You Were Meant For Me (5 page)

“Ms. Berenzweig?” A young black woman in a trim gray suit extended her hand. “I'm Joy Watkins.” Miranda was disappointed; maybe Joy Watkins would not want to place the nonwhite baby in a white woman's care. Then she was ashamed of the racist thought; why should she have made any assumptions about how Joy Watkins would perceive or judge her?

“Please come upstairs,” Miranda said, and together, they climbed to the third floor.

“No elevator,” said Joy, who took out a notebook as soon as they got to the apartment.

“These old row houses don't have elevators. I'm used to it.” Did she sound defensive? Hostile? Both?

“It might be hard for a child to climb all these stairs,” Joy said.

“It's good exercise,” Miranda offered hopefully. “Exercise is important.”

“Very,” said Joy, “especially given the alarming rise of childhood obesity.”

“Oh, I'm just steps from Prospect Park,” Miranda said, seizing the opportunity and running with it. “There are two playgrounds right nearby and a third over at Ninth Street. Lots of playground options in the neighborhood. Lots.” Oh, the babbling again!

“I'd like to look around,” Joy said, notebook at the ready. “Where should we start?”

Miranda took her around the apartment, trying to see it through her eyes. There were books—lots of them—on the shelves. A small flat-screen television. An upright piano that had been her mother's. “Do you play?” Joy wanted to know.

“I did,” Miranda said truthfully. “I keep it more out of sentimental value. My mother loved to play.” It was a sweet memory—her mother, leaning in toward the keys, a small private smile on her face. Miranda had always wished for greater musical aptitude, but the lessons were torture, the practicing almost as bad, and she had been so relieved when her mother finally agreed that she could stop.

Joy moved on, taking note of the soft rugs, the abundance of light and air. She made a cursory tour of Miranda's bedroom and spent more time in the baby's room, walking to the window and peering outside at the yard below. “Southern exposure,” she said. Miranda nodded eagerly—wasn't this a real
estate buzzword?—until she heard Joy's next words: “This room could get very hot. Do you have air-conditioning?”

“I have a ceiling fan,” Miranda said lamely. “But I could easily put in a window unit here.”

“And window guards too—you'll need them everywhere.” Joy was busily writing in her notebook.

“Of course. I can have it done immediately.”

They spent a few minutes in the bathroom; as Bea had predicted, Joy checked the medicine cabinet, where nothing more potent than Advil—in a childproof bottle!—was present. The kitchen too seemed to pass muster, though Joy declined an offer of apple cake with a curt little shake of her head. Miranda ardently hoped she did not think she was being bribed. Then Joy extended her hand and thanked Miranda for her time. “You'll be hearing from us,” she said.

“When?” Miranda pinned all her hopes on that single word.

“It usually takes a month or so, but we've been told to expedite this placement, so you'll be hearing within a week.”

Miranda said nothing. Judge Waxman had been telling the truth.

“We were looking at an April eighth placement, correct?”

Miranda nodded vigorously. She had filled out all the paperwork describing her child-care plans for the next few months. The baby's arrival would coincide with the start of her three-week vacation, time that had to be taken before the Web site launch. After that she would hire a nanny from a well-regarded agency whose name Lauren had given her; she already had three potential candidates.

Miranda accompanied Joy down the stairs and waited on the stoop until she had gone up the street and turned the
corner. As soon as she stepped back inside the house, Mrs. Castiglione was there to meet her in the hall. She must have been listening. “Is everything all right, Miranda?” she asked.

“Everything's fine,” Miranda assured her. She liked her landlady, but she was not ready to confide in her just yet; what if Joy Watkins decided this wasn't a suitable home for the baby? Sharing the story now would only amplify the disappointment later. No. She would keep her own counsel, at least for now.

But looking into Mrs. Castiglione's creased and worried face, she felt compelled to offer her something. “How about a piece of apple cake?” she said. “Just baked this morning. Wait here.” And without waiting for a reply, she darted up the stairs to her kitchen, cut a generous slice, and eased it onto a plate before returning to the hallway.

