You Were Meant For Me (11 page)

Your scheming little wife,
Jared wished he could say. So they weren't going to make an offer; she just wanted to play patty-cake with him—first in the garden and then the bedroom. Jesus, but he was a total and complete idiot not to have seen this one coming. “Listen, she's in with the ER doctor now. How soon can you get here?”

“On my way,” Brandon said.

Jared waited until Brandon arrived and he knew that Isabel was going to be all right. Turned out there was a plastic surgeon available, and the woman promised there would be almost no scarring at all. Jared was relieved to hear this; he
somehow couldn't stand to think of Isabel's delicate features being marred.

He left the hospital and slowly walked back home. His Thomas Pink shirt—very expensive, and of course not on sale—was smeared with blood and there was blood on his hands and probably his face too. He wasn't going to risk an encounter with another potentially snotty cabdriver; the next one might see the gore and think he was a criminal, a murderer. Besides, he needed the air. It would help him decompress after the adrenaline-fueled trip to St. Luke's and the meat-locker chill of the waiting room. Brandon, when he arrived, had been his predictably entitled, asshole self. “That cat is a menace; I want it euthanized,” he said. “And I want to sue.”

“The cat is a stray; good luck finding it,” Jared said. “And who are you planning on suing? The city of New York for hosting a killer feline?” Brandon had ignored him, looking around for a nurse he could bully. What was it with these guys? Did they think there was always someone to blame? That they were exempted from the kind of plain old bad luck that dogged most of the people on the planet?

It was after four when he finally got home. He shucked his clothes and left them in a sorry heap on the bedroom floor, then did forty quick chin-ups on the bar he'd installed in the doorway before heading for the shower. He was bloody, sweaty, and above all, burned; he wanted to scrub the whole it-sucked-from-the-start day from his skin. But the buzzing of his phone halted him in his tracks, and he answered with a quick “S'up?” sounding just like the kids he heard on the street.

“Jared?” asked Geneva Bales. “Miranda Berenzweig has agreed to meet you, but she's asking to have a lawyer present.”

“Tell her I'll meet her anywhere, anytime,” he said. “And
she can have anyone there she likes—lawyer, judge, the mayor, hell, the governor if that helps. There's only one thing
I
want.”

“What's that?” she asked.

“Tell her I want her to bring Celeste. I need to see her.”

When Jared got off the phone, he walked over to the mirror and stared at himself. A
baby,
for Christ's sake. What the hell was he doing? Then he heard his mother's voice in his head, as clear as if she'd been standing next to him.
You're a man who was raised to do what's right,
she would have said.
You know what that is; now it's up to you to do
it.

M
iranda's hands were shaking—really, truly shaking—when she put down her phone. Geneva's words—that someone claiming to be Celeste's biological father had surfaced and wanted to meet them both—were so staggering and so awful that her whole body picked up the cue and began to shake along with her hands. This was exactly what she had feared when Geneva first proposed the idea of the profile; why had she let herself be seduced into allowing it?

Abruptly, she stood. There was a mountain of work awaiting her attention before she left the office: an article that needed a final edit, two layouts that needed her approval, an in-box brimming with e-mail she needed to read. But she couldn't deal with any of those things now; she had to escape, if only for a few minutes.

She was just about to head to the ladies' room when
Marvin, the art director, came storming in. “Did you see this?” he hissed, waving something in her direction. Miranda reached out to take whatever “this” was. It turned out to be a glossy, high-res photograph of some very elaborate Christmas cakes—
bûche de Noël
was the proper term—made by a celebrity pastry chef whose work
Domestic Goddess
had featured in the past.

“They're gorgeous; readers love them.” Miranda was not sure what the problem was; the chef was a boldface name, and it was a major coup that he'd agreed to the story.

“The cakes may be gorgeous, but he's a nightmare to work with!” Marvin said.

And you're not?
Miranda wished she could snap back. Instead she said, “But this was all decided in the last staff meeting. Don't you remember?” Why did Marvin have to pick this minute to have his hissy fit? Now, along with the shaking, her head had started to throb.

“I must have been out that day. I never would have agreed to work with him again,” Marvin huffed. “He is such a drama queen. And a control freak! He wants approval of every single photo—even the ones we're not going to use!”

“Our readers swoon for him, our advertisers adore him, and our publisher worships him; I'd call that win-win-win, Marvin.”

“I guess I'm just the odd man out,” Marvin said bitterly; he practically snatched the photo from Miranda's hands and turned to leave her office.

“Maybe he'll have mellowed a little,” Miranda called out to his retreating back.

“And maybe hell will have frozen over.”

Miranda waited a few seconds before darting to the
ladies' room, where she locked herself into a stall. Pressing her hands against the gray, coated steel walls seemed to stop the shaking, but not the vile, sick feeling that rose up inside. Celeste's father wanted to see her, meet her. He'd found out about her through Geneva's story. . . . If only Miranda had not agreed to cooperate. If only!

