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He shook his head in disbelief. ‘You turn up at my door with a baby, and now you’re expecting to dump it on me in the middle of a snowstorm.’
When he said the words out loud they were even worse than the thoughts in his head.
Her face paled. ‘But I...’
‘I nothing.’ A grin appeared on his face. ‘Suck it up, Carrie.’
She drew back from him and he could sense her taking some deep breaths. ‘It’s not quite like that.’
He shook his head. There was no way she was leaving him high and dry. He waved his cast at her. ‘What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to bath a baby with one of these? Sure, I can probably manage to feed a baby and make up some bottles. But be practical, Carrie. I’m hardly the ideal babysitter right now.’ He could see her staring at his pink cast and trying to work things out in her head. ‘Least you can do is give me some help.’
Her cheeks flushed with colour, as if she’d just realised how mean it looked to walk away.
She pointed at his cast. ‘How did you end up with that anyway? And what made you pick a pink cast?’
He snorted. ‘Pick isn’t the word I would choose. There was an accident earlier today, a tonne of snow fell off a roof and I got trapped underneath it pushing people out of the way.’
Her eyes widened. ‘On Fourteenth Street? That was you?’
He sat up a little straighter. ‘How do you know about that?’
‘I was there. I saw it happen.’ She tilted her head to the side and stared at him again. ‘I didn’t realise it was you—I mean, I didn’t know you.’ She reached over and touched his cast. ‘I remember. I remember seeing you hold your wrist at a funny angle. I guess it’s broken, then?’
He nodded.
‘And the pink?’
He smiled. ‘It seems that today was the biggest day in the world for fractures at the clinic on Sixteenth Street.’ He waved his wrist. ‘Pink was the only colour they had left.’
She started to laugh. ‘I can just imagine the look on your face when they told you that.’
He started to laugh, too. ‘I was less than impressed. The air might have been a little blue.’
‘Not pink?’
‘Definitely not pink.’
She shook her head. ‘That was really scary. I just remember the noise and the shouts. What about that woman in the red coat and her little boy? And that elderly couple?’
She really had been there. And she could remember the details. The lady could be a cop. ‘All checked out and okay. One of the businessmen twisted his ankle and the other was being assessed for a head injury. He kept being sick.’
‘Wow. Thank goodness you were there.’
Her words struck a chord with him. He hadn’t really thought about that. He’d been too angry at breaking his wrist and being out of action for the NYPD. He hadn’t really had time to stop to think about what could have happened to that elderly couple, or the woman and her young son.
A vision flashed in his eyes. The woman in the red coat cradling her son with one arm as if he was the most precious thing on earth. Then looking at him, with her hand on her heart, and mouthing, Thank you. He hadn’t really had time to talk to her properly, but that one action had been more than enough for him. He didn’t do this job for the thanks.
The little bundle shifted in his arms and started to whimper again. There was colour coming into the baby’s cheeks and his tongue was starting to play around the edge of his mouth. He sighed. ‘I guess our boy is getting hungry. I’ll give Mr Meltzer a call and see if he can open the store so we can get some supplies. Know anything about making baby bottles?’
Carrie shook her head quite forcefully. ‘I’ve told you—I can’t help. This isn’t my thing.’
But Dan was already on his feet, shifting his weight and moving the baby into her arms, whether she was ready or not. ‘My computer’s right next to you. Do an internet search while I’m gone.’ He flicked through the nearby phone directory and punched a number into his phone. ‘I’ll only be five minutes.’
He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door again. What was her problem? He wasn’t so chauvinistic that he expected all women to want to be mothers, but he did expect any responsible adult to help out in an emergency situation.
Maybe it was just the cop in him. Maybe his expectations of the average person were too high. But he’d seen the way she’d looked at the baby. She might not have experience, but she couldn’t hide the tenderness in her eyes.
Maybe she was just uncomfortable with the pyjama situation. Maybe he should offer to let her go back upstairs and get changed.
He pressed the send button on his phone as he headed along the white street. Whatever it was, she’d better get over it quick. There was no way he was doing this on his own.
* * *
Carrie sat frozen on the sofa.
This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.
There was a weight pressed firmly against her chest. Like a huge dumb-bell just sitting there, taunting her to try and pull some air into her lungs.
He was scowling at her again. The baby. Nearly as much as Daniel Cooper had scowled at her when she’d tried to pull out all the lame excuses under the sun to get out of here.
It must make her seem like a bitch. But right now she didn’t care.
She could feel tears starting to flood into her eyes. This was someone’s precious baby. Someone’s living, breathing, precious bundle. What on earth could happen in this life that would make you leave a baby on someone’s doorstep in the middle of a snowstorm?
It wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fair.
Last time she’d held a baby it hadn’t been moving. Its little chest didn’t have the rise and fall that this little boy’s had. It didn’t have the pink flush to its cheeks.
She blinked back the tears. The tightening in her chest was getting worse.
It.
A terrible term.
But she couldn’t use any other right now. She couldn’t think about her daughter. She couldn’t think about Rub
y McKenzie. She couldn’t let that name invade her thoughts.
Because then she would spiral downwards. Then she would remember the nursery and pram. Then she would remember the routine check at the midwife’s, followed by the urgent scan. Then she would remember the forty-eight-hour labour, with no cry of joy at the end of it.
Then she would remember the disintegration of her five-year relationship, as both of them struggled to cope with their bereavement.
The whimpering was getting worse, turning into full-blown screams.
She’d have given anything to hear the screams of her daughter. She’d have given anything to see her daughter screw up her face and let out a yell like that.
She shifted the baby onto her shoulder. Five minutes. Dan would be back in five minutes.
She put her hand on the keyboard of the computer and did a quick search. If she could keep her mind on something else, she could fight back the feelings. She could stop them from enveloping her. How to sterilise and prepare bottles.
She read the screen in front of her, scanning quickly. Her hand automatically moving and patting the baby on the back. She could do this. She could help him make a bottle and then leave.
He couldn’t expect any more. She couldn’t give any more.
She could feel herself pulling in—withdrawing inside herself. Turning into someone else. Stepping outside herself to a place where there was no hurt, no memories. Switching off.
It was the only way she’d coped before. And it was the only way she could cope now.
She glanced at the clock. Ten minutes maximum.
She could keep this face painted in place for ten minutes when he got back. That was how long it would take to sterilise the bottle, make up the powdered milk and leave him positioned on the sofa.
Her eyes registered something on the screen. Darn it! Cooled boiled water. How long did the water have to cool for before it was suitable to give a baby?
Maybe he’d only just boiled the kettle. She juggled the baby in her arms and walked over to the kitchen countertop, putting her hand on the side of the kettle. Stone cold. She picked it up and gave it a shake—and practically empty.
