At the Corner of King Street (20 page)

“Yeah, I'm fine.”

“Have you seen her?”

“She's sleeping.”

Relief flickered across his face. “Eric was asking. I promised to check on her.”

“She won't be able to talk to you now. Tell Eric I saw her, and she's better, but she's very tired. She'll be this way for a week or two.”

“Okay. Thanks.” He studied my face. “You look like you could use some sleep.”

“Been a long week.”

“Tell me about it.”

Images of the cradle came to mind. “Thank you for the cradle.”

“It was Eric's and it was just sitting in my attic. Shame to waste it.”

“It's really beautiful. You made it?”

“Yes.”

“Amazing. Carrie likes it.”

A brow arched. “She's slept in it?”

“Right now as we speak—at least I hope she's sleeping. I'll have to get back soon to feed her.”

“She's doing better?”

“Better?” I walked toward the exit and he followed. “We're getting used to each other. Basically, she's teaching me that if she wants something, I must stop everything I'm doing and take care of her.”

He opened the door with one hand and waited for me to pass. “Eric was a good baby, but lots of work.”

“Did he cry a lot then?”

“Not much. I mean, when he was hungry or tired, but he didn't just cry.”

“A boy. That makes sense.”

“You don't really believe in the curse, do you?”

“In curses, no. In strong genetics, yes, I do believe.” We reached the lobby and crossed it. Again, he opened the door. Passing him, I caught the faintest scent of soap and sunshine. It reminded me of Scott. Clean, simple, and very masculine.

We should've been together today. We should have been sitting on the porch, enjoying a cool glass of wine and musing over last night's successes. We should have made love and lingered in each other's arms. I wasn't supposed to be here. Mental hospitals and babies weren't a part of my plan. And yet, here I was.

“Do you really think the baby could be sick?” Zeb asked.

“There's no way of knowing.”

“You're not sick.”

That startled a chuckle. “Maybe the jury is still out on me.”

“No. You're fine. You've always been steady.”

“That's me. Steady as a rock. The dependable one.”

He stopped on the sidewalk in a sunny spot. I dug my sunglasses out of my purse, and he pulled Ray-Bans from his pocket and slid them on over his eyes. He was an attractive man, but a little judgmental and hard when we first met a decade ago. Black and white. Right and wrong. Zeb knew the answers. He was the steady guidepost in the
storm that Janet always stirred. I think at first he liked her mad sense of adventure. She brought a spark of excitement to his very, very steady life. He never said it to me, but he thought I was boring and plain. He found my steadiness unappealing, whereas Scott loved and embraced it.

“You make that sound like that's bad.”

“I'm not exciting. Never have been and never will be. But I thought maybe, just maybe, my life turned on a better path.”

I couldn't see his eyes but suspected in this moment they held the dissolution I felt. “And then Janet came back.”

“And then Janet came back.”

A heavy silence settled between us. “Hey, thanks again for the crib. We'll take good care of it. If I don't get back soon, Carrie will be driving Grace into fits, and I don't want either one of us to wear out our welcome.”

His brow furrowed. “Grace doesn't want you there?”

“Let's say she wants this to be a temporary situation like all of us.” I fished keys from my purse. “If Eric wants to come by and see the baby, he's welcome. Though I'd avoid the five-to-six time slot in the evenings. That seems to be turning into the witching hour.”

“Too tired to eat or sleep.”

“That's about it.”

“Would lunchtime tomorrow work?”

“That would be great.”

“Thanks, Addie.”

“For what?”

“For allowing Eric to connect. He misses not connecting with his mother.”

“Here's hoping Janet gets better, and she can be in his life,” I said.

His jaw shifted to a grim line. “Right.”

*   *   *

The drive back to the warehouse was easy enough and by the time I pulled into the parking lot, my phone was ringing. It was Margaret.

“So you've got another job?”

“It seems so. Want in?”

“Sure. I'm open Monday and Tuesday next week. Either would work.”

“Great. I'll confirm the details with Grace and get back to you.”

“What's the address?”

“Not sure exactly, but it's Prince Street. Captain's Row.”

“Captain's Row?” No missing the excitement in her voice. “God I love that street! I wonder who's tossing out stuff?”

