You Were Meant For Me (15 page)

When she awoke, crying, a few hours later, he was completely thrown. He stumbled toward the sound, and once he reached her room, he picked her up. Lily continued to cry. Jesus. What had Athena done earlier in the day to make this stop? He remembered how she rocked the baby, so he tried that. No good. So he started to walk with her, back and forth, back and forth. There, that seemed to be working. She was slowing down, getting quieter, but when he attempted to place her back in her crib, she instantly began to fuss.

Okay, he told himself. Okay. Just get a grip here. Maybe it was the diaper—yeah, that could be it. Tentatively, he put her on the changing table Athena had told him to order. But now how was he going to get the fresh diaper, wipes, and other stuff? So he picked her up and, holding her awkwardly with one hand, he assembled what he needed. Then he tried it again. The diaper was soaked, and he wrinkled his nose in aversion as he wadded it up and pushed it aside, to be dealt
with later. He was a little clumsy in cleaning her up—he wanted to be thorough yet didn't want to be too rough or hurt her—but he managed to get the job done. Now came the diapering part.

He positioned the disposable diaper under her and attempted to fasten the self-adhesive tab. Only the protective layer on the peel-off strip would not peel off; he ended up ripping the tab off entirely, which meant he had to get
another
diaper and start again. Jesus. Despite the hum of the air conditioner, he'd started to sweat. But he managed to get the diaper, open it, and wrap it around his squirmy little girl. He did the pacing routine again; she fell asleep and this time stayed asleep when he put her into the crib.

Jared stood there watching her for a few seconds. This whole episode had taken about twenty minutes; was this what he had to look forward to every night, maybe multiple times a night? He was totally awake; there was no way he could get back to sleep now. He spied the books Athena had brought earlier, picked the top one off the pile, brought it to bed, and began to read. Eventually, he grew drowsy and put the book down beside him; he'd just drifted off to sleep when there it was: that staccato sound,
eh, eh, eh
, emanating from Lily's room. This time, he didn't even wait for the full-blown wailing to start; he hauled himself out of bed and trudged toward its origin.

T
he first morning without Celeste, Miranda couldn't wait to get to work; she desperately wanted to believe that the familiar routine would distract and soothe her. But once she got there, she felt cut off from everything, her senses blunted or even warped, so the activity around her—phone calls, texts, e-mail, production meetings, manuscripts—seemed to be happening very far away; she could barely make out the voices. Finally, at the end of the day, she walked into the office of Sallie Scott, the longtime editor in chief of
Domestic Goddess
, and closed the door.

Sallie was sitting behind her desk—a four-foot, painted baroque extravagance she had paid a fortune for at auction—and looked up when Miranda came in. Her hairstyle, a vigorously hair-sprayed bubble, probably had not changed since Kennedy was in office, and her tailored suit, in ecru poplin, suggested a buttoned-up, rigid demeanor. But in Sallie's case, appearances were deceiving. Her brown eyes radiated
concern, and she tactfully nudged the lacquer tissue box in Miranda's direction. “You look like hell,” she said.

“I feel like hell too,” Miranda said. “And I'm sorry, Sallie. I've been trying. I really have. It's just that—”

“You don't have to explain. I really do get it. Take some time off, all right?”

“But we're so busy now, between the Web site launch and the Christmas issue. And you know I've been trying to land Alan Richardson for an exclusive recipe; I'm almost there.” If she could get Alan Richardson, or his partner, Karen Tack, the industry giants responsible for
Hello Cupcake
, to provide an over-the-top cupcake project for the magazine, it would be a real coup.

“I know,” said Sallie, placing her hands, with their manicured geranium pink nails, on the desk. “You're a wreck, though. I can see it, and so can everyone else. You can stay in touch with the office and we'll muddle through until you come back.”

“Well, maybe I should,” Miranda said, both shamed and grateful. So everyone knew she was a mess? Well, why had she thought she could keep that hidden? “Thank you, Sallie.”

“Don't mention it.” Sallie's phone buzzed, but before she answered, she added, “I'm so sorry, Miranda. I know the loss has been . . . devastating.”

Sallie's sympathetic words made the tears rise again, so Miranda just nodded and got out of there before she let loose.

Miranda went home and climbed into bed, where she pretty much remained for the next five days. Yes, she had abandoned her plan of fighting for Celeste. The baby should go to her father. But Miranda was still going to have to grieve her loss.

She used her laptop to watch one old movie after another, all of them frothy and insubstantial confections—Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds dancing with frantic energy, Fred Astaire whirling Ginger Rogers around in his arms. Every now and then, she looked at the upper-right-hand corner of the computer to check the time. It was noon; Celeste usually had lunch at noon and was down for a nap by twelve thirty. She was up by two o'clock and needed a diaper change and a bottle. The passing hours were nothing more than signposts to gauge Celeste's imagined movements: where she might be, what she might be doing. This was worse than when Luke left her; worse, even, than when her mother died.