The piece had garnered some nice attention, and just as Geneva had predicted, some offers of assistance too. A disposable diaper company sent her several free cases of their product, and a baby food company did the same. She'd received three substantial gift cards to baby stores, and the local Park Slope toy store had posted the article in the window—and sent a plush, stuffed kangaroo with its own baby tucked into the pocket. She wished she could give it all back.

But she was being selfish. If Celeste's father was out there, he deserved to meet her. Not just to meet but to claim her. It was his right—even if it was going to crack her heart right in two.

She emerged from the stall and washed her hands in the hottest water she could stand. Then she returned to her desk and plowed through the work that awaited her. Articles to edit, layouts, e-mail—check, check, check. The office was nearly empty; she and Marvin were the only people left, and when he too called out a cranky “Night,” she was finally, blessedly alone. But now what? She wanted to get home to see Celeste as soon as possible, but she also had to make some plans for the meeting with Jared Masters. She'd told Geneva that she wanted a lawyer present, but it wasn't exactly like she had an attorney on retainer; she needed a referral. Her mind flashed to Courtney and the tedious Harris, but then, just as quickly, she discarded the idea. Courtney would not be of help
to her now; instead she would only deluge Miranda in a torrent of I-told-you-so's.

Back home, she accepted Celeste from Supah's arms without even putting down her handbag. “How's my little sugar pop?” she crooned. “How's my baby girl?” Celeste nestled her head into the place beneath Miranda's chin as Miranda held her close and listened to Supah's account of her day. They'd gone for a walk in the morning, then home for lunch and a long nap. Yes, the diaper rash was looking better and she'd actually eaten all of her pureed carrots
and
the applesauce too. They went to the playground after lunch, where Supah tried pushing her on one of the baby swings. “She love that,” she said, nodding for emphasis. “She no want to leave.”

“Has she had her bath?” Miranda said over the top of Celeste's head.

Supah shook her head and reached for the baby. “I do it now.”

“That's all right, Supah. I can handle it.” And she could; she was less anxious about the day-to-day care now. Miranda carried Celeste to the door, where she said good night to the babysitter. Then she gathered the things she would need, filled the baby tub, undressed her daughter, and lowered her into the tub.

Her daughter. The words still felt new, even miraculous. She had not given birth to this baby, but after three months of living with her, Celeste felt indisputably, undeniably, hers. Only now someone had stepped forth to both dispute and deny. Someone who might have a deeper, more abiding claim. Miranda found that tears were slowly trickling down her cheeks as she swaddled Celeste in a hooded towel and brought her into her room to diaper and dress her for the night—a
onesie in a calico print with a pair of spurs on the front and the words
WORLD'S LITTLEST COWGIRL
embroidered on the back. Bea had sent it from Oklahoma.

Miranda sat down in the rocking chair while Celeste had her last bottle of the night. How she had filled out since the first time Miranda saw her; her limbs were rounded and smooth, and her face was cherubic. The pediatrician said that any developmental issues they might have worried about looked nonexistent now. “You're doing a great job,” she had told Miranda. “A splendid job.” Miranda's tears, which she had not bothered wiping, were dripping down onto the front of the T-shirt she'd changed into; some of them landed on Celeste's head, creating a small, gleaming patch in the dark hair. Smoothing it away, Miranda continued to rock her until her eyes closed, her head lolled, and the nipple of the bottle slipped from between her lips. Gently, she placed the baby in her crib and then allowed herself to go into the bathroom, close the door, and give in to the hot onrush of sobs she had been fighting ever since Geneva had called. But the sobs, though ravaging, were over soon. She didn't have time for them. A quick splash of cold water on her puffy face, an even quicker blot dry with a terry towel. Then she went in search of her phone.

Once it was in her hands, though, she was stumped. Who was it she planned to call? Not Courtney and not Lauren either. Bea was just too busy to be of any help. Forget about her father; she'd tried to explain that she was adopting a baby, but he kept getting the baby confused with a puppy he'd surprised her with for her seventh birthday. And when she'd brought Celeste for a visit, her father started shaking and shouting as soon as they walked into the room. He kept
saying she was an alien sent to take over his brain; Miranda had had to leave within ten minutes of her arrival. No, her father was definitely out.

Evan? But weren't they a little too new for her to turn to him in a crisis? Besides, they weren't officially a couple. She hadn't even slept with him. Miranda scrolled through the contacts on her phone, looking for inspiration.

She found it too: Judge Waxman, whose courtroom she'd sat in and who had helped expedite the adoption proceedings. The judge had given Miranda her cell phone number, and Miranda did not hesitate to use it. And to her relief, Judge Waxman actually answered. There were voices in the background. Music too. The judge must have been out for the evening, but she patiently listened while Miranda told her about Jared Masters.

