she’d have to do is scream and someone would help her.

  Then again, maybe not. This is Manhattan, not Talbot Corners.

  Peyton glances again at the man by her side.

  He seems safe. And he’s incredibly handsome. Even more handsome than Dr. Lombardo, with the same brand of dark good looks. She can see that he’s wearing a suit and tie beneath the collar of his black overcoat.

  She decides that he’s an exceptionally gallant man, and nothing more.

  Besides, what is she supposed to do? Tell him he can’t walk down this public street in the same direction?

  Reluctantly, she starts walking again. So does he, saying, “I’m Tom.”

  Peyton says nothing, her thoughts racing.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he says after a moment, and she glances up at him in surprise. “You’re thinking that I’m some kind of lunatic prowling the streets for innocent women. Right?”

  She can’t help but laugh at his expression. “Actually, I . . . Right.”

  “I don’t blame you. But I’m really a nice, normal guy.”

  “I’m sure you are,” she says, though she’s anything but.

  “No, you aren’t.” He reaches into his pocket for . . .

  A gun? A knife? A . . .

  Business card.

  According to it, Thomas M. Reilly is a biomedical science research technologist at a major pharmaceutical company.

  His safety level rises a notch.

  But what if this card isn’t really his? Short of asking him for photo ID, there’s no way Peyton can be sure.

  She hands the card back to him without comment.

  “You’re probably wondering why I’m out talking to strange women at this hour.”

  She shrugs. That’s exactly what she’s wondering.

  “I had the day from hell at the lab—I just left now, in fact. I’m on my way home to an empty apartment and an empty fridge. I desperately need a beer and I desperately need sleep, but I guess I’m even more desperate for somebody to talk to. Lucky you, right?”

  She can’t help smiling at his expression . . . or glancing down at the fourth finger of his left hand.

  He catches her, and laughs, holding it up and waving it in her face. “No ring. I’m divorced. You?”

  Pregnant and single.

  “I’m not divorced.”

  “Married, then?”

  “No. Just . . .”

  Pregnant and single.

  But she isn’t about to tell him that. Why would she? He’s a stranger. She’ll never see him again. It’s none of his business.

  “Not interested?” He shakes his head, laughs again. “It’s okay. I get it. I guess I won’t bother asking if you want me to walk you the rest of the way down the block. Here’s where I turn off.”

  They’ve reached Ninth Avenue. The crosstown light is red.

  “Thanks for the melon,” Peyton tells him as she waits for the DON’T WALK sign to change.

  “You’re welcome. Thanks for the ear.”

  Feeling a twinge of guilt that she wasn’t more receptive, she sees that the light is green.

  “Good night.” She waves and steps off the curb.

  She forces herself not to turn back as she crosses the street, but she can feel his gaze on her. Or so she believes.

  When she reaches the opposite side, she allows herself to turn her head briefly.

  The spot where she left him is empty.

  Maybe he wasn’t watching her walk away after all.

  Maybe you shouldn’t flatter yourself that way.

  She can’t help smirking. She’s been in the city long enough to know about the notorious dearth of handsome, professionally successful eligible bachelors her age. She’s had only a few dates since she moved here—in part because her job consumes all her free time, but also because interesting men don’t pop up and fall in love with her on a regular basis.

  It isn’t until Peyton reaches her brownstone in the middle of the next block that something Tom said comes back to her.

  I guess I won’t bother asking if you want me to walk you the rest of the way down the block.

  It almost sounded as though . . .

  No.

  She’s never seen the man before in her life.

  Why would she think he might know where she lives?

  It’s just that the way he phrased it—the rest of the way down the block—seems telling. How does he know she doesn’t live in one of the blocks beyond the intersection? Or around a corner?

  She’s probably just paranoid. More pregnancy hormones at work.

  Still, she checks the locks on her door several times once she’s inside, and, feeling foolish, looks under the bed before climbing back into it.

  The watermelon sits untouched, still in its plastic bag, her craving having vanished just as unexpectedly as the stranger who paid for it.

  Month Three

  April

  CHAPTER THREE

  “I’m Rose Calabrone,” the woman across the threshold announces in a friendly tone that almost puts Derry at ease.

  Almost.

