At the Corner of King Street (9 page)

Eric frowned but accepted his father's tone, which left no room for arguments. “Does she have a name yet?”

I glanced at the baby's wristband. “Baby Morgan.”

The boy wrinkled his nose. “What kind of name is that?”

Jostling didn't slow her cries. “I don't know. It's the one the hospital put on her wristband.”

“It's not a name.” Zeb shut off the water.

“Janet didn't name her.”

“Can I name her?” Eric asked. “I know lots of good names.”

Zeb tested the bottle again, dried it with a towel, and handed it to me. “Good to go.”

Grateful, I sat in one of the kitchen chairs and teased Baby Morgan's mouth as before and she accepted the bottle. Her cries slowed as she rooted and then latched. When she quieted and suckled, the adults in the room sighed.

Eric moved closer and studied her face. “She doesn't have much hair.”

“No,” I said. “And she pees in her pants.”

He giggled. “She's a baby. They do that.”

“I know. I have to remind myself to check.”

Eric touched the crest of her head with his fingertip. “She is soft.”

“Be careful, pal,” Zeb said. “The top of her skull is soft.”

“Why?”

“Her brain is still growing.”

Eric touched the top of his head and ran his fingers along the edge. “My head is hard. You say so all the time.”

Zeb smiled. “When you were a baby, it was soft.”

“Has my brain quit growing?”

“No. But you don't need the soft spot anymore.”

Eric nodded, his expression as stern as his father's as he considered Zeb's words. “She still needs a name, Addie.”

“I know.” I didn't have the right to give her a name she'd carry for the rest of her life. Wasn't that Janet's job? I suppose I couldn't keep calling her Baby Morgan, and if she went into foster care she'd need a full name.

“Can I name her?”

I looked up at Eric. “What kind of name do you have in mind?”

He studied the baby. “My dog's name is Shep, but he's a boy.”

His serious expression charmed me. “Better stay clear of boy names.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “There's a girl in my class named Hanna, but she smells funny and likes to kiss boys.” He touched the baby's hand. “There's a girl named Emily in school, but she's always laughing.”

“So no to Hanna and Emily.”

The boy nodded again.

“Is there a name you like?”

He looked at the baby and traced his hand over her head. “I like the name Carrie.”

“Carrie?” Movie images flashed of the fictional Stephen King character, blood-soaked and screaming at her prom tormentors. “Carrie?”

“Yeah.” Eric brightened. “My teacher's name is Carrie, but we don't call her Carrie. We call her Ms. Thompson. She's really nice. Brings candy on Fridays. I like her. And I like this little Carrie.”

“Carrie Morgan.” Out loud, the name sounded good. I could picture it on a business card one day. “Okay, Carrie works for me.”

Eric grinned. “Do you mean it? Can we really call her Carrie?”

“Sure. Carrie Morgan has a nice ring to it.”

“Why isn't it Carrie Talbot? I'm a Talbot.”

Zeb kept his expression neutral. “I'm not her dad, pal. You and Carrie have the same mom, but you have different dads.”

“But she has mom's name. Why doesn't she have her dad's name?” Eric traced a gentle finger over Carrie's foot.

“I don't know, pal.” Zeb struggled to suppress his frustration around Eric, but I could hear it bubbling to the surface. Some questions didn't have good answers.

I nestled the baby close, interested in Zeb's reaction. “What do you think about the name?”

He cleared his throat, but emotion still clung to him when he spoke. “It's a good name.”

Seven years ago, when he left me standing in front of the warehouse, near tears, I thought he was an unfeeling jerk. I could not see past his anger to his fear.

I saw it now. Dark circles under his eyes coupled with flashes of worry humming in the background. He was wondering how to handle it all in the shadow of Janet's return. The two of us were a part of a very special club created by Janet.

“It's official. When the social worker asks me what her name is, I'll tell her Carrie.”

When I came outside this morning, I saw Faith standing across the way, staring at my house. She did not speak, but her thin, waiflike body reminded me of a spirit. She raised a long, thin arm and pointed at me and simply stared. My baby kicked hard in my belly and I feared Faith bewitched me. I told her to leave or I would tell Mr. Talbot to beat her. She slowly lowered her arm, turned, and walked away. A cold shiver passed up my spine. I dreamed that night of Faith's stark blue eyes staring, accusing me.

F
rom a grocery sack, Zeb produced a baby front pack that he had used with Eric. Though the edges were faded and a bit tattered, it was clean. “Easy to use and it will help,” he said.

Had he also expected me to give in and take the baby? “Looks like a straight jacket.”

“You will thank me.”

I pulled the bottle out of Carrie's mouth and she started crying. I rocked her, whispered promises of chocolate and gold, but she kept wailing.

Eric pressed his hands to his ears, shouting, “She sure does cry a lot.”

Zeb quickly made excuses for them to leave and Grace quickly followed suit. I was alone, abandoned.

My phone vibrated in my back pocket, and I didn't need to look to know it was Scott. It was two in the afternoon. Damn. I owed him and the caterer a call. God, the time was racing so fast.

