Bringing Baby Home (4 page)

She motioned him to take the chair in the shady corner of the overhang. To do otherwise would have been rude. His grandmother had stressed civility and manners above all else. He sat down, perching on the edge of the seat.

“You
don’t have to worry about getting these pads dirty. Nothing lasts long in the desert, which is why I don’t spend a lot of money on outdoor furniture. Besides, my roommates’cats love to sleep on these cushions. You’ll probably be covered in cat hair when you stand up.”

Cats. He’d never given them much thought until one adopted him. “What kind are they?” he asked, bringing the glass to his lips.

“The free kind.”

Her grin truly was engaging and almost impossible to resist. He quickly took a sip of tea.

The cool, instantly refreshing liquid exploded in flavors he couldn’t immediately identify. He ran his tongue across his teeth to recapture the taste. “Wow. This is great.”

She blushed at the praise. “Do you like it? Really?”

He took another drink, savoring the way it soothed his parched throat. “You should bottle it. You’d make a million.”

“I could use a million,” she said softly. A sad look crossed her face.

David wondered, but he didn’t ask. A person with secrets didn’t seek revelations from others. It just wasn’t fair since no information could be offered in return.

She perked up a second later and set her glass on the little plastic table between them then she wiped her hand on her slacks and held it out between them. “I’m Liz Radonovic.”

He had no choice but to shake her hand and say, “David.”

“David what?”

Good question.
“David Baines.”

“Nice to meet you, David. I felt badly about our run-in yesterday and I wanted to call and apologize, but you’re not an easy man to reach. How do you stay in business when you don’t have a phone? Crissy gave me the number
of your answering service, but don’t most people in your line of work have cell phones?”

He shrugged. “I get jobs by word of mouth. And I sell wholesale plants to nurseries. When I have seedlings available, I call them. Everything is on a cash basis. It’s simpler.”

She smiled. “You’re trying to keep off Uncle Sam’s radar screen, huh?”

Someone’s radar screen, that was sure. David didn’t know if Ray had people looking for him or not, but he wasn’t about to take any chances. Who would be the least bit curious about a handyman who grew cacti and succulents, minded his own business and rarely talked to anyone?

Until today, when he sat down to tea with a beautiful woman who reminded him of how much he’d walked away from. This was a mistake, he knew. Her smile was too normal, too inviting.

“I’d better get back to work,” he said, standing up. He downed the last of his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thank you. This was delicious.”

She took the glass from him. “You’re welcome. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

Reaching down beside her chair, she swiftly produced a small brown paper sack with a white label across the front. “Here,” she said, holding it by the crimped top. “This is my way of apologizing for being such a ninny yesterday. Please take it. My conscience has been bothering me something fierce.”

A gift? No one had given him a gift in so long, he took it without thinking. Without speaking.

Good Lord,
he thought, as he hurried back to the safety of his truck,
I really am a mannerless oaf.

Liz watched David Baines almost run back to this truck. He reached in through the open window to put her gift on the
seat, then walked to the rear of the vehicle and lowered the tailgate. He leaned over to pick up a hand trowel before returning to where he’d been working when she’d interrupted.

He was intriguing. An anomaly. Refined language occasionally poked through an outwardly rough demeanor. At times, courteous and polite then moments later utterly lacking in finesse. His sandy brows that didn’t match his dark burly mustache were just the tip of the incongruities where David Baines was concerned.

She heard the phone ring in the house behind her. Neither of her roommates would pick it up, she knew, so Liz got up and went inside.

“Hello?”

“Your mystery man’s name is David Baines. No wants or warrants. A perfect driving record.”

Zeke.
Damn. She’d meant to call him and tell him not to bother. “Um…thanks. I’m really sorry to be a pest.”

Zeke didn’t say anything. The Rom in her told her there was more. “Hey, a clean driving record is a good thing, right? A girl can’t be too careful these days,” she joked. “You never know what kind of deviant might be lurking around the corner.”

“I guess so,” Zeke said. “But I’m always suspicious when someone just seems to materialize out of thin air. I think I’m going to probe a little deeper.”

Liz could have protested, but most of the cops she’d met over the years followed their instincts and rarely took advice from civilians. Besides, the guy was interesting. If anything came of this attraction she felt, then maybe being forewarned of any skeletons in his closet was a good thing.

