Authors: Barbara Bretton
"And that workroom in the basement," Charlie pointed out. "That would make three of the one I have in my house."
The woman quickly sized them up then pounced. "You two in the market for a place? With a new baby and all, you probably need some more room."
Some of the magic disappeared from the day. "I'm afraid we're fine where we are," said Caroline. "We're just fantasizing."
"Yeah," said Charlie. "We're only daydreaming out loud."
The woman lost interest as quickly as she'd gained it. "Well, if there's nothing you want...."
"The cradle," Caroline said. "You had a cradle listed outside."
"It's nothing much," said the woman with another of her shrugs. "Been in the family for God knows how long. Hundred years probably." Her laugh was quick and brittle as she led them into a room piled high with the accumulation of a long life. "Looks like it anyway."
Even Charlie was taken by the lustrous pine cradle. Age had only added to its glow. Not even the nicks and chips along the runners could take away from its aura of family, of history.
"We'll take it," he said, running his hand along the angels carved at the head.
"I didn't say how much."
He pulled out his wallet. "Whatever's fair."
"Fifty dollars?"
He peeled off two twenties and a ten. "You've got yourself a deal."
The woman cracked a smile. "Too bad you folks
aren't
looking for a house. I got the feeling we could've had ourselves one sweet deal."
Charlie wrapped the cradle up in some old blankets he kept in the rear of his truck. "Don't want to get it all banged up," he explained to Caroline. "Not before I can get to work on it."
"You really know how to refinish furniture?"
"Did a lot of the stuff in my house."
There it was again, another reminder of just how separate their lives really were. Married for months and she'd never once seen his place. She didn't even know the address or the phone number or whether he had curtains at his windows.
"Quarter for your thoughts."
"Oh, nothing much," she said, suppressing a sigh. "Just day-dreaming again."
She pressed her cheek against the window glass, wishing they were back in the farmhouse again and that it belonged to them.
ii
Before they knew it, it was Halloween and then Thanksgiving. As always, Sam and Murphy's house was Holiday Central; family and friends spilled from each and every room. They tripped over each other in the hallway and shouted to be heard over the din of laughter and football. The house was already decorated with two Christmas trees, shiny green holly with plump red berries, garland and tinsel and the soft glow of luminaria candles lining the curving driveway. Sam's daughter Patty was everywhere, dispensing appetizers and advice on everything from the proper way to roast a turkey to why bi-weekly mortgages were the wave of the future.
And just when Caroline was about to drop off into a post-turkey coma, the Thanksgiving celebration turned into a baby shower!
Caroline and Charlie were positively swamped with gifts for the baby. Tiny sleepers and stacks of t-shirts. Crib sheets and blankets and an assortment of playsuits so small that both expectant parents found it difficult to believe a real, live human being would ever wear the garments.
"
Leave it to you to turn Turkey Day into a baby shower," Caroline said in the kitchen after dessert. She gave Sam a warm hug. "You're too much."
"Surprised you, didn't I?" Sam waved a dish towel overhead in triumph. "Murphy and I fought about this since
Labor Day. He's the superstitious type--didn't want me to even tell anyone I was pregnant until I was in transition." She stopped and stared at her friends. "You're not superstitious, are you?"
"Absolutely not. Burkheit says the baby and I are textbook cases."
Sam leaned against the counter. "So when are you going to tell them?"
Caroline didn't bother to pretend she didn't know exactly what her best friend was talking about: Caroline's family. "Not yet."
Sam gestured toward the telephone on the far wall. "No time like the present."
"Mind your own business, Sam," Caroline said. "I'll tell them when I tell them."
"Knowing you, you'll wait until the kid is in college."
"If that's what I want to do, I'll do it."
"Grow up," said Sam gently. "They're your family. They have a right to know you're pregnant."
Caroline was silent. She'd cut emotional ties with her mother and step-father many years ago, the summer when they picked up and moved to Ohio and left Caroline behind. "It's just for now, honey," Letty had said. "Samantha's folks have a room for you. Once we get settled, we'll send you a train ticket."
Summer had turned into fall. Fall became winter. And before Caroline knew it, she was in senior year of high school, still living at the Deans' house, still waiting for the train ticket that never came.
Now and then she'd get a call or letter from one of her half brothers or sisters, filled with details on some crazy new business venture he or she was embarking on. "It's not that I need anything, Carly, it's just that you're a smart businesswoman and I wanted to give you a chance to get in on the ground floor."
So far she'd been in on the ground floor of six aborted business schemes, two failed franchises, and three "loans" that she knew darned well would never be repaid. She knew she didn't owe her siblings anything beyond a Christmas card each year--why, she had never even
met
the three who'd been born after the move to Ohio. Still, she sent elaborate presents to her mother and tried not to analyze exactly why she bothered.
No one had ever thought to invite her out to visit. They were probably afraid she'd stay.
"What does Charlie have to say about it?" asked Sam.
Caroline fiddled with a knob on the stove.
Sam stared at Caroline, eyes wide. "Don't tell me he agrees with you."
"I don't know whether he agrees with me or not," said Caroline with a note of defiance. "We haven't discussed the subject."
"You're kidding."
"Do I look like I'm kidding?"
"He must have some opinion, Caroline. I mean, these are his in-laws we're talking about."
"You realize this is none of your business, don't you?"