“He'll need to do the DNA test,” the judge said. “Otherwise, there is absolutely no basis for his claim.”

“Do I have to agree to that?” Miranda said.

“It's not your decision,” answered Judge Waxman. “The court will insist.”

Miranda knew that. Knew it and felt crushed by the knowledge. “Should I have a lawyer present when he comes to see me?”

“Only if the test establishes paternity and you plan to contest his claim on the child.”

Miranda thanked her profusely for her time and said good night. If paternity was established and Jared Masters did turn out to be Celeste's father, she would fight like a tiger to keep her. What was his connection to her mother?
Who
was her mother? How was it that he hadn't known about her birth? She was four months old; why had he waited so long to come
forward? Wasn't it in Celeste's best interests to remain with her? Miranda was determined to find out the answers to these questions, and she would use them to keep her baby, her darling girl.

On impulse, she picked up the phone again and punched in Evan's number. So what if they were new to each other? He was a good person; she could trust him. “Hey, how's it going?” He was clearly delighted to hear from her.

“Terrible,” she said, and then told him the story.

“What a shock. No wonder you feel terrible.”

“Terrible, awful, horrible . . .” She began to cry again, but softly; she did not want to wake Celeste.

“It's possible he's
not
her father, right?” Evan said.

“Right, but—”

“You won't know that until the test is done.”

“No, I won't—”

“Don't see him.” Evan's tone was decisive.

“What do you mean?”

“The guy who's come forward. Jared Masters?”

“But why not?”

“You'll just get upset before you need to get upset. Let them do the test; if he's really her dad, you can meet him then. Why put yourself through it beforehand?”

“You have a point.” Miranda actually felt the anxiety, binding her chest like a vise, begin to ease. Evan was right. Why did she have to meet Jared at this point? She would cooperate fully by having Celeste's DNA tested, and then she would wait for the results before moving ahead. “I really don't want to meet him unless I have to,” she said.

“So don't. Tell this Geneva person no.”

“You know what? I will.” Miranda heard Celeste
whimpering in the next room. “Listen, I hear her, okay? I have to go. But thank you, Evan. Thank you so much.” And she clicked off before he could reply.

Miranda hurried into the baby's room. The whimpering was sometimes, though not always, a prelude to those crying jags of hers; Miranda hoped she wasn't about to descend into one now. She scooped her baby up and flew her around in the air. Celeste's whimpers subsided. Then Miranda felt her diaper, noted it was wet, and brought her to the changing table she'd bought not long ago. Celeste kicked halfheartedly as she was diapered, but by the time Miranda brought her back to the rocking chair, she had fallen back to sleep. This time, Miranda did not transfer her to the crib. She felt she could not endure any separation at all; she brought Celeste into her own bed and spent the night in a light, hazy, half sleep, never entirely unaware of the baby by her side.

The lab was somewhere on Church Avenue, a neighborhood Miranda never frequented. But she was here today, sitting rigidly next to Evan—he'd insisted on coming with her—as he guided his car into a spot in front of a place offering Haitian jerk chicken and meat pies; any other time, she would have gone in to sample the cuisine and scope out possible story ideas. Instead, she glanced nervously at Celeste, who had reached down and managed to pull off one of her lace-trimmed white socks.

“They told me it wouldn't hurt,” Miranda said. “I only asked about twenty times.”

“I'm sure they were telling the truth,” Evan said. “The swab, it's like a long Q-tip, right? And all they have to do is collect a tiny specimen from inside her cheek?”

Miranda didn't answer. Celeste had peeled off the other sock; she looked extremely pleased with herself.

“Come on,” Evan said. “We should go in.”

The lab was up a flight of stairs, and the waiting room was empty. “Why isn't anyone here?” Miranda said. “Maybe it has a bad reputation. We should go somewhere else.”

“Miranda.” Evan put his hand on her shoulder. “You're here; you have an appointment. You just need to get this over with, okay?”

He was right. And she found his presence comforting; she was grateful he had offered to come. Miranda went up to the desk to sign in: name, procedure sought, photo ID. The woman behind the desk glanced at the sheet and said, “I'll need the baby's birth certificate, as well.”

Miranda was prepared for this and gave the woman the birth certificate Celeste had been issued in the hospital.

“There are no parents indicated here,” the woman pointed out. “Who are her mother and father?”

“That's what I'm here to find out.”

After she'd finished signing in, she sat down and waited. When her name was called, she left Evan with a stack of ancient
People
magazines while she took Celeste, still in her car seat, into the examination room. A perky, lab-coated nurse—she looked so young—followed them in. “I'm Becky,” she said, touching the tag pinned to her chest. “And I'll be collecting the sample.” She opened a cupboard and stretched up to get something off a shelf; Miranda resisted her impulse to offer to reach it for her.