At the Corner of King Street (16 page)

Zeb stowed the cradle away and with it the happiness and hope for his life with Janet.

He ran a calloused thumb down the smooth spindle, trying to recapture the few months Eric slept in the cradle. He reached back, hoping to catch a memory, but most flittered out of reach and the few he caught were tainted by Janet's problems.

When she finally vanished, he searched for her with no luck. When
it became clear she wasn't coming home, he was relieved. The roller-coaster ride was over.

And now, Janet was back and she'd given birth to another man's baby. He traced his hand over the end of the cradle where he'd carved an elaborate “T” for Talbot.

Images of Carrie lying in the dresser drawer pushed to the front of his mind. She was safe and secure, but the makeshift bed was as rigged and half-assed as the life that waited for her.

Eric had him forever. Carrie had Addie, but for how long?

“Dad?” Eric's voice drifted up from the bottom of the attic stairs.

“Yeah, bud?”

“Can I come up?”

A smile tweaked the edges of Zeb's lips. When Eric was three, Zeb left the attic steps down as he was hauling up their lone box of Christmas ornaments. The boy scrambled all the way up the ladder and stood in the attic before Zeb realized what was happening. Seeing the boy perched on the lip of the attic landing with a dozen steps and a ten-foot fall inches behind him nearly gave Zeb a heart attack. He calmly coaxed the boy into the attic closer to him. The boy was thrilled to oblige. Only when Zeb had wrapped strong arms around the toddler did he release the breath he held. Eric knew no fear and spent the next ten minutes asking about all the items stored in the attic.

“I'll be right there, Eric. Remember our deal, stay off the stairs.”

“But that was when I was a baby.”

“I think we agreed you'd not come up here alone until you were thirty.”

“Daaaaad.”

Zeb released his hold on the cradle and moved toward the steps where he found Eric waiting, foot poised on the first rung. With one
last glance toward the cradle, he clicked off the light and climbed down the stairs.

“What were you doing up there?” Eric backed up a step so Zeb could fold the stairs and push them back up into the attic.

“Just poking around.”

“Why?”

Zeb jostled Eric's hair. “I was looking at the cradle that you slept in when you were a baby.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. Seeing Carrie made me think about you when you were so small.”

“So, is she my sister?”

“She's your half-sister. You two have the same mom.”

“You aren't her dad.”

“No.” Whatever annoyance he felt wasn't over Janet's sex life. He knew she'd moved on to other men a long time ago. His annoyance stemmed from the wreckage Janet created without a second thought.

“Who's her dad?” he asked.

“I don't know.”

His head tilted. “Does Mom know?”

“I suppose.” He searched for any jealously over his ex-wife's love life but found none. “But that's not exactly our business.”

Eric raised a finger. “Does Addie know?”

“I don't know. That's between the two of them.”

Eric padded back toward his bedroom and climbed in the bed shaped like a race car. When Zeb had bought the bed for the boy, it all but swallowed him up. Now he could see the bed might last another year before it was too small.

“Is Addie going to keep Carrie?”

“I don't know.” He'd expected her to bolt by now. He was surprised
when she didn't accept the first foster family proposed by Social Services. Though she wasn't committed to raising the baby or embracing the family, she did seem to care about the child.

His mom and dad loved him and gave him a stable home. Janet only hinted about her childhood but from what little she said about motels, going hungry, and periods without her mother, it couldn't have been easy for her. And Addie—well, as the lone sane one in the family, she surely suffered more.

Addie broached the subject of her family to him the night before his wedding to Janet. But he was too damn in love with Janet to care. Whatever might be wrong with his bride-to-be wasn't too big a burden for him. He would summon the discipline and love to fix it. He considered Addie weak when she reiterated Janet had problems that weren't easily fixed. He disagreed, insisting that her lack of commitment was the root of the problem.

And so, when he and Janet ran into trouble halfway through her pregnancy, he refused to reach out to Addie for advice. He dug in his heels. But the harder he worked to keep Janet stable, the farther she drifted away. Everything he did was wrong. He spent too much time with her or not enough. He was too controlling or too uncaring. He hovered, was gone too much.

After the car accident, she checked herself out of the hospital and vanished. He still believed he could make it work and it wasn't until he tracked her to Seattle and found her high and wearing a skimpy cocktail dress that he realized he could not fix Janet or break the curse that ailed a Shire woman.