"I'm your best friend in the world," Sam shot back, "and if it's not my business, then I don't know whose business it is." Her gaze narrowed. "You're not ashamed of your background, are you?"
Caroline hesitated a beat too long. "Of course not."
Sam, however, knew better. Caroline had never quite gotten past the insecurities of childhood or the feeling of not being loved.
"What about Charlie's family? How do they feel about the baby?"
"I--I don't know."
"Don't tell me Charlie's keeping secrets, too."
"Ask him," said Caroline. "What he says or doesn't say to his family is his business."
"This is ridiculous. I don't understand any of it."
"We don't talk about families," Caroline said after a moment. "We don't talk about the past and we don't talk about the future."
"Then what in blazes
do
you talk about?"
Caroline thought for a second. "The present...the baby." She laughed uneasily. "World affairs...the baby."
Sam looked as if someone had let the wind out of her sails. "You're still going to go through with it, aren't you?"
Caroline's gaze dropped. "End the marriage?"
Sam nodded.
"We made a deal," said Caroline, her voice c
atching on the words. "You don't go back on a deal."
Sam made a ferocious face. "I could tell you what I think of your deal."
"But you won't, will you, Sam?"
Sam's dark blue eyes searched Caroline's face for a long moment and then she shrugged in resignation. "No, I won't," Sam said, "but that doesn't mean I'll quit hoping for a miracle."
#
The Christmas rush began in earnest. Caroline plowed through her enormous holiday card list, grinning each time she signed "Love from Caroline and Charlie" beneath her handwritten greetings.
As for Charlie, he'd airmailed his mother a card straight from the box, signed "Charlie and Caroline" after the pre-printed message and let it go at that. If she wanted to know who Caroline was, she could phone him up or drop him a line. Not that he expected she would do either; Jean Donohue Liguori Latham had more important things to do than catch up on family gossip. After two divorces in quick succession, Jean had abandoned the notion of marriage as sport and settled into London society as the resident American-heiress-of-a-certain-age.
When she was younger, Jean had relied upon her beauty. Now that she was in her early sixties, she relied on her pocketbook and her charm. Even with Charlie.
Money came with strings attached, even money that was part and parcel of your family structure. As far as he was concerned, his mother could spend every last dollar, pound, and
sou
--and welcome to it. Money hadn't caused the problem between Charlie and Jean and money wouldn't solve it. Maybe someday they'd find common ground upon which to stand, but that ground wouldn't be paved in gold. Anything he needed, he could earn with his own two hands. He often wondered if that was why his father had left in the first place. Too bad William Donohue had died before Charlie had had a chance to find out.
Caroline never talked about her family and she never asked about his. Charlie had taken her cue gratefully. She probably came from a background a hell of a lot like his, one of money and position and such basic bone-deep loneliness that it still hurt to think about it. Who needed the memories?
The past was painful. The future was a murky blur. The only thing real and wonderful was the present and, by mutual consent, that was where Caroline and Charlie dwelled.
#
By the middle of December, the guest room was well on its way to becoming a nursery.
Nursery! Even the word sent ripples of excitement up and down
Caroline's spine. Walt Disney wallpaper with fairy tale borders. Crisp swiss-dot priscillas in butter yellow. A crib and a bassinet and more adorable little toys than she'd ever known existed. Charlie was still working on getting the cradle into shape; he'd taken over her utility room with his sanders and buffers and the whirr of power tools competed with his favorite Motown music. Everywhere she looked she saw change, wonderful changes happening as they prepared for the baby.
She was nearing the
end of her eighth month, twenty-plus pounds away from where she'd been back on that night in June.
Her back ached; her ankles were swollen; she'd long since forgotten how it felt to look down and see her feet. She'd
abandoned her beloved stilettos in favor of more sensible flats but it gladdened her soul to discover that style didn't have to take a backseat to her monumental belly. She played tricks with scarves and brooches, over-shirts and skinny pants and the other pregnant women of the Princeton area continued to flock to
Twice Over Lightly
for the most glamorous outfits in the area.
It wasn't all wonderful, however. Heartburn plagued her and the stretched-taut skin on her abdomen itched maddeningly.
Sleep, her best friend during the early months of her pregnancy, was harder to come by these days, since finding a comfortable position was akin to the search for the Holy Grail.
What did manage to find her, however, were nightmares. And not just your garden variety things-that-go-bump-in-the-night kind of nightmares. Caroline's were vivid, medical nightmares complete with every disaster that could befall a pregnant woman and, more terrifyingly, her child.
The days seemed to last forever. The nights went on for an eternity
. Hurry, baby,
she thought.
I just need to see that you're alright.
#
One morning Caroline awoke tired and snappish. Charlie was in the kitchen brewing decaf and whistling something vaguely Motown-ish and both the smell of the coffee and the off-key melody instantly got under her skin.
"
Please,
Charles," she said, waddling past him and reaching for a glass of orange juice. "It's too early."
"It's eight-fifteen," said Charlie in the obnoxiously cheerful way of a morning person. "You're already ten minutes behind schedule."
"Then I'd better adjust my schedule." She sipped the juice, wrinkled her nose, then poured the rest down the sink. "It takes me more than ten minutes to maneuver my way out of bed in the morning. It's easier to dock an aircraft carrier."
He made a show of looking over her figure. "You look pretty good to me."
"Oh, quit it," she snapped. "I look like Shamu the Killer Whale."