Mad About You (30 page)

A rap sounded at the door, then Ms. Andrews's head and shoulders appeared. "Would you like to break for a light meal?" Though not the least bit hungry, Virginia felt immensely grateful for a return to the mundane details of living. The group rose and filed from the room, following the counselor.

With a pang Virginia noted the identical father-son saunter, originating from the carriage of the same wide shoulders, and the gait of the same long legs. The child was created from the joining of her and Bailey's bodies, but as she watched them move in near perfect synchronization, she realized that little to none of herself had made it past the dominance of Bailey Kallihan's genes.

Bailey and Chad were formed from the same mold—it was she who didn't belong. Her ex-husband and her son had both voiced their doubts about her ability to be a good mother, and they didn't even know the extent of her own apprehension. From the recesses of her mind, the thought materialized that perhaps they'd be happier together—without her. Premonition shivered through her, but she shook it off.

A cold meal in the dining room was a quiet affair, with conversation contributed mostly by Ms. Andrews and Mr. Maybry. As dusk approached, Detective Lance reappeared to announce reporters were still camped outside the building.

"Chad," Virginia said across the table. "This is Detective Lance. He was assigned to our case when... from the very beginning."

The officer smiled. "Good to finally meet you, young man."

Chad acknowledged him with a nod, swallowing the last of his sandwich. "So Lois outsmarted you, huh?"

She thought she detected a hint of pride in Chad's voice, and her anger at the woman who'd taken him flared once again.

Detective Lance glanced from her to Bailey, who was taking his time wiping his tightened mouth with a paper napkin. She nodded for the officer to speak freely.

"I guess she did, son."

"Those other cops wouldn't tell me what really happened."

After another encouraging nod from Virginia, Detective Lance pulled up a chair beside Chad, then opened a brown accordion folder and removed yellowed newspaper articles. "The suspect," he began to explain in an official-sounding voice, then stopped and removed his
hat. When he resumed, he encompassed all of them in his sweeping gaze, and spoke in a softer tone. "Lois Green was born and raised in Detroit, Michigan. She was an only child, kind of quiet, with no criminal record. She married young and, around eight years ago, became pregnant. Her husband abandoned her when she miscarried.

"She left Michigan and made her way south, moving from diner to diner as a waitress. She quit a job at a truck stop in Westerville, Ohio, a few days before the kidnapping. We'll probably never know if she planned the kidnapping ahead of time or made a split-second decision in the grocery store." He pushed a newspaper account of the story toward Chad, who picked it up and began reading in earnest.

She remembered the article. The
Columbus Dispatch
headline read "Infant Boy Stolen from Grocery," and had created a stir up and down the East Coast. For weeks, volunteers had poured in to search for their missing baby. The article's accompanying picture showed the face of a young, angst-ridden Bailey tramping through the woods. Virginia had stayed home, feeling helpless as she waited by the phone for a possible ransom demand. But the call never came, and the only tormenting clue had been the discovery of their son's blanket in a ditch along a busy highway. Lois Green must have discarded it as she drove out of town with her tiny victim, Virginia surmised.

Chad's eyes moved rapidly over the story, then sifted through other accounts, recaps, and updates. Long-forgotten memories crashed over Virginia. The inevitable waning public interest, bitter fights with Bailey, separate beds, her leaving, then filing divorce papers. Ironically, on the day their divorce had been final, nearly a year after the abduction, a reporter called for her comment on the rumor that the investigation had been unofficially closed. The next day Virginia began picking up the remnants of her life.

Chad suddenly pushed the pile of paper back toward the detective. "She was a good mom," he asserted in a challenging voice, his chin jutted high. "Maybe she made a mistake, but she was a good mom." At last he looked directly at Virginia. "She must have wanted me really bad to risk getting into trouble." She saw his unspoken words in narrowed, accusatory eyes.
She wanted me, and you didn't.

"Chad," Ms. Andrews cut in, standing up, "why don't we have one last chat this evening? I've got some free time right now, then you'll need to finish packing."

He frowned, but shrugged reluctantly. "Whatever." He pushed himself away from the table with a heavy sigh, threw the remains of his meal into an industrial-sized waste can, and followed Ms. Andrews out of the room without a backward glance.

Virginia took a deep breath and made her best effort to appear cheerful. "I suppose we should check into the hotel soon, but I don't look forward to facing that crowd."

"Ms. Catron," Mr. Maybry said, his face flushing a deep pink. "Ms. Andrews and I assumed you both would want to be as close as possible to Chad tonight, but we weren't aware of your, um, status, and we have only one guest room available." He coughed. "However, it is equipped with twin beds, and we can—"

"That was very thoughtful." She caught Bailey's wide-eyed reaction. "We'll work out something," she assured the embarrassed man, her insides churning at the mere suggestion of intimacy with her ex-husband.

"Meanwhile," Bailey said, "we probably should decide what to do about the press."

"Just run 'em off!" Edward sputtered.

"But it's not often we hear of such a happy ending," Mr. Maybry reminded them, his expression gentle. "The attention might help some other child be reunited with his parents."

"You could prepare a statement and your father and I can read it when we leave for the hotel, dear," her mother offered.

"Thanks, Mom, but I think this is something Bailey and I need to do."

"Together," he added, meeting her wary look with a conciliatory smile.

Red flags went up in her mind.
Darn him
, she fumed. He was so, so... accommodating.

"How about getting it over with?" he asked, standing and lifting his palms.

She hesitated a few seconds before rising to her feet. "Okay."

He held out his hand for hers. With an audience, she couldn't refuse such a friendly gesture, which was all it meant anyway. She placed her hand in his, a rush skittering over her as their fingers entwined and their palms met. Her heart raced with the realization this wasn't the first time they'd held hands that day, but it was the first time she'd participated deliberately and for a reason other than pure fear.