“I'll text details as soon as I have them.”

“It's a deal.”

“Oh, I have more information about your witch bottle.”

“That so?” The day warmed and I watched from my parking spot as the midsummer traffic of tourists and commuters moved slowly by. The Old Town district was popular with tourists all year round but midsummer was the busiest. I remember the warehouse saw more traffic during the summer with visitors buying bits and pieces of history to take home with them.

“I'll save the discussion for when I see you. My lectures can put the best people to sleep, and I can hear the sleep in your voice.”

I yawned. “Just a little.”

“Call me with a time.”

“Will do.”

I arrived home to a crying baby.

I dreamed that Faith crossed the Atlantic on a ship made of eggshells and sought out the
Constance.
She cried out as she peered into the ship's cargo hold and saw people crying and begging for release. She pointed at Captain Smyth and called him “peddler of flesh,” telling him that God would make him atone for his sins in hell. With her outstretched white finger, she whipped up the seas and sunk his vessel, which carried with it our future.

I awoke crying.

T
he next day, Carrie and I were walking the first floor of the warehouse when Zeb and Eric arrived with a golden retriever in tow. We were strolling for an hour, the baby in the front pouch, me swaying from side to side, patting her bottom and asking her in a very gentle voice why sleep was so terrible.

“Addie!”

I turned to see the two Talbot men striding toward me. Eric, without trying, was a mini-version of his father. They both shared the same stride, the same square jaw, and the same thick dark hair. Eric was smiling, but Zeb, holding the dog's leash, was not. His expression transmitted tension and annoyance.

Yeah, pal, I bet you can come up with at least ten different things you'd rather be doing as well.
Tough. Suck it up.

“Eric,” I said. “Who's your furry friend?”

“That's Shep,” he said, patting the dog on the head. “He's two and he's in trouble with Dad.”

“Uh-oh. What did he do?”

“He was barking at a squirrel and he nearly got loose.”

“That's bad.”

The boy made a face as he looked at the dog. “Dad said the dog was dancing on his last nerve.”

Zeb cleared his throat.

I grinned, grateful I wasn't the only one in the down-to-my-last-nerve club. “How'd you like to hold your sister?”

“Sure!” Eric rushed up to me and I leaned over so he could get a look at her red, angry face. “Why's she crying?”

“That seems to be her job. Cry, eat, and poop.”

Eric laughed. “You said ‘poop.'”

“A week ago I wouldn't have, but there you go, I did say it.”

Zeb's shadow cast a long, deep swath over us. “She sleep much last night?”

Shep sniffed my leg and then sniffed the baby's foot. He wagged his tail.

Scratching the dog between the ears, I shrugged. “A few hours.”

“And you?”

“A little less.”

“You look exhausted.”

I pushed back a lock of hair, aware that I wore yesterday's shirt and I needed a shower. “Feeling it. Why don't you come upstairs? I'll make coffee.”

“You or Grace mind if I bring Shep?”

“As long as he doesn't pee.”

Eric giggled.

“I'll keep him close,” Zeb said. “Where's Grace?”

“Vanished once again. She leaves for long stretches and takes walks, I think. Woman must be desperate for quiet. And I can't blame her.”

Eric took the lead, clamoring up the stairs, and I followed. My feet felt weighted with lead and I wanted to sit so badly I thought I might cry. Zeb took up the rear, his slow and steady sure steps mingled with Shep's clip-clop.

In the kitchen, I moved toward the coffeemaker when Zeb said, “Have a seat. I'll make the coffee. Maybe Eric can hold the baby. Shep, sit.”

Shep plopped on the kitchen floor, but his gaze remained bright and expectant. “I won't drop her,” Eric said. “I'm good at carrying things.”

“Then let's have a seat on the sofa, and I'll load her in your arms.”

“Are you hungry?” Zeb asked.

“Starving.”

“Good, I've already ordered a couple of pizzas.”

“Thanks. You didn't have to do that.”

His back to me as he filled the coffeemaker, he simply said, “We all have to eat.”

I settled on the sofa in the living room and Eric nestled next to me. I thought of him as small when we first met, but I could see he was sturdy for a seven-year-old.

