English Girl in New York (6 page)

She thought of the little carving of a mother's and child's hands interlinked. It was heartbreaking—and it was beautiful. It hadn't felt right to ask any questions about her son Peter. She'd only just met Mrs Van Dyke and that would be intrusive.

But she'd felt the
connection.
The connection that only another mother who had lost a child could feel.

Obviously she hadn't said anything to Mrs Van Dyke. The woman hardly knew her. But that little feeling in the pit of her stomach had told her that this woman would be able to understand exactly how she felt.

Their circumstances were obviously different. Mrs Van Dyke had spent seven years loving and cherishing her son, getting to know his thoughts and quirks, growing together as mother, child and part of a family. Carrie had missed out on all that.

She'd spent seven months with her hands on her growing stomach, with a whole host of hopes and expectations for her child. In her head she'd been making plans for the future. Plans that involved a child.

None of those plans had been for a future without her daughter.

Her hands were starting to shake a little. Was it from the weight in her hands—or was it from the thoughts in her head?

A cradle is only really a cradle when it holds a baby.

How true.

She'd loved the white cot she'd bought for her daughter. But it hadn't been nearly as beautiful as this one. It had been dismantled and packed off to the nearest charity shop, along with the pram, because she couldn't bear to look at them.

Hopefully some other baby had benefitted from them.

Carrie walked down the stairs carefully, making sure she didn't bang the cradle on the way. Who knew what Dan would say to her? She wouldn't be surprised if he let rip with some choice words.

Her ears pricked up. Crying—no, wailing. The baby was screaming at the top of his lungs. Her steps quickened and she pushed open Dan's door with her shoulder.

‘Dan, what on earth is going on?'

* * *

Dan's ears were throbbing. Weren't there environmental laws about noise? No one seemed to have told this little guy.

He changed him over to the other shoulder. This had been going on for the past fifteen minutes. What on earth had gone wrong?

He screwed up his face. Why was he even thinking that? He knew exactly what had gone wrong. The little guy had nearly finished the entire bottle without burping once. And according to what he'd read on the internet—that wasn't good.

He tried to switch off from the screaming. Tried to focus his mind elsewhere. Who would leave a baby outside in the cold?

The thought had been preying on his mind since the second Carrie had found the baby. Sure, he'd done the cop thing and made a half-hearted attempt to look for the mother—to see if someone was in trouble out there.

But truth be told—he wasn't that sure he wanted to find her.

Some people just weren't fit to be parents. Fact.

He was living proof and had the scars to back up his theory.

Even twenty-five years ago social services had tried to support his mother to keep him, when the truth of the matter was they should have got him the hell out of there.

Thank goodness his grandmother had realised what the scars on his back were. The guys in the station thought they were chicken-pox scars, and he wasn't about to tell them any different. But cigarettes left a nasty permanent burn.

The expression on Carrie's face had said it all. She'd felt compassion; she'd felt pity for the person who'd left this baby behind. He felt differently. Maybe this little guy was going to get the start in life he deserved.

There was a light tap at the door, then it was shouldered open. Carrie—with a wooden crib in her hands.

She wrinkled her nose at the noise. ‘What did you do?' She crossed the room and sat the crib at his feet. Had she been with Mrs Van Dyke all this time? It was the only place she could have got the crib.

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Fed him.'

She shook her head. ‘He shouldn't be squealing like that. Give him here.' She held out her arms and he hesitated. What was going on? This woman had hightailed it out of here as if there were a fire licking at her heels. Now she was back as if nothing had happened?

He placed his hand protectively on the little guy's back. ‘What happened, Carrie?' He didn't care how blunt it sounded. He didn't care how much help he really wanted right now. He needed her to be straight with him.

She looked him straight in the eye. But he could see it—the waver. The hesitation in her blue eyes. ‘I needed a little space for five minutes. And now—I've had it. I spent a little time with Mrs Van Dyke. She's great. I wish I'd had the opportunity to speak to her before today.' She walked over to the sink and lifted one of the pacifiers out of the sterilising solution. ‘Has this been in there thirty minutes?'