Zeb could have dusted off the cradle, polished it until it shined, and delivered it to Addie. But in the end, the crib wouldn't make a bit of difference in Carrie's life. He couldn't help her any more than he could have helped Janet, his own wife, the mother of his child.

My labor pains have begun. The doctor took a sudden chill days ago and can barely sit up. I fear he will not be able to help me with the birthing. Penny suggested the midwife, Faith. At first I could not give her an answer. Did I fear giving birth in this unholy land without my husband's help more than Faith's assistance? I wanted this child more than anything and would do what I must to usher it safely into the world. When another pain gripped me, I gave my consent to summon Faith.

J
anet had been moved to a mental health facility on Thursday. I arranged for the social worker to take her, fearing if she saw me, she'd change her mind. Ms. Willis reported that Janet seemed relieved to enter her new room and refused to discuss the baby.

On Friday morning, Ms. Willis was due to arrive at the warehouse at eight. Rising early, I fed Carrie and dressed her in a clean outfit. However, the best I could do for myself was to pull a comb through my hair and put on the last clean T-shirt in Grace's clearance-rack bag. However, my jeans remained dusted with the dirt and dust of the hearth's deconstruction. Food amounted to a spoonful of peanut butter and a half a cup of coffee.

I rushed to the door, anxiously glancing around the place, expecting Ms. Willis to find us lacking. From the moment I could walk, I sought approval first from Mom and then Grace. I lapped up Scott's approval, always a little hungry for more. Maybe I'd never feel full and
would continue to gobble up approval whatever I could find. Whatever the reason, I needed the social worker to think the best of me.

“Why're you glancing around like a nervous cat?” Grace asked. She leaned against the kitchen door, a cup of coffee in her hand. “The place looks fine. The social worker won't find this house lacking.”

Her defiance did little to ease my nerves. “I want it to be perfect.”

She studied the black depths of her mug. “She'll like us just fine.”

“How do you know?”

Grace shrugged. “It really doesn't matter. The baby isn't staying.”

I reached for a rag and wiped the counter for the third time. “Don't you care about what other people think about us?”

“Nope. And you shouldn't either.”

I rubbed a scratch on the counter over and over until I realized I'd never be able to wipe it away. “Maybe.”

The bell downstairs rang.

Hands trembling, I draped the washcloth back over the sink and hurried down the stairs to find Ms. Willis standing on the landing.

Dressed in a dark pair of pants and a crisp white shirt, the social worker fastened her hair into a practical knot. “Ms. Morgan.”

“Ms. Willis. Please come up.”

Ms. Willis followed me, her practiced gaze sweeping over the eclectic furniture in the living room. “I've driven by this place a million times but never been inside. I was always curious about the business.”

“It's my aunt's business,” I said. “Her mother started a collection and Grace turned it into a business.”

Her eyes danced with fascination. “This is very charming.”

Grace stepped out of the kitchen. “Can I offer you a coffee?”

“No, thank you,” Ms. Willis said. “I have a full day and the sooner we can talk the better. You must be Grace Shire.”

Grace did not extend her hand. “The baby's sleeping.”

Hoping my smile softened Grace's tone, I moved between the two. “Would you like me to get her?” I asked. “She doesn't have much, but I've packed it. Extra diapers, formula, clothes.” Clearing my throat, I stood straighter. “Did you find a family for Carrie?”

“Yes. It's not as large as the first and they are very adept at caring for special needs children.”

“Carrie isn't special needs.”

Ms. Willis frowned, and I sensed that after meeting Janet, she, too, worried about the child's long-term mental health. “I understand, but you said yourself she's not an easy baby.”

“She's demanding and knows what she wants. As long as she gets it, she's fine.” That was a perfect description of Janet.

“But you would agree she needs a parent who is skilled at handling babies with issues.”

Issues. Carrie's issue was that she was born to an unstable woman, no father, and into a family known for having troubles. “To peg her as ‘special needs' when she's only days old doesn't seem fair.”

“I'm not pegging her. I'm trying to find a family that can take care of her and understand that she is not going to be an easy baby.”

Grace shifted her stance, and a sigh that sounded like an oath spilled over her lips.

I folded my arms. “What are the special needs issues of the other children?”

Ms. Willis raised a brow. “I thought you needed to leave for a business meeting later today and you couldn't keep the baby any longer.”

Her tone scraped over my nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard. “Yes.”