  Standing there beside her husband, facing the stranger who holds their parental fate in her hands, Derry can’t help but fret. She clenches her fists in the pockets of the new corduroy pants she found on final markdown at Strawberry’s during yesterday’s emergency shopping trip.

  Less than twenty-four hours ago, as she scurried around the city on her fashion mission, it was sleeting, reducing the remnants of a late snowfall into ugly gray slush in the gutters.

  Today, the April breeze is so unseasonably balmy that Derry could conceivably be wearing shorts instead of corduroy and this polyester-blend sweater she bought to go with the pants. She bought a couple of new blouses that would have been better. A ruffled blue one, and a peach one with a broad collar.

  But she chose the sweater because she was going for an upscale, suburban housewife look. Very classic, very together. Hopefully, Rose Calabrone won’t notice that her hair-spray-tamed bangs are dampened with sweat.

  “Come on in,” Linden says cordially, stepping back and holding the door open. He looks awkward in the suit and tie Derry insisted he wear. Maybe his regular clothes would have been better, she thinks, noting that the suit doesn’t fit right and the tie’s shape is outdated. The powder blue dress shirt beneath the jacket has short sleeves. Like the suit, it’s the only one he owns. Linden is under strict orders not to remove the coat, no matter how hot it is.

  “Why not?” he asked sourly just before the buzzer rang.

  “Because nobody wears short sleeves with a suit. And because sweaty armpits will show up on that light blue.”

  As the visitor steps into their home at last, Derry sweeps the freshly scrubbed living room with the same critical eye that found grievous fault in her husband.

  Is it obvious that the “coffee table” is really a piano bench long ago scavenged from the curb? Or that the peach-colored drapes in the room’s lone window are homemade? Or that the throw pillows are as frayed as her nerves?

  At least the throw rug is new, and you can’t see the worn spots on the couch slipcover. Thank God for Odd Lot, and for the dimmer switch on the overhead light.

  “Can I get you some coffee, Ms. Calabrone?” Derry asks, wishing she had thought of making a pot in advance. The scent of brewing coffee would make any house more homey.

  “It’s Mrs. Calabrone, actually, but you can call me Rose.”

  Derry can’t help thinking that bodes well for a long-term relationship. You don’t encourage a first-name basis with people you don’t expect to see again.

  Or maybe Derry’s just grasping at straws, looking for signs that this, at last, is the answer to their prayers for a child.

 
“Coffee, Rose?” she asks again, and the woman hesitates, then politely declines.

  Perhaps she would have accepted a cup if she thought it were no trouble. If she had stepped in and the apartment smelled like fresh coffee.

  Yes, and Derry should have baked cookies, too, rather than buying those Easter-themed Oreos with the pastel-tinted cream. Now they’re sitting on a plastic-wrapped plate in front of the couch, ready to serve. What was she thinking?

  You were thinking that fancy-colored Oreos were a step up from the generic-brand sandwich cookies you and Linden usually buy. You were thinking that a child should grow up in a home with plenty of Oreos on hand.

  Meanwhile, Mrs. Calabrone—Rose—probably thinks that a child should grow up some place where homemade treats are the norm.

  Well, it’s too late for cookie-baking and coffee-brewing now. It’s sink or swim time for the Cordells.

  At least I’m not working anymore, Derry tells herself optimistically. They probably don’t like working mothers.

  Linden has led Rose to the couch, having completely forgotten—or ignored—Derry’s adamant previsit instructions.

  She hastily sidesteps the makeshift coffee table and says, with a pointed glare at her husband, “I think you’ll be more comfortable in this chair, Rose.”

  Yes, because the chair, though threadbare, doesn’t squeak or sag or smell like cat pee.

  Hopefully the lilac-scented candle flickering beside the plate of cookies masks the odor, because the woman has already seated herself on the couch, saying, “This is fine, thanks.”

  There’s nothing for Derry to do but sit in the chair herself, with Linden perched on the arm. He rests a loving hand on her shoulder, as though the two of them haven’t been at each other’s throats all day in the frenzy to prepare for the adoption agency representative’s arrival.

  “Tell me a little about yourselves,” Rose suggests, her pink-lipsticked mouth curving into a pleasant smile.

  Derry would much rather she told them about the unwed Iowa teenager who, miracle of miracles, selected their profile from the dozens the agency sent her.