He glanced at the clock and nodded, watching as she put the pacifier in the baby's mouth and lifted him from his shoulder. ‘Let's try something else, then.' She sat down on the sofa and laid the baby across her lap, face down, gently rubbing his back.

Dan looked at the crib and shook his head. ‘I hadn't even thought about where he was going to sleep.'

Carrie smiled. The kind of smile that changed the whole expression on her face. There it was. That little glimpse again of who she could be if she let herself.

‘Neither did I. I asked Mrs Van Dyke if she had any clothes and it was she who suggested the crib.' She peered over at him as she continued to rub the baby's back. ‘We don't have a mattress, though. Do you have something we could put inside?'

Dan tried to rack his brain. ‘What about those new towels? We used one earlier, but I have plenty left. I could fold some of them to make a mattress for the crib.'

‘That sounds perfect. I don't have a lot of clothes. A few cardigans, some embroidered vests and some socks. She also gave me a beautiful crocheted blanket. It looks brand new.'

The baby had stopped crying. Dan turned his head just in time to see a little pull up of the legs and to hear the loudest burp known to man.

‘There we go. Is that better, little guy?' Carrie had turned him over and lifted him up again, staring him in the face. She put him back on her shoulder and kept gently rubbing his back. Her tongue ran along her lips. ‘I remember somebody mentioning that trapped wind makes a baby cranky.'

Dan let out a snort. ‘Cranky? You call that cranky? You only had to listen to five minutes of it.'

She bit her lip. ‘Yes, I know. Sorry.' He could see her take a deep breath. ‘I find this difficult, Dan. And I'm not sure I'll be much help.' She stood up and walked over to the window with the baby on her shoulder. ‘I can't help feeling really sorry for whoever is out there. Why didn't they think they could take care of their baby? I wish I could help them.'

There it was again. The sympathy vote. The thing he just couldn't understand.

‘Maybe they don't want our help. Maybe they just weren't designed to be a parent. There's a good chance they didn't have any prenatal care for the baby. Why on earth would they leave a baby on a doorstep? They didn't even ring the doorbell! This little guy could have frozen out there—he wasn't properly dressed or even fed. No diaper. He could have died during delivery. This isn't a person who wants a baby, Carrie. This is a person who has no sense of duty or responsibility.'

She spun around. ‘You don't know that, Dan. You don't know anything. This could be an underage girl's baby. She might have been terrified to tell anyone she was pregnant—afraid of the repercussions. What if she was abused? What if she lives with her abuser? Have you thought of that?'

He was trying not to get mad. He was trying not to shout. He took a long, slow breath, his eyes lifting to meet hers. ‘It could also be the baby of someone who wasn't interested in prenatal care. Someone who wasn't interested in making sure their baby was delivered safely. Someone who doesn't really care what happens to their baby.'

There was a tremble in her voice. ‘You don't know that, Dan.' She looked down at the baby. ‘You don't know anything. I just can't imagine what would make someone dump their baby on a doorstep. But I've got to believe they were desperate and wanted their baby to get help.' Her hand stroked the baby's head. ‘A baby is a precious gift. I don't know any mother who would give their baby up willingly.'

‘Then I guess our experiences of life are different.' The words were out before he knew it. No hesitation. No regrets.

Her eyes met his. It was as if she was trying to take stock of what he'd just said. As if she was trying to see inside his head.

He gave himself a shake and walked over next to her. ‘I agree with you, Carrie. I think babies are precious and they should be treated with respect. So I think we should do something.' He lifted his finger and touched the baby's cheek.

‘What?'

‘I think we should give our baby a name.'

CHAPTER FIVE

S
HE
LOOKED
STUNNED
.

As if he'd just suggested packing up the car and heading off into the sunset with a baby in tow.