Carefully, I hooked my hands under Carrie's armpits and head, supporting the back of her head with my extended index fingers, and raised her out of the pack. A touch of her diaper told me it was empty and dry. “Sit back on the couch, Eric. I'll lay her in your arms.”

He scooted back and clapped his hands as if he was ready for me to toss him a football. “I got this.”

Laying Carrie in his arms, I cupped my hand under her head. “You've got to support her head. She's not strong enough to hold it on her own.”

He studied her face, his nose inches from her nose. “When will she start to walk?”

“I'm not sure. A year maybe? She's got to learn to hold her head up and then sit up before she can start crawling.”

His face inches from hers, he studied her closely. “Why does it take so long?”

“She's got a lot of important growing to do. It takes time. When your dad builds a house, does he build the roof first?”

Eric looked up at me as if I were crazy. “No. That's stupid.”

I shrugged. “Babies are like houses. They grow from the ground floor up.”

He touched his nose to Carrie's. “Carrie, why are you always crying?”

The sound of his voice caught the baby's attention and she stopped fussing. She opened her eyes and searched.

“I think she likes you, Eric,” I said.

He grinned and nuzzled his nose against hers. “I like her.”

The front bell buzzed, and Shep barked as Zeb moved down the stairs. He returned with a couple of pizzas, which he set out on the kitchen table. “Soup's on,” he said.

Eric rolled his eyes. “He always says that, but we never have soup.”

“Pizza is a staple in the Talbot house,” Zeb said. “We'd starve without it.”

The scents of cheese and pepperoni made my stomach grumble. “Smells pretty good. Eric, want me to hold the baby while we eat?”

“Yeah.”

Carrie back in my arms, we headed into the kitchen. I settled in a chair and Zeb set a plate in front of me. “Cheese or pepperoni?”

“Cheese.”

He pulled out a slice and set it on a plate for me. “I lived on this stuff when Eric was a baby. Hold baby with one hand and eat with the other.”

I folded the pizza in half and bit the tip. “I don't think I've tasted food this good in a hundred years.”

Eric laughed. “You're not a hundred years old.”

“I sure do feel like it these days.”

“Why?”

“Baby Carrie,” Zeb said. “Babies are a lot of work.”

Eric frowned. “Is that why Mom can't take care of Carrie and me? Are we too much work?”

I glanced over at Zeb. His jaw worked, chewing on words better not spoken. “She's sick, Eric. I told you that.”

“How long has she been sick?” He lowered his head and his shoulders slumped.

“She's been sick as long as I can remember,” I said. “She doesn't like being sick, and she can't really help it. Our mom, your grandmother, was sick, too. She couldn't really take care of your mom or me.”

“Is her stomach upset or does her head hurt?” the boy asked.

“No. It's more like sick in the head. Her brain doesn't work right. She gets confused. It's not that she doesn't love you, it's her brain doesn't work the way she wants it to.”

Zeb's gaze locked on mine. Gratitude softened the lines feathering round his eyes. “I told you, pal, Mom is sick.”

“I want to see her,” Eric said.

Zeb set his pizza slice down and moved to the kitchen counter for a roll of paper towels. He tore off three sections and sat back down. “Maybe soon, pal.”

“Have you seen Mom?”

I accepted a napkin from Zeb. “I saw her yesterday. She's very tired. And she's sleeping a lot.”

“Because she's sick?”

“Sleeping sometimes is the best way to get well. I did tell her you were asking about her.”

His gaze grew hopeful. “What did she say?”

“She smiled.”

Eric nodded before he reached for his pizza and took a bite. “Okay. Good.”

The three of us sat in silence, eating our pizza. Eric tossed Shep pieces of crust, which the dog gobbled up. Carrie settled and fell asleep in my arms. On the surface, the moment was oddly . . . normal.

My phone buzzed and I glanced at the display. Scott calling. I stared at the image of his smiling face, the vineyard, and the setting sun behind him. A glance at the sleeping baby tempted me to answer, but at this point I couldn't risk her waking. There was so much I needed to say to Scott. I let the phone ring until voice mail took over.

Zeb raised a brow, taking in the scene, and clearly coming to a swift conclusion that didn't favor me. “You haven't told him about us.”

“No. Not yet. But I will soon.”