Despite what Miranda had said to Sallie, she had not kept in touch with the office, or with anyone else either. She did not check her e-mail, though she occasionally glanced at her phone. In addition to calls from the office, there had been phone calls from Evan—several of these—and her friends, and although she knew she ought to return them, she did not. Eunice, her father's caregiver, had been trying to reach her and she ignored her too. When her landlady knocked on the door, Miranda just called out, “I'm fine, Mrs. Castiglione. Don't worry about me.” She didn't say anything else, but waited until she heard the creak of Mrs. Castiglione's footsteps on the stairs as she went back down to her own apartment.

Miranda paused the movie and got up. Her appetite had left her, and she knew she must have lost several pounds over the last few days. The irony of this was not lost on her; she was always thinking she could stand to lose five or even ten pounds, but now that she had, she didn't even care. She was thirsty, though, and had to steel herself to walk into the kitchen; from the kitchen she could see the door to what had
been Celeste's room. That door was closed, and everything that had belonged to her daughter was inside, including the play yard and the stroller.

Miranda knew she ought to go in and empty it out—surely many of the things inside could be donated to charity—but she could not bring herself to do it. The room had a force field around it and was walled off, like a crime scene, in her mind. She poured a glass of water from the pitcher in the refrigerator, went back to bed, and started the movie again.

Fred spun Ginger, whose long, diaphanous skirt fluttered as she twirled. Miranda let herself be lulled by the music and dancing; when it was over, she simply began another.

Then the knocking started again. “Mrs. Castiglione, you don't have to check on me. I'm all right. Really.”

“It's not Mrs. Castiglione,” said a voice from the other side of the door. “It's me.”

“Bea!”

“Yes, and I flew all the way from Oklahoma, so you'd better open up.”

Miranda got out of bed and quickly ran her hands through her hair, which she had not exactly bothered to brush or comb recently. Her clothes were none too fresh either, but there wasn't really anything she could do about that now.

When she opened the door, there was Bea, along with Lauren. At least Courtney wasn't with them; she didn't think she could face her now. Then she saw Mrs. Castiglione, hovering by the banister. “I hope you don't mind that I let your friends in, Miranda,” said her landlady. “But I was worried about you. We all were.”

Miranda took a step back to let them in. Now that they were here, she was just going to have to deal with them. “What about the play?” she said to Bea.

“Monday the theater's dark, remember? I'm only here for the night; I fly back tomorrow in time for the show.”

“You didn't have to do this,” Miranda said. But she was grateful that she had.

“Oh, yes, I did.” She eyed her friend. “When was the last time you had a shower? Or ate anything, for that matter? You're looking thin.”

Miranda looked down. Her pants
were
loose, and even her T-shirt suddenly seemed baggy.

“Why don't you take a shower and let me fix you something to eat,” Lauren said, opening the fridge and the cabinets. “Except there's nothing in here.”

“I haven't been food shopping,” Miranda said. She was aware of the look that passed between Lauren and Bea.

“I can go now,” said Lauren. “What do you want?”

“I want my baby girl!” Miranda covered her face with her hands, trying to hide from the words.

“I know you do.” Bea moved closer to hug her, and Lauren joined in.

No one said anything for a moment, and Miranda just let herself be embraced.

“Who could have predicted that this would happen?” Bea broke the silence. “It's just such a strange coincidence—the father turning up like that.”

“I should be happy for her.” Miranda wiped her eyes. “I should be glad that her father found her and wants her. But I'm not. I'm not!” She started to cry again. Bea patted her back, and Lauren smoothed the hair away from her face.

After several minutes, Miranda wiped her eyes and looked at her friends. “I think I'll take a shower now.” She went into the bathroom, stripped off her clothes, and turned on the faucet. It did feel good to let the warm water sluice over her hair
and body. When she emerged, Lauren was back from the store. She'd brought a log of goat cheese and a baguette, a couple of ripe, Jersey tomatoes along with several plums and a box of cookies. Miranda looked down at the food Bea had assembled on the plate. It was good to eat something again, good to be with her friends.

Lauren didn't mention her kids once, and Bea told them funny stories about the production in Oklahoma: the time she mistook toothpaste for hair gel in the darkened wings and emerged on stage with her head coated in Crest; the stage manager who chewed cinnamon sticks in his effort to quit smoking. Before they left, Bea made her promise to check in the next day. “You can call in the morning,” she said. “I'll be waiting.” And she told Lauren she'd be in touch with her too. No one said a word about Courtney.

When she was alone again, Miranda contacted her office and then called Eunice to check in on her father; she told Eunice she would visit him over the weekend. At least she would not have to talk about Celeste; he would not even remember her. Her heart still felt like a piece of lunar rock—pocked, cold, dead—but something had shifted inside.