‘What? We can't keep calling him “the little guy”. You know what happens with abandoned babies. At some point somebody, somewhere gives them a name.'

‘But we don't have any right. This isn't our baby.' She gave a little shake as if the thought was too alarming.

‘Actually, right now, he is our baby. And might continue to be so for the next few days. We have to call him something in the meantime. Calling him “baby”, “him” or “it”, it's just not right. You know it isn't.'

She'd started pacing now. Walking about the apartment. Her eyes refusing to meet with his. ‘Well, what's your suggestion, genius? Do you want to call him Dan?'

She was mocking him. For some reason, she was uncomfortable with this.

‘I don't want to call him Dan. That will just get confusing. I'm trying to make this
less
confusing, not more.' He looked at her again; her pacing was slowing. ‘What kind of names do you like?'

‘I'm not naming him.' The words snapped out of her mouth.

‘Why not?'

‘Because he's not my baby.'

He shook his head. ‘We know this. That's not the point. Let's find something we can agree on. Do you like crazy names like Moonwind or Shooting Star? Do you like modern names, celebrity names or something more traditional?'

Her chin was on the floor. ‘Moonwind? Shooting Star? You've got to be kidding?'

He shook his head and rolled his eyes. ‘You forget. I'm a cop in New York. I've heard everything.'

‘Wow.' She sat back down on the sofa and picked up the bottle of milk. ‘I'm going to try and give him a little more of this.' She watched as his mouth closed around the teat and he started to suck. ‘I guess I like more traditional names,' she finally said.

‘Plain? Like John or Joe or Bob?'

‘No. They are too plain. Something proud. Something that makes you sit up and take notice.'

‘I thought you'd ruled out Moonwind?'

There was a sparkle in her eyes as she turned to him. ‘How about really traditional? How about something biblical?'

‘Now you're really testing me. I'll need to think back to my Sunday school days.'

‘Then you do that. How about Joseph? Or Isaac, or Jeremiah?'

He grabbed the first names that sprang into his mind. ‘Noah, or David, or Goliath?' he countered. He wanted to make her smile again. And it worked. She was sitting up a little straighter. Trying to beat him at this game.

He could see her start to rack her brains. ‘Peter, Paul or Matthew?'

‘Adam, Moses or Joshua?'

There was silence for a few seconds as they both concentrated hard.

‘Abraham.'

‘Abraham.'

Their voices intermingled. And a smile appeared across both their faces.

Carrie stared down at the baby. ‘Abraham,' she whispered. ‘Now there's a proud name. What do you think of that one?'

He sat down next to her. ‘Abraham, I like it. Also the name of one of our finest presidents. It's perfect.'

‘It does seem perfect.' She was staring down at the little face as he sucked at the bottle. She nodded. ‘You're right. We do need to give him a name—even if it's temporary. What a pity his mum didn't leave a note with what she'd called him.' There was a wistfulness in her voice. The sympathy vote that grated on him.

‘Might have been better if she'd actually left some clothes. Or some diapers. Or anything at all to show us she cared about her son.'

Carrie gave the tiniest shake of her head as she eased the bottle out of Abraham's mouth, then sat him upright, putting her hand under his chin to support his head while she rubbed his back. ‘Let's see if we can get a burp out of you this time.'

She turned to face him. ‘You're really hard on people, Dan. And I find it really strange. You didn't hesitate to try and help this baby. You weren't even too upset when Shana told you that you'd need to keep him a while. We have no idea what's happened here. Can you at least try to give his mother the benefit of the doubt?'

‘No.'

Just like that. Blunt and to the point.

Abraham arched his back and let out a big burp. ‘Good boy.' His head started to sag. ‘He's tired. Maybe we should put him down to sleep.'

Dan nodded and started folding up the towels he'd pulled from his cupboard, forming a makeshift kind of mattress in the crib. ‘What do you think?'

‘Perfect.' She had to put him down. She had to put him down now. She was starting to feel a little overwhelmed again. A baby cuddling into the nape of her neck and giving little sighs of comfort was making a whole host of emotions wash over her. None that she wanted to share.