Mrs. Castiglione looked down at the cake and back up at Miranda. “You're a nice girl,” Mrs. Castiglione declared, as if she'd been pondering the issue for some time and had only just now come to her conclusion. “And nice things should happen to nice girls.” Then she turned and went back into her own apartment.

Miranda watched her go, a slight, stooped figure with an impeccably shellacked silver beehive. Did becoming a mother to an abandoned infant found on a subway platform fall into Mrs. Castiglione's rubric of
nice things
?

M
iranda stood outside the Swedish coffee bar, looking through the big window. Evan Zuckerbrot—she recognized him from his online photo—was sitting at a small wooden table, waiting for her. Or maybe the table wasn't small; it was that Evan was so
big.
The photo had managed to conceal that he was a beanpole of a guy, tall and somewhat gangly; his hands, wrapped around the white mug he held, were enormous. Other than that, he seemed attractive enough, at least from here. Was it his height that was somehow off-putting, or was she still not over Luke? She had an urge to turn and head for home; it would be easy enough to text him with some excuse. But she simply couldn't be that unkind to someone whose only fault, thus far, was being excessively tall. Forcing herself to smile like she meant it, she walked through the door.

“Miranda.” He stood. “So nice to meet you in person.” He
was easily six foot three. Or maybe four. In his huge hands, he held a bunch of daffodils and offered them to her.

“They're lovely; thank you,” she said. She took them and tilted her head to look up at him. He had nice eyes, she decided—large and an unusual shade of deep bluish green. Nice smile too. “And thanks for coming to Park Slope.”

“No problem.” He sat down and she did the same; then he politely asked the waitress if he could have an extra glass of water for the flowers. “So they don't wilt before you get home.” The waitress, no doubt charmed by his request, produced a vase rather than a glass, and as Miranda slipped the daffodils in, it occurred to her that in all their time together, Luke had
never
brought her flowers; he'd always assumed the cosseted role in their relationship—the sensitive artist whose talent needed nurturing and whose ego, bolstering. But Luke also had a lean, sinewy body that fit so perfectly against her own and a slow, maddening way of kissing that had left her breathless every time.

“You're even prettier than the picture you posted,” Evan said after they had ordered.

What could she say to that?
You're even taller than yours?
She glanced across the room, and fortunately their coffees arrived at that very moment so she could occupy herself with depositing a couple of sugar cubes—brown, grainy, and oh so rustic, as was the trend these days—in her cup. “I don't take very good pictures,” she finally said.

“That's because you haven't had the right photographer. The lighting in that photo was all wrong; it created shadows just where you don't want them.”

“Maybe I should have hired you,” she quipped.

“Or maybe not. If too many other guys had seen how attractive you are, I might not have gotten a chance.”

For the next few minutes, they embarked on the obligatory fact-checking requisite to first dates: Evan was an only child, raised in East Meadow, Long Island. He'd been obsessed with cameras and taking pictures since childhood, and he'd gone to Pratt Institute, where he'd studied photography in a more serious way; now he was a professional who did mostly catalog and commercial work. “Mostly it's work to pay the bills, not to feed the soul, but I do some work of my own too.” He held up a camera whose leather strap was on his shoulder. “Small format, black-and-white.”

“Sounds intriguing.” The camera looked unfamiliar to her; she guessed it was not digital, but something older. “What do you photograph?”

“Whatever looks interesting. I can't predict exactly what it will be; that's why I keep the camera with me. I want to be ready in case the muse taps my shoulder.”

Miranda had heard plenty about “the muse” from Luke, and the word set off warning bells; was he going to be another self-absorbed, entitled user of a guy? But she was getting ahead of herself.

“What about you?” he asked. “Your profile said you're a food editor. Did you go to cooking school? Train in Europe or something like that?”

“No. I grew up on the Upper West Side, but before my freshman year in high school, we moved to Larchmont. Then, in college, I did the usual liberal-arts kind of thing—heavy on the humanities, light on the math and science. No cooking, though.”

“So what got you into food?”

“My mother.”

“She was a good cook?”