Early that evening, there was yet another knock at her door. She walked right over to open it, sure that Mrs. Castiglione would be there, bearing a plate of meatballs or ziti. Miranda even smiled at the thought. But instead, Courtney was standing there; under her arm was Fluff, her five-pound, high-strung-to-the-point-of-hysteria Pomeranian.

“You came here with your dog?” Miranda liked dogs, but Fluff was an exception; the dog was a quivering mess much of the time and had a bark high-pitched enough to crack a wineglass.

“I didn't want to leave him at home; he gets on Harris's nerves.”

Miranda could well understand why but thought better of saying so.

Meanwhile, Courtney was eyeing her appraisingly. “You've lost weight.”

“I haven't been eating,” said Miranda, aware that she was still barring the entrance.

“Well, you look terrific, though it's a hell of a way to go about it.”

“It's not like I had a choice.”

“I know,” said Courtney. “That's why I came. Aren't you going to let me in?”

Reluctantly, Miranda stepped aside and allowed Courtney to come into the apartment. She set Fluff on the floor, and instantly, the dog began to bark.

“Is there any way to quiet him?” Miranda was worried about Mrs. Castiglione, who was no fan of dogs.

“Sorry.” Courtney scooped the dog up; the barking stopped as quickly as it had started. “He has separation anxiety, but he's fine if he's with me.” Sitting down on the couch, Courtney settled the dog on her lap, where it appeared to be calm—at least for the moment. “Aaron told me you'd decided not to pursue the court case.” Aaron was the lawyer Harris had recommended.

“He was very helpful,” Miranda said. “Thank Harris for giving me his name.” She waited. “And thank you too, Courtney.”

Courtney shrugged. “It was the least I could do.” She looked straight at Miranda. “He told me about that piece in
Metro
, the one that woman, Jennifer, or whatever her name is, wrote—”

“Geneva Bales, and she's not a woman; she's a viper! I wish I'd never met her. If only I hadn't agreed to the first profile, Jared Masters would never have known about Celeste. And the way she turned around and made him seem like some romantic, tragic hero! I can't even stand to think about it!” Miranda tried taking a slow, deep breath to calm herself; she'd been feeling okay for the last couple of hours, but this conversation was pulverizing her fragile equilibrium to so much dust.

“I know,” Courtney said gently. “When I read it, I felt terrible for you, Miranda. I really did.” Miranda said nothing, so Courtney went on. “I know you think I've been evil-bitch-friend for these last few months.”

“You're the one who said it first. . . .” Miranda crossed her arms over her chest.

“And maybe I am guilty of being an emotional clod. I didn't realize how much you wanted a baby.”

“
I
didn't realize how much I wanted a baby,” Miranda said. “Not until I found her, not until she was mine. And now . . .”

“Maybe it's not all over yet,” Courtney said. “Wouldn't her father let you see her sometimes?”

“Maybe he would; he's asked to meet me. More than once.” Miranda used the front of her shirt to blot her tears.

“So why don't you do it? It might be better than this. Right now it feels like she's dead to you. She's dead and you're mourning her. But she's alive. Alive, well, and living uptown with her dad. You know, it's got to be hard for him too. He wasn't expecting a kid; now he's got one he has to raise all by himself, no mom in the picture.”

“He might have a girlfriend. . . .”

“The magazine piece said he was single.”

Maybe Courtney had something there. Miranda had been so adamant about refusing to meet Celeste's father because she
thought it would bring her too much pain. But would it be any more painful than what she was now feeling? It was even possible it could be less. And the thought that she might see Celeste, hold her in her arms—Courtney was right. She was reacting as if Celeste had died. But she hadn't. She hadn't! This was the happiest thought she had had in days, if not weeks. And Courtney was the one who'd led her to it.

“I was pretty angry at you,” she said. “I thought you were undermining me.”

“I'm sorry, Miranda. Really and truly sorry.” Courtney said nothing more, but used one hand to fiddle with her earring, twisting it around and around on her earlobe. The other hand remained on Fluff's shining, red-brown fur.

Miranda knew how difficult it was for her to say she was sorry—about anything. She'd always been this way. And she realized that Courtney's silence meant she was
nervous
—nervous that Miranda might not accept her apology.

“You said a lot of hurtful, callous things,” Miranda began. “But I appreciate your coming here today; what you said about Celeste made me feel better. And you know what else? I've missed you.” As soon as the words were out, Miranda knew they were true. Courtney, never a hugger, reached out and took her hand; they sat like that for several minutes. Fluff snorted, a tiny, contented canine snort. And later, after Courtney and the dog had left, Miranda had the best night of sleep she'd had since Celeste's father had surfaced.