She adjusted Abraham and laid him down in the crib, covering him with the hand-knitted shawl, and held her breath, waiting to see if he would stir.

It took her a few seconds to realise Dan was holding his breath right next to her.

But Abraham was out cold. His first feed had been a success.

‘Darn it. Do you think we should have changed his nappy again?'

Dan raised his eyebrows. ‘I think if you touch Abraham right now and wake him up I will kill you.'

She gave a little laugh. ‘It's kind of strange, isn't it? Standing here waiting to see if he'll wake up again?'

Dan straightened his back. ‘What time is it?' He looked over at the kitchen clock. ‘Ten-thirty? Wow. No wonder I'm starved. I haven't eaten dinner. What about you? Are you hungry, Carrie?'

She shook her head. ‘Maybe I should go.'

‘You are joking, right?'

She shook her head firmly. All of a sudden there wasn't a baby as a barrier between the two of them.

All of sudden there wasn't a whole lot of space between them. And it was as if a little switch had been flicked.

Everything about Dan was making her feel self-conscious. How was her hair? Was her make-up still in place?

She'd spent the past few months going around in a fog. It had never once crossed her mind how she looked to the opposite sex.

But there was something about Dan. Something about being in close proximity to him that was making her feel uncomfortable. She didn't want to have to think about all those kinds of feelings resurrecting themselves. Not when she knew where they could eventually lead.

Now, she was fixating on his straight white teeth, the little lines of fatigue around his eyes and the sincerity in his face.

Then he snapped her out of it by giving her a cheeky wink and folding his arms across his chest. ‘If I have to arrest you, I will.'

She jolted out of her daze. ‘Arrest me?'

He smiled. ‘To keep you here. To force you to help me look after Abraham overnight. What do I know about a newborn baby?'

‘And what do I know?' She felt the rage surge inside her along with something else she couldn't quite work out. ‘Because I'm a woman you think I should know about babies?'

‘No.' His words were firm and strangely calming. They must have taught him that in cop school. How to calm a raging bull. ‘I think you're another human being and two heads are better than one.'

It sounded logical. It sounded sensible. And it made all the chauvinistic arguments that had leaped into her head feel pathetic.

She didn't want to spend the night with a new baby. How on earth would she cope? It could end up bringing back a whole host of memories she didn't know how to deal with.

Then there was Dan. With his short dark hair and big brown eyes that made her skin itch. No, that made her skin
tingle.

Every now and then he flirted with her, as if it was his natural demeanour. Flirting with women was obviously second nature to a guy like him. But it wasn't second nature for her. And she just didn't have the defences for it yet. She didn't want to be drawn in by his twinkling eyes and cheeky grins. She would look like some hapless teenager around him. This was feeling more awkward by the minute.

Carrie walked back over to the window, sneaking a look at Abraham on the way past.

‘How long do you think he'll sleep?'

She shook her head. ‘Yet another thing I'll need to look up. Isn't it usually around four hours for new babies?'

Dan glanced at the clock. ‘So we've got until two-thirty.' He smiled. ‘Do you want the night shift or shall I?'

Carrie hesitated. ‘I'm not sure about this, Dan. I told you I've got no experience with babies. How am I supposed to know if something is wrong or not? I can't read everything you're supposed to know about babies in a few hours. What if we do something we shouldn't?'

He lifted his hands. ‘We can only do our best. And anyway, look at you earlier—you were a natural.'

The words sent a chill down her spine. She knew he didn't mean for that to happen—he probably meant the words as a compliment. But her mind and body just couldn't react that way.

She was trying to partition this whole experience in her head. Put it inside a little box that could be safely stowed away somewhere.

Somewhere safe.

This was hard. And the reality was, it was only going to get harder. She'd felt herself waver a few moments before when Abraham had snuggled into her neck and she'd caught that distinctive baby scent in her nostrils.