As Carrie cried and fussed, I spread out the baby pack on my bed
and tried to figure out how she fit into it. As I dug out instructions, the baby wailed louder. Finally, I realized this was a sling.

“Carrie, you do understand that crying doesn't help, right?” The baby kicked and wailed. Tears welled in my eyes.

I put the baby on the bed and she fussed louder. I threw the sling over my shoulder and then picked up Carrie and settled her in the pouch. At first, she scrunched into a ball on the bottom and that made her cry louder. My hands trembled as I fumbled to straighten her out and tighten the straps in place. As her cries cut through my head, I settled my hand under her bottom and moved across the room. “This is what a nervous breakdown feels like. Funny, it's far more stressful than I ever realized.”

The sound of my voice seemed to catch her attention and for a moment she silenced. Grabbing my cell, we headed down the stairs. “Might as well give you the grand tour of the joint, kid. Who knows, this salvage empire could be yours one day, because it sure as hell isn't going to be mine.”

Down the back staircase, I cradled her bottom in my hand as her wails echoed in the stairwell.

As a fussing Carrie and I moved onto the large first floor of the warehouse, I strolled down the nearly empty first aisle. It occurred to me that babies liked to hear singing, but I didn't know any baby songs. “Come on, Addie, you've got to know a song.” I sang the words. The kid grumbled and fussed. “Baby, baby, you can stop crying now. Auntie Addie is going insane,” I sang.

Her cries suggested if she could speak she'd have cussed.

My pace quickened as I moved past a row of fireplace mantels, swaying from side to side with each step. Carrie's cries silenced, started back up, then silenced. The stutter-step cry was an improvement. I kept walking, swaying. The silences grew longer and the fussing shorter until finally it stopped.

I reached for my cell and considered a call to the caterer, but Carrie's radar sensed this and she wailed. We kept walking.

At the end of the row, I turned around and walked back past the mantels. A few were made of white marble with gray veins running through them. Several more were made of mahogany. One was inlaid with carved roses whereas another sported simple, smooth lines. I ran my hand through the dust along the smooth, cool lines of another mantel made of a dark marble, imagining the house that once displayed such a lovely piece of art. It would have been early nineteenth century. A Federal-style house. Brick. Hardwood floors.

“Carrie, Carrie,” I sang. “Do you think the house was pretty? Do you think a little girl lived there that loved to play with dolls?”

As we moved deeper into the musty, dimly lit space, the baby's body relaxed into the sling. Again at the end of the row, I stood swaying my body back and forth. In a darkened corner, I heard little feet scurrying and knew the mice set up new nests. Grace wasn't setting her traps.

I swayed back up the second row. This section was once the home to all the stained glass windows, but most of the shelf space was filled with dust. The inventory consisted of a circular rose window ringed in walnut and a few small pieces. The next row, which held the doorknobs, was filled with bins that were mostly empty. From one bin, I pulled out a crystal doorknob cracked through the center.

“Baby Carrie, Grace hasn't been collecting, has she?” Grace loved the salvage business. Loved the idea of saving properties and bits of history and people's lives. I thought about her long, lean face and the deep lines grooved in pale skin around her once vivid blue eyes. The stroke stole so much.

Another problem. Another worry. Another compulsion to fix. And then I reminded myself that I wasn't in the fixing-of-lives business anymore. “Baby Carrie, how did my life get so screwed up?” I sang.

The baby settled against my chest and soon her breathing was deep and even. Patting her bottom with one hand, I dug my cell out of my back pocket, scrolled through the numbers. When I found the catering company's number, I hit Send. The phone rang. I rocked back and forth.

“Addie” came a breathless feminine voice. “Where've you been? Crisis!”

Suzanne owned Sweet Treats in the Shenandoah River Valley near the city of Staunton. She did small jobs for me and the events went smoothly. The Friday reception was our biggest job together to date, which was why two days ago we reviewed all the details.

“What crisis, Suzanne?” Tension crept through my body, twisting already tense muscles.

Metal clanked and rattled over the line, and I imagined red and yellow bracelets rattling on her wrist as she dug fingers through her hair. “I tried to talk to Scott, but the boy is clueless. He sounded a bit panicked when I asked about you.”

“I'm in Alexandria for a day or two. I'll be back by Thursday afternoon.” I glanced at Carrie, wondering if the lie reverberated in my tone. “What's the problem?”

“I can't get the shrimp from the supplier. We'll have to make a swap.”

“A swap?”

“I know. I know how much you wanted the shrimp. And I'm so sorry, but I can get these lovely beef tips.”

Carrie shifted and fussed. I realized I wasn't swaying. I swayed. “Fine.”

“Fine what? Fine like okay or fine like I'm really pissed.”

Carrie wrinkled her face and made more noise. “Fine like it's okay. Beef will pair with the reds, and we already have chicken for the whites. We can do without the shrimp.”

“The beef does cost a little more.”

I tipped back my head, wishing that a little bit more money could
solve all problems. “Just work up a price and e-mail it to me. I'll pull it up on my phone and send you back a response.”

“Thank God.”

“Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“Great.”

“You okay, Addie? You sound stressed.”