“Then I don't see where you have a choice. You can't put a baby aside for a day or two when it suits you.”

An invisible wall pressed against my back. Scott was the one person in my life who was stable and sure, but tossing the kid into the system branded as “special needs” or “difficult” dug into my gut like broken glass.

“How much time do you need at the vineyard?” Grace asked.

I didn't look her way, not really sure why she cared. “If I left now, I could be back by this time tomorrow.”

“Twenty-four hours,” Grace confirmed.

“That's about right.”

“And after that, could you stay until Janet gets out of the hospital?” Grace asked.

“I suppose. That's about four weeks.” I ran through the upcoming calendar at the vineyard. “We really don't have much going on at the vineyard for the next month.”

“I'll watch the baby for twenty-four hours,” Grace said. “Then you come back and see to her until Janet can.”

Grace's expression was not filled with joy, but hardened with determination.

Ms. Willis glanced between Grace and me. “You're telling me you two will keep the child until her mother can care for her?”

Grace and I stared at each other and, without a word exchanged, entered into a pact. Together, we would find a way to care for Carrie.

“Yes,” we said together.

I was well into my labor pains when Faith arrived. Pain tightened my belly and robbed me of breath and word. As Faith shrugged off her cape, I saw then that her belly was round and heavy with child. The doctor lay on a pallet by the hearth. The fever overwhelmed him and he could barely speak.

I heard Faith and Penny whispering and I demanded to know what they were saying, but Penny only pressed a damp towel to my head and told me not to fret. Before I could protest, Faith opened my mouth and poured a foul-tasting liquid into my mouth. I coughed and spit. The pains did not vanish, but suddenly I could distance myself from them.

My son was delivered two hours later—strong, fit, and with a lusty cry. Faith gave Penny a sack of herbs and told her to make a tea for the doctor. Penny did as Faith instructed and my husband's fever broke that night.

Dr. Goodwin and I named our son William. I am grateful to have my son and, if the truth were known, I am grateful to be spared the worst travails of labor.

I could not meet Faith's gaze or thank her for coming to our aid. I fear only witchcraft could free a woman of the childbirth or break a man's fever so easily.

F
or the first time in days, I was able to sit and simply be with my own thoughts as I drove through Old Town toward the Beltway encircling the Washington metro area. But as I settled into my car, tension, not relief, rippled up my spine. I was racing another clock. Tick. Tock.

A nervous energy buzzed as I changed lanes. Had I forgotten something? I made plenty of bottles for Grace to feed the baby. I washed Carrie's clothes last night so there were a half dozen outfits to wear. Janet would not be an issue. The stones were a problem for another day.

And still, this persistent fear that I missed an important detail dogged me as I drove around the Beltway and headed west on I-66.

I reached for my cell and dialed Scott's number. Three rings later, the call went to voice mail. A little relieved, I said, “Scott, this is Addie. I'm on the road and will be home in two hours. Looking forward to tonight. It's going to be a great success.”

I had planned and over-planned for the event, but I wasn't at all confident that it would be a success. I glanced in the rearview mirror at the place cards. I never went through them or cross-checked seating charts. Damn. Such a small detail now, but tonight it could blow up into a disaster. Damn. A week ago, I would have freaked out. Now I did not have the energy. The event was now officially open seating and I'd deal with any problem that arose.

I began my calls to the vendors. The caterer was top of the list. The owner of the small firm answered on the third ring. “Sweet Treats Catering.”

“Suzanne, this is Addie Morgan. Checking in on tonight.” My heart beat fast, hard against my ribs, as I braced for trouble.

“We're all set, Addie, and will be at the property in about three hours.”

“Great. I'll see you then. What do you need from me?”

“A check for the balance when I arrive.”

“E-mail me the final balance, and I'll take care of it.”

“Great.”

And so it went with the calls. Next was the vendor who was delivering large potted ficus trees adorned with white lights. And finally the cake vendor, who made a specialty cake shaped like a bottle of wine. It was a surprise for Scott. The secret cake, like the place cards, seemed like such a big deal days ago. I worried over chocolate and vanilla, Italian buttercream and whipped cream. I even fretted over the raspberry filling. Now I didn't really care if he saw the cake early or never.

“Addie, we have the cake ready to go and switched out the flavors as you requested.”

“I'm sure it'll be great. See you in a few hours.”

“Would you like to go over the details one more time?”

“As long as it's cake, I don't care.”