“Why the secret?”

“It's not a quick conversation. As you well know, the Morgans are complicated.”

“Yes.”

When Janet first got ill I tried to be honest and open, tackled the problems head on. But open and honest didn't work, and in the end it had all fallen apart, and I was left drained and angry. As much as I didn't want the storm to touch Scott, the hurricane swirled around us, and soon, no matter how hard I shored up our life, the winds were coming.

Carrie squirmed in my arms and I rose, moving to the refrigerator, where I stowed several pre-made bottles. With the baby cradled in one hand, I screwed the top off the bottle and placed it in the microwave. I punched in seventeen seconds and hit Start.

“Can I feed the baby?” Eric asked.

“Sure,” I said. “We can sit on the couch.”

Eric looked at his dad. “I'm going to feed the baby.”

Zeb smiled. “I know, pal. Pretty good.”

The microwave dinged and I screwed the top back on. A quick shake and I grabbed a burp towel. “Want to finish your pizza first?”

“No. I want to feed the baby!”

Zeb rose. “Let's wash your hands, pal. And then we can sit on the couch.” The two moved to the kitchen sink and Zeb turned on the water. When Eric's hands had been cleaned and dried, he joined me in the living room.

I settled on the couch and Eric moved next to me as before. This time I draped the cloth over his shoulder.

“What's that for?”

“In case she spits up.”

His face wrinkled. “That's nasty.”

I sat next to him and scooted close. “Tell me about it. I'm still getting used to that.”

I nestled the baby in his arms and quickly dribbled a couple of drops of milk on the underside of my wrist to test the milk. Declaring it just right, I nuzzled the bottle into the baby's lips and waited as Eric reached to take hold of it.

Carrie suckled, smacking her lips.

He looked up at me, his face full of wonder and astonishment. “She's eating, Addie.”

“I know. She's pretty good at eating. Maybe if you're real good I'll show you how to change a dirty diaper.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Yuck. No way.”

Shrugging, I held up my hands. “That's part of it. What goes in must come out.”

He shook his head, but his gaze remained on the baby. “I'm not changing any diapers.”

Zeb and Shep came into the room. As the dog took a seat at my feet,
Zeb reached for his cell and pointed it at us. My insides clenched with tension. A picture would be tangible evidence of my time in Alexandria.

But Eric glanced up at his dad and grinned so broadly I couldn't make a fuss.

“Smile, Addie,” Zeb said.

Drawing in a breath, I leaned into Eric and smiled. Shep rose up and put his head on my knee. Zeb snapped the picture. He glanced at the image and grinned, turning it around so we both could see it. Eric's smile was electric as he cuddled his sister close. My smile was decent enough, but it did little to soften the fatigue around my eyes or brighten my pasty complexion. “What do you think?”

“Awesome,” Eric said.

“Very nice.”

“We should take a picture with Grace,” Eric said. “But we're going to have to tell her a funny joke before we take the picture so that she's smiling. She doesn't smile much.”

Grace never smiled when I was a kid. Always stern and solemn, she focused on work and chores. And I couldn't remember a time when she enjoyed herself.

I tipped the edge of the bottle up a fraction to keep Carrie from sucking in too much air. Eric talked to his sister in a sweet, soft voice, asking her all kinds of questions.
Do you like trucks? When you're big enough to climb a tree you can come in my tree house. Do you have dreams?

The chatter went on and on but neither Zeb nor I wanted to rush this moment. Eric was enjoying his sister, and several times she opened her eyes and stared at him with keen interest.

Zeb leaned against the fireplace, content to enjoy the moment. All the antiques and clutter would have made Scott uneasy, but Zeb didn't seem to notice any of it. His gaze was squarely on his son.

When the milk was gone, Carrie drifted back to sleep. I gently nudged
the bottle free of Eric's grasp and Carrie's lips. Very carefully, I covered my shoulder with a towel and then lifted Carrie free of Eric's arms. Draping her on my shoulder, I patted her back softly until she burped.

Eric giggled. “What was that?”

“You've never burped?” I asked.

He blinked. “Yeah, but I'm a guy. I've never seen a girl burp.”

“Not ever?” I teased. “I bet some girl in your class has burped.”