Sway walking along the near-empty bins that lined the row, I smiled, thinking if I could fool myself, I could fool her. “Just a tad stressed over the opening.”

“You'll run the night like a general.”

“You know me. Just a worrier.” Carrie mewed out a half cry, half yawn.

“Is that a cat I hear?”

“Yeah, it's a couple of old tomcats. They're all over Alexandria.”

“Sounds like a mean one.”

“You've no idea.” We traded more quick pleasantries and I hung up. “Carrie,” I sang. “If you blow my cover, I'll have to tell Scott about my family. And I swore that would not happen.” I ended the song on a deep and moody note. My half-baked singing did the trick again and she settled back. When her breathing sounded deep and even, I pulled up Scott's number.

On the second ring the call got tossed into his voice mail. Closing my eyes, I listened to his voice and tried to squeeze strength and courage from the deep tones. I imagined he was saying, “It's okay, Addie. I'll love you no matter what.” But at the beep, I did as I was told and left my message. “Scott,” I said, with a bright smile on my face, “this is Addie. All is solved with the caterer. Not really an issue. I'm still in Alexandria, and it looks like I might have to stay until Thursday, but don't worry. I got this. Friday is going to be great. I love you!”

I hung up and held the phone to my chest, wishing I could reach out and share with him pieces of my life. But when I moved to the vineyard I swore the past and the curse would remain forever buried. My baggage was mine alone to carry. And I wouldn't share the weight with anyone. Not now. Not ever. Somehow, I'd solve this alone.

*   *   *

Grace stood on the edge of the Potomac and closed her eyes, savoring the brackish scents of the river. The day's once-hot air now cool brought tourists out to amble the bike trail, which ran from Alexandria to Mount Vernon.

This was her favorite time of the day. The sun hung low, as if refusing to let go of the light. Knowing the day would soon end added a bit of urgency to the remaining hour of daylight.

She had gone to the grocery store and bought supplies for the baby as well as a couple of shirts and shorts for Addie. It wasn't much, but a small gesture to ease the guilt weighing on her shoulders. She'd failed Addie once and for years after swore, if given the second chance, she would stand by her side. But her second chance had arrived and she'd shrank from Janet and her baby and dragged Addie, the remaining uncursed Shire woman, back.

Grace was a coward. She knew this. She was afraid of the curse. Once she was given the chance to face it head on, but she'd failed herself, her sister, and her nieces.

She glanced at her hands, bent and weakened by arthritis. She tried to make a fist, curling them in on herself, but she couldn't endure the pain. She studied her lined knotted hands and cursed old age.

A boat sailed by and several laughing children rode colorful bikes along the path.

She turned from the water and moved slowly toward the parking
lot and her car. The drive back up the George Washington Parkway toward King Street took fifteen minutes, and by the time she parked and unloaded her bags, the sun had surrendered to darkness.

Through the front doors of the shop, she found Addie standing by the old cash register, arms crossed in front of a baby front pack. The child had nestled into the pack and fallen asleep.

Addie, however, looked wide-eyed and crazed, and reminded Grace so much of herself that summer Social Services had dropped off her two nieces.

“Grace, I was worried about you.”

Soft steady breaths came from the front pack. “I went to the store.”

Addie took the groceries. “That was five hours ago. Are you okay? Zeb told me about the stroke.”

“You don't need to worry about me.” Anger for Janet, Elizabeth, and her own failures sharpened her tone. “You look tired.'

“I've been pacing all afternoon. The baby wakes the instant I stop moving.”

“I got formula and diapers. Couple of shirts for you. Looks like just in time. You stink.”

Addie's steps echoed up the stairs. “I smell like spit-up.”

“When's the last time you changed that baby?”

“An hour. Maybe two. It's all running together.” She set the groceries on the counter in the kitchen and began to unpack them. “Thank God, you got coffee. I scraped the bottom of your coffee tin an hour ago and made a half cup.”

“You sit. I'll heat up the soup.”

“I'm afraid if I sit, Carrie will cry.”

“Carrie.” The new name sounded awkward, foreign.

Grace opened the refrigerator and loaded in a quart-size bottle of milk and butter. Two staples she hadn't bothered with for a long time,
but did now, for Addie. She grabbed the last cold soda from the fridge and handed it to Addie. Addie popped the top of the can, taking a long sip. “I haven't drank one of these in ages. I've missed it.”

“They don't have diet sodas in the country?”

“Scott's not a fan of soda. And I totally get where he's coming from. Water and wine.”

“I don't see why you can't enjoy what you love.”

“I love my country life.” She sat in the chair, grateful to have the weight off her feet and lower back.

Grace removed an old dented pot from the shelf and set it on a gas stove. She switched the burner on and reached for a can opener. The summer Addie stayed here, she made her tomato soup and grilled cheese every night for supper. The kid savored the routine and never minded that Grace's cooking skills were limited to heating and toasting.

Grace reached for the can opener her arthritis had forced her to buy a year ago. Though its special handle allowed her old bent hands to get the job done, she resented it.

Time had caught up to her and there was no fixing the mistake she made when she allowed her sister to take the girls. But maybe she could prevent Addie from making the same mistake—hopefully freeing her from the curse.