They walked to the front of the building, preceded by Mr. Maybry and flanked by Detective Lance and her parents. As soon as the doors opened, a murmur rose and the crowd of about fifty onlookers pressed toward the tiny sheltered stoop where they stepped into the humid
evening air. Cameras flashed and microphones bobbed high.

Mr. Maybry unceremoniously yanked a microphone out of a young man's hand and waved his arms to silence everyone. He quickly introduced himself, then announced, "The child's parents, Ms. Virginia Catron and Mr. Bailey Kallihan, will make a short statement." He then thrust the borrowed microphone into Virginia's hand.

She held it for a few seconds, registering the cold heaviness, wondering what on earth she was going to say. Every eye was riveted on her, and she could read the anticipation in their eyes, hands poised to record her every word. They wanted tears of happiness, an embracing Norman Rockwell-type family touting plans for their future. How could she confess they were the epitome of the modern dysfunctional family—a divorced couple juggling a troubled child?

Bailey slipped his arm loosely around her waist, his hand resting casually on her side after giving her a slight squeeze. Her heart rattled in her chest, quickened by his touch. She somehow found her voice. "E-eight years ago the media came to our aid when our son was taken from us. I can't tell you how much it means to me"—Virginia stopped and swallowed hard before continuing—"to see my son again after all these years.
Please
pay attention to posters, fliers in the mail, milk cartons—any pictures of missing children. Someday you may be the one to reunite a family."
A family of strangers
, she added silently.

The crowd applauded loudly, but began to fire questions before the noise even died down.

"Ms. Catron," an older, pleasant-faced woman asked, "how does your son look to you?"

Virginia smiled. "He looks very much like his father."

"Handsome?" the woman pressed, her eyes twinkling.

"Well,
um...
of course." Her face burned and she heard Bailey's low chuckle beside her.

"How is your son taking the news?" another woman asked.

She hesitated. "He's confused, naturally, and as surprised as we are, but I'm sure things will work out fine."
Liar,
her mind nagged.

"Ms. Catron," a man near her asked, "I assume from your name that the two of you are no longer married?"

"That's correct," she said calmly. A disappointed murmur resounded.

"Have you both remarried?"

"No, neither of us," Bailey piped in helpfully.

"Are you planning to get back together?"

The crowd tittered, and every reporter waited, straining forward for a juicy tidbit of gossip. She felt Bailey's arm tighten and she tingled with humiliation.
There could be an us,
he'd said, as if now that their son had been found, things were right with the world again. He'd never turned his back on her, never broken her heart.

One woman grew bolder following Virginia's hesitation. "How about it, any chance of you two getting back together?"

"No," Virginia said with confidence.

"Anything is possible," Bailey said at the same time.

Chapter Five

BAILEY SCANNED THE SMALL, sparsely furnished room, eyeing the disappointing distance between the neatly made twin beds in opposite corners. A floor lamp situated behind mismatched armchairs in the center of the room cast harsh light to the perimeter. The air hung stale and prickly hot. A vase of wilting cut flowers sat on a round coffee table between the chairs. Plain navy curtains hung at the single half-window above an ancient television with a rabbit ear antenna.

"Looks cozy," he said cheerfully, crossing the faded green carpet and dropping his garment bag on one of the chairs. "Reminds me of when we lived in the old homeplace, Ginny." He spun and caught the flash of panic on her face, then told himself to slow down. She'd barely uttered ten words since his spontaneous public announcement that he wouldn't mind them getting back together. He laughed to ease the tension, then said, "Of course, Rita has done such a great job with the place, you wouldn't recognize it."

She walked over and claimed a bed with her lone piece of luggage. "It wasn't all that bad before," she said, her gaze darting around the room.

"Hey." He spoke softly. When she looked at him, he continued. "Are you okay with this? I can go to the hotel."

"No," she said hastily. "I mean, yes, I'm okay with it." She laughed nervously, tugging on the zipper of her bag. "We're adults, Bailey, not teenagers hopped up on hormones."

"You're right." Bailey carefully kept his voice light. "After all, what's one night? We've spent hundreds of nights together."

With a final jerk the zipper on her bag gave way. "And thousands more apart," she reminded him.

Properly chastised, he cracked his knuckles. "Well, what do you think of our son?"

Pausing, she pursed her lips, looking thoughtful. "He was different from what I expected, but I'm not even sure what I expected."

"He seems like an okay kid, but I think he's got a bit too much spunk for his own good."

She smiled tightly. "You know what they say about the apple not falling far from the tree." She pulled out a handful of toiletries and headed for the bathroom, visible through a narrow door next to her bed. Nudging the door open with her elbow, she then arranged shampoo and toothpaste on the tiny vanity in the vintage room.

Anticipation stabbed him as she bent to fuss with the water faucet of the avocado-green bathtub. Her dress rode up to reveal her thighs. As she swished her fingers under the spray of water to find the right temperature, Bailey felt himself begin to harden at the tantalizing outline of her legs. It suddenly became apparent that the next eight or so hours might be excruciatingly long and painful.

"No shower," she announced when she emerged, drying her hands on the towel. "Would you mind if I went first in the tub?"

"No." He jammed his hands in his pockets. "Go right ahead."

She rummaged in her bag, presumably for sleepwear, and Bailey found himself unable to look away. Ginny used to sleep in a pair of his boxers topped with any of several sexy camisoles. He swallowed hard. Whose boxers might she be wearing these days? He hadn't thought past her not being married, but now it seemed likely that a woman with her beauty and success would be involved with someone.

"Ginny."

She raised her face, eyebrows lifted. "Yes?"

"Are you, um, seeing anyone?"

Her brow furrowed. "Romantically?"