Miranda laughed. “God, no! She hated to cook. Her motto
was,
Why waste time making what you can buy or thaw?
Once, when I was in summer camp, I begged her to send me brownies. Not from a bakery, not from a store, but real, honest-to-God homemade brownies. The mother of one of my bunkmates used to send her care packages, and they always included brownies. I was so jealous.”

“Did she do it?”

“Yes. I was so excited when I got the package. When I opened it, I found a box full of what were basically crumbs. She'd made the brownies from a mix, and they were so dry they crumbled in transit. I just threw them out. And never asked again.”

“So you learned to cook to compensate?” He really did seem interested.

“Not exactly. She got sick when I was a freshman in college. Cancer. The chemo took away her appetite, and she totally lost interest in food. When I came home for the summer, I started playing around in the kitchen. I wanted to tempt her to eat. To live, I guess.”

“Did it work?”

Miranda looked down into her coffee cup. “Sort of. I did get her to eat—for a while. But she died anyway.”

“You were young to lose your mother,” he said. “I'm sorry.”

“I'm sorry I didn't get to know her better. That we weren't closer.” She looked down at her coffee mug. What was she doing, going on about this now?

“How about you? Do you like to cook?” She was on a first date; she wanted to veer off the topic of her mother's death—now.

“Are you kidding? I eat out three times a week and order in the rest of the time.”

Miranda was frankly disappointed by a guy who couldn't cook; Luke had often joined her in the kitchen, and preparing a meal was just one of the things they did well together. But Evan was already on to the next question. “So what's happening with that baby you found?”

She had only to hear the question before she took off nonstop for the next fifteen minutes, recounting the visit from Joy Watkins in considerable detail. When she finally came up for air, she realized that she might have blown this date entirely. Not so. Evan didn't seem in the least bit put off by her recitation. If anything, he seemed to be very engaged. “Do you have any pictures of her?” he wanted to know.

“Well, since you asked . . .” She pulled out her phone. There was the baby in the rosebud dress, as well as in the various sweaters and other garments Miranda had bought. He looked through them all before handing her back the phone. “What's her name?” he then asked.

“She doesn't have one yet. At the hospital they're calling her Baby Doe, which is kind of cute since she does have big, dark doe eyes.”

“But you. What do you call her?”

“I haven't named her yet.”

“Even in your own mind?”

Miranda shook her head. “I won't let myself until she's at home with me. I just don't want to be—”

“Disappointed. I get it.”

The conversation hovered at a crossroads. Miranda knew she could have gone deeper and said more about how much she wanted this child and how crushed she would be if she did not get her. Instead, she opted for something less soul-baring and more neutral about a photography exhibition
reviewed in the
New York Times
; had he seen it? It was all perfectly pleasant if not memorable; had she not been thinking so obsessively about the baby, she might have made more of an effort to connect.

When the check came, Evan insisted on paying. Then he lifted the flowers from their vase and gave them, dripping slightly, to Miranda. As she took them, he caught her hand and brought it to his lips for a kiss. “I hope you don't mind,” he said. “I wanted to kiss you, but we're in a public place and all.”

“I don't mind at all,” she said. No one had ever used
that
move on her before; it was both goofy and charming. Luke never, ever would have done such a thing. It was too bad that she didn't feel more of a physical spark; Evan really was a nice guy.

They stood in front of the coffee bar saying good-bye—Evan was headed to the subway and Miranda, to take care of a few errands—when suddenly Evan bolted toward the curb. Miranda was too surprised to be offended; where was he going? When he darted into the street, the reason for his erratic behavior became clear. There was a little girl—a toddler really—alone in the crosswalk, and the driver in the oncoming car could not have seen her over the windshield. But Evan had, and he yanked her out of the way to safety. Then he frantically gestured for the driver to stop.

Miranda remained frozen in place while the rest of the scene erupted around her. The child had tumbled and rolled to the curb, where a woman, presumably her mother, fell over her, crying, “Haley, Haley, are you all right?” The driver honked furiously and then got out of the car; his face whitened when he saw what might have happened. Other cars stopped too; the honking and blaring intensified. Cell phones were whipped out; someone called 911.