The baker hesitated and I could almost feel her relief wafting through the phone. “Sounds good.”

The highways gave way to four lane roads, which quickly narrowed to two lanes. Concrete thinned until the landscape around me transformed into rolling hills.

During my first drive out to the vineyard seven years ago, I was running away from Alexandria. Still battered from the car accident, I was tense, scared, and praying that this new temporary job would work out so I didn't have to return.

My full-circle life brought me back to the same spot—only this time I wasn't running away from home, I was running toward it. I belonged here now. Not in the city. My life was with Scott. He loved me.

The shrill of my phone cut through me, startling me from my thoughts. A glance at the display and I saw Scott's smiling face. Drawing in a deep breath, I picked up the phone and grinned before I hit Answer and said, “Scott! I'm only a half hour from home.”

“Jesus, Addie, this redefines cutting it close. The phone has been ringing off the hook today.”

I never redirected the office calls to my cell. Damn it. That was a rookie mistake. “I've called all the vendors, and they'll be at the vineyard in about an hour. It's going to be fine, and I'll get right on the return calls as soon as I hit the door.”

A forced breath shuddered through the line. “Addie, I'm going insane.”

“It's going to be fine, baby. I'm almost home and will take charge.”

“I really don't know what I would do without you.”

“You never have to worry,” I said. A speed limit sign warned me to slow and, though tempted to race past it, I didn't have time for a ticket. “Do you have all the wines at the tasting room?”

“We have one hundred bottles total. Thirty red and seventy white. It's warm and people will want the white. Do you think those ratios are okay?”

People would guzzle the wine and devour the food. Some would talk about bouquets and flavors and aromas, but most wouldn't know the difference. “They're perfect. It's going to be wonderful.”

“A reporter called me today.”

“From the wine magazine?”

“Yes. I used your cheat sheet of answers. It went smoothly.”

“You are a charmer, Scott. The press will love you.” That was a reminder to make press calls in the remaining twenty-eight-minute drive.

“I miss you.”

“Me, too.”

“See you soon.”

“Can't wait.” I hung up and dialed the editor of the local paper. The circulation was over ten thousand, but the editor was once a writer for
Food and Wine
magazine, and it didn't hurt to reach out. I also called the
Post
and a couple of D.C. area magazines that received releases. In all cases, I landed in voice mail, but you never knew who would show or what publicity would stick. As I rolled off the main road past the vineyard sign, I called Grace. She didn't pick up, and I left her a message. A glance at the clock told me that Carrie would be hungry now and no doubt Grace would be scurrying to feed her.

I parked in my spot next to the large tasting room beside two large white trucks. In the tasting room, I saw a befuddled Scott talking to a large, burly man with a clipboard. My purse still slung over my shoulder, and my cell gripped in my hand, I scrounged up a bright smile. “Mr. Warner. Do you have my ficus trees?”

Both men's gazes shifted to me and the relief was palpable. Scott
crossed to me instantly and kissed me on the cheek. He smelled of fresh air and grapes, and I smelled of sweat and baby milk.

“Addie!” Scott said.

“I've got this,” I said.

“Thank God,” Mr. Warner muttered.

I kissed Scott quickly on the lips. His nose wrinkled, and I sensed the unasked questions about my appearance and smell. “Do what you need to do. Go.”

He squeezed my hand and nodded. “See you soon.”

“Can't wait.”

Scott dashed out of the tasting room as I grinned at Mr. Warner. “You need a check.”

He nodded. “Yes, ma'am.”

“What about the centerpieces I ordered?”

He stared at me with a blank expression and then his skin paled. “Ma'am, we left them at the shop. I can run and get them.”

The round trip would take over an hour and that was too late. “Deduct it from my total cost. I don't have time to worry about them.”

“I can do that. Darn it all, I'm sorry.”

“No worries.”

He glanced up at me, bracing for anger and sarcasm, but found a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown. “Right. Thanks.”

And for the next two hours, I worked as a makeshift traffic cop directing vendors, writing checks, and arranging and rearranging tables and polishing wineglasses. A boost of adrenaline kept me moving, but if I sat for a moment, I'd never get up again.

By four, the room was a glittering display. Twenty round tables and the surrounding chairs covered in white linens filled the room. Sparkling wineglasses and polished plates and cutlery shined personally by me glittered in the soft afternoon light.

“Addie,” George, our vineyard manager, called from the doorway. “I got those grapevines like you asked for.”