She knew it was time to back off. To give herself a little space. And if she could keep doing that she might actually survive this experience.

And let's face it. Dan was hardly a strain on the eyes.

Why hadn't they ever spoken before? Had she really seemed so unapproachable? So caught up in her own world?

She watched as he looked in his cupboards, trying to find something to eat. Eventually he pulled some glasses and a bottle of soda from the cupboard. She could see the taut muscles across his back through his thin T-shirt. She tried not to stare at the outline of his behind in the well-worn jeans.

Her eyes automatically went downwards. Would he look at her the same way? Maybe she should have given some more thought to what she was wearing.

‘I see you've finally got some clothes on.'

She gave a little smile as she walked over and sat down at the table. ‘I didn't really have time to think earlier. I don't often roam around strange men's apartments in my nightclothes.'

‘You don't?' He had a gleam in his eyes. He was trying to lighten the mood. Ease the stress they were both under. ‘Is your apartment cold upstairs? You were bundled up like you live in an igloo.'

She took a sip of the soda he'd just poured for her. ‘No. It was comfort clothes. I was freezing when I got in—I ruined my suede boots walking in that mucky slush. My raincoat was covered in muddy splatters and all I could think about was getting inside, heating up and eating myself silly.'

He tilted his head as he sat down. In this dim light in the kitchen he had really dark brown eyes. Comforting kind of eyes. The kind you could lose yourself in.

‘And what does eating yourself silly involve?'

She shrugged. ‘Chocolate. In all varieties. Macaroni cheese. Grilled bagels with melted cheese. Porridge. Pancakes.' She pointed towards the ceiling. ‘I bought some stuff at Mr Meltzer's before I came home. I was worried I'd be stuck inside for a few days with no comfort foods.' She gave him a grin and shook her head. ‘Believe me, that would
not
be pretty.'

He eyed her closely, the smell of pizza starting to fill the apartment. ‘And would you be willing to share some of your stash?'

Her smile widened. The atmosphere was changing between them. They were going from frantic neighbours to something else entirely. Were they flirting here? Was that what was happening? It had been so long for Carrie she wasn't sure she remembered how.

She rested her elbows on the table, sitting her head in her hands. ‘Oh, I don't know about sharing. I might be willing to trade.'

‘Aha, a wolf in sheep's clothing.'

‘What does that mean?'

The gleam wasn't disappearing; in fact, if it was possible, it was getting naughtier. ‘You come down here with your innocent smiles, woolly socks and grandma pyjamas—not forgetting an abandoned baby—with your tales of a huge pirate haul of comfort foods upstairs, and now you're trying to hold me to ransom.' He leaned back in his chair and tapped the surface of the table. ‘You're not really a grandma-pyjamas girl, are you? That was all just a ruse—you're really a sexy negligee kind of girl.' He lifted his hand and tapped his chin. ‘The question is, what colour?'

She could feel her cheeks start to pink up. She hadn't been imagining it. He was flirting with her. And the thing that amazed her—or terrified her—was she wanted to flirt right back. Could she trade her bagels for a kiss?

Wow. That thought made the blood rush into her cheeks. ‘What's wrong with grandma pyjamas? They hide a multitude of sins.'

He didn't hesitate. ‘You don't have any sins to hide.'

She felt her breath stall. She couldn't breathe in. She definitely couldn't breathe out. She was stuck in that no man's land. He'd said it so quickly. He didn't even have to think about it twice.

What did that mean?

She made a vague attempt to laugh it off—feeling like a nervous teenager instead of a capable twenty-seven-year-old woman. ‘You're a man. You really have no knowledge of water-filled bras or hold-your-gut-in underwear.'

He leaned across the table towards her. A cheeky smile across his face. ‘And you have no need for either.'

He stayed there. Inches away from her face. Letting her see the tiny, fine laughter lines around his eyes and the smattering of freckles across his cheeks.

Up close and personal Daniel Cooper looked good enough to eat.