Miranda's gaze remained fixed on the little girl. Her eyes were closed, and there was a vivid swipe of blood on her pale face. Then she opened her eyes, saw her mother, and began to wail. “Haley!” said the mother, who was weeping hysterically now. “Baby, you came back to me! You came back!” Someone comforted the mother, offering her something to drink, a coat to put over the child.

After a few minutes, an ambulance pulled up, and two EMTs hopped out. “Was she hit?” asked one. He had a crew cut and a pockmarked face.

“Not by the car,” Evan said. He was still panting, and he wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket. “But I had to shove her pretty hard to get her out of the way.”

The EMT looked over at the girl, whose sobs had subsided. She was now whimpering in the circle of her mother's embrace. “She looks okay, but we'll take her to Methodist to have her checked out.” He and his partner walked over. The mother got up from the pavement and allowed the EMTs to carry Haley to the ambulance. She was just about to climb in when she abruptly turned and ran up to Evan. “I can't even begin to thank you,” she said, her voice cracking. “She would have been hit; you risked your
life
for her.”

“He wasn't going that fast,” Evan said. “I knew he'd stop.”

“How could you know that?” she said.
“How?”
She hugged him fiercely before sprinting back to the waiting ambulance.

A small crowd had gathered. People were recounting what had happened to those who had not seen it. A couple of them pointed to Evan. “You were great, man,” someone said.

“Yeah. You saved her.”

“I think she'll be fine,” Evan said. Miranda, who had by this time walked over to him, noticed how he deflected the
attention from himself. “How about you?” he asked her. “You seem pretty shaken.”

“I am,” she said. “But you're not.”

“I'm just glad it turned out the way it did.” He bent over to pick up the flowers, which Miranda had somehow let drop. “We'll talk soon, then?”

“Soon,” she echoed, and cradling the miraculously intact daffodils, turned and headed back to her apartment. Whatever errands she had planned could wait; right now, she had an urgent need to get home. Meeting Evan had confused her. He was brave, modest, and heroic in a crisis. And before that, he'd been a lively and an interesting enough coffee date. He was
gallant
; that's what he was. But none of this added up to the mysterious alchemy of desire. He'd be a great friend, Miranda decided. Someone to talk to, to rely on. Maybe that's the way this could play out.

Once back at her brownstone, she saw that the mail was neatly gathered and left on the table in the front hall; Mrs. Castiglione did this without fail every day. Miranda sifted through the small pile: bill, Victoria's Secret catalog, and a credit card offer. There, at the very bottom, was what she had been alternately waiting for and dreading: the letter from the Administration for Children's Services.

All thoughts of Evan and his rightness/not rightness were immediately driven out by the faint roaring in her ears. Was she hearing the rush of her own blood? For the second time, the daffodils slipped from her grasp. They fell to the floor, and the rubber band holding them together snapped, strewing a cascade of bright yellow flowers all over the carpet. But Miranda barely registered their presence; she was focused entirely on the letter, whose envelope she tore in her haste to open it.
We are very pleased
to tell you that you have been approved.
 . . . She
didn't read any more. She didn't need to. The sound in her ears had turned to a jubilant cheer. The baby—
her
baby—was coming home.

Still, when Evan called two days later, Miranda agreed to go out with him again. They met at the Brooklyn Academy of Music; there was a Charlie Chaplin festival in progress and they were going to see
City Lights
. Miranda was glad he'd suggested it. Charlie Chaplin was a favorite of hers, and apparently of his too. They sat very quietly in the theater, not touching or looking at each other—a good sign in Miranda's view. She could not abide people who talked or made any noise during a film—she was happy to spend an hour dissecting it later, but while she was watching, she wanted to lose herself completely.

Afterward, Evan insisted on escorting her home, and they walked along Brooklyn's Fifth Avenue, which had become an interesting mix of shops, bars, and restaurants in recent years. When they reached a café called the Chocolate Room, he turned to her. “Want to stop?”

“For chocolate? Always.”

Sitting at the round, marble-topped table over chocolate fondue, she told him about the baby who would soon be coming to live with her. He seemed really excited for her. Nice. A lot of men would have gone running for the hills at this point. Not Evan. “I want to meet her,” he said.