“Excellent. Let's cut them into forty-inch strips and tie them in circles. They are going to be the centerpieces.”

“Tied-up grapevines?”

Not the elaborate pieces originally made, but they would do. Outside, we cut and twisted the green vines into less-than-perfect circles, but when I set them in the center of the tables and placed the large white candles in the middle of the vines, it looked kind of rustic and quaint.

By the time the tables were dressed, less than twenty minutes remained before guests arrived, so I drove up the dirt road toward the small house Scott and I shared. Without a glance around the house, I stripped off clothes and moved toward the bathroom. A thinning mist in the room told me Scott already showered. The khakis and white shirt I pressed for him last weekend were missing from the closet so I knew he'd changed. As I turned on the shower, he appeared in the bathroom doorway. He glanced at me and frowned, but I silenced him with a raised hand as I ducked into the shower.

I dunked my head under the hot spray of the water and quickly lathered up shampoo. This was my first real shower in days. I'd have paid money to linger for five or ten minutes. But as I rinsed, the water grew cooler and cooler and by the time the last of the soap melted off my body, the spray of water was ice cold. Trembling, I shut off the water and reached for a towel, hoping to warm the sudden chill that iced my bones.

“Sorry about the hot water, babe,” Scott shouted down the hallway. “Lost track of time while I was showering.”

“That's okay.”

“See you at the party.”

“Love you.”

“Me, too,” he said as he left.

Out of the shower, I toweled off and then twisted my hair in the towel. I changed into a white sundress. In my former life, there would have been time to shop for accessories or maybe another dress, but in my new life, I was grateful to be clean. A quick application of makeup added pop to my features and instead of drying my hair I twisted the curls into a French twist. Ringlets framed my face and, again, it wasn't the super sophisticated look once planned, but it worked.

I dug a pair of older sandals from the closet, momentarily wishing for time to buy new shoes, and slipped them on before heading outside. The sun settled a little lower on the horizon and cast a warm, lovely glow over the rolling land covered with green vineyards. For a moment, I stopped and stared at the sunset, realizing how much I missed it the last few days. Soon, I'd be back. Soon my life would be normal again.

The crunch of gravel heralded the arrival of our guests and I forgot about sandals, sunsets, or normal.

The flash of a camera bulb told me the photographer was here. God, I'd forgotten all about him.

A grinning Scott stood at the entrance of the tasting room as the guests arrived. I nestled close to his side, and the two of us greeted guests before George drew me away with questions about serving sizes and limits.

“Everyone gets a half glass and we'll limit the number of servings to three.”

“Some people will want more.”

“I'm not sanctioning drunk driving.”

George glanced at the bartender and held up his hand as the man prepared to pour a glass of wine. “We have a guest who's already on his second glass.”

My gaze settled on the man at the bar. Mr. Dixon. He was a rich and well-connected landowner who was known in town as a drunk. “Three-glass limit, George. If he has an issue, send him to me, not Scott. I'll deal with him.”

“Sure thing, Addie.” As a waiter passed with a tray of whites, George grabbed one. “Have a glass.”

I accepted the glass and took a long sip. The dry white slid over my tongue and I welcomed not only the flavor, but the kick of alcohol that softened so many edges that hardened over the last couple of days. I took a second sip. “Thank you.”

“What the heck happened to you in Alexandria? You look like you've been hit by a truck.”

“It was a six-pound, six-ounce truck.”

“What?”

“Just family stuff. But thank you for asking.” I dug my cell from my pocket to see if Grace called me back. No calls. Was that good or bad? Carrie wasn't easy and Grace wasn't patient. The two were not a good mix.

Scott came up to me, his grin nervous and expectant. “Are we ready to get started?”

I slid the phone back into my pocket. “We are in about five minutes. I have a detail or two to check and I'll kick off the night.”

His grin softening to genuine, he leaned in and kissed me on the lips. “Have I told you how much I love you?”

“Never enough. Never enough.”

“After tonight, I'll do a better job of it. I won't be so distracted.” A local newspaper reporter moved toward us and Scott glanced away. “I'll be right back.”

“I know.”

I moved to the ladies' room and dug the phone out. I dialed Grace's
number. She didn't have a cell but a rotary phone hung on the kitchen wall. No answering machine made the entire setup Stone Age. Who didn't have a cell? The phone rang three times, four times, and then a breathless, “What the hell?”