“W
ELL, LOOKEE HERE
,” a gleeful voice said. “The flotsam has finally surfaced. Your hunch was right, boss. Paul really
did fake his death in that fire. Well, at least, it looks that way. Somebody is putting out feelers for information on a guy that sorta matches Paul’s description. Same general age, height and weight. The hair and eyes don’t match, but we both know how easy it is to change that,” he added with a soft snicker. “Plus, it looks like he’s got a business growing plants. Wasn’t that one of the things you listed as a possible career choice if he tried to start over some place else?”

The man quickly scooted his chair aside to make room for another person at the computer.

“See?” he said, pointing to the monitor. “Those questions look a lot like yours. Might be a long shot, but I think your boy is in Vegas.”

Liz
sat down at her laptop, which she’d set up on a makeshift desk in her bedroom after her “roomies” moved in. The two women had assured her they were comfortable sharing a room, but Liz preferred privacy over space, so she’d moved her office into her miniscule master suite.

She’d bought the house not for its spacious design or gracious perks, but because it was in her price range. The previous owners had just gone through a messy divorce and Liz had been at the right place at the right time. And, thanks to some first-time buyer tax credits and the fact that she had been bringing in a pretty respectable income from her job at the hospital, she’d been a loan officer’s dream client.

Now her balance sheet didn’t look so hot. A fact that could have a negative impact on both her refinancing and the adoption. A smart person probably would hold off on the latter until the former was squared away, she told herself. But mothers didn’t always think with their heads, she’d heard Yetta say just recently to Kate.

Liz wasn’t a mother…yet. But she felt like one. Even though her daughter was a half a world away.

She typed in her password then clicked on a shortcut link to her favorite place: Sha Navanti Ashram and Orphanage. Weekly
, Jyoti, Liz’s friend and mentor, e-mailed photos to the ashram’s U.S. sponsors, who maintained the Web site and conducted fund-raising efforts on behalf of the children. Normally, the ashram cared for the children for the entire length of their childhood, giving them a loving home and an education in a group setting, without allowing for adoption. Parents of the children were welcome to visit at any time.

When Liz first arrived at the facility in the Haridwar district of India, some two hundred kilometers northeast of Delhi, she hadn’t understood or appreciated the rationale behind the policy. But as she worked with the fifty or so children living at the ashram, she began to see that their parents had presented them with a chance to be healthy, safe and cared for in a warm, communal setting. The older children helped to care for the younger kids. All of the students learned skills that would benefit them once they reentered the real world.

Liz knew that she, a single woman of moderate means, would have had little hope of adopting a perfectly healthy India-born child. Even a special-needs child would be placed in a two-parent home first, but Liz had felt such a powerful connection to Prisha from the moment she’d taken over the infant’s care, she’d begun to dream of bringing her home to the United States where Prisha could get the medical help she needed.

Liz knew that many babies were born with a slight intoeing—a condition commonly called “pigeon toes.” But Prisha’s metatarsus adductus was only part of the problem. Her left leg was shorter than the right and there appeared to be some internal tibial torsion, or twisting of the bone between the knee and the ankle. Without surgery, the little girl would never be able to walk normally.

By the time Liz left the ashram, Prisha was flourishing, although
she couldn’t do many of the things babies her age were supposed to do. She could roll over, though. Quite a task considering only one foot functioned the way it was supposed to.

Liz had watched the tiny infant—she’d been a mere five pounds at birth—first with respect, then affection, then love. Prisha never complained. Rarely cried. And always accomplished what she set out to do—no matter how tough the hurdle.

Humming with anticipated joy, Liz quickly scanned the photos on the Web site. None included Prisha.

“That’s odd,” she murmured, switching screens to access her e-mail. Prisha was such a sweet-natured baby that all of the older girls loved to carry her with them, including her in their games, contests and even school lessons.

Twenty-nine e-mail messages were waiting for her. Not surprising since Grace copied Liz on every stupid joke currently surfing the Net. As usual, Liz deleted them without reading any. She did stop to check out any notes Grace included. One missive said: “Since you’ve turned into such a cat lover, I thought you’d like these shots.”

Liz quickly scanned the attached photos. “Oh, Grace, you’re such a soft-hearted boob.” After a second of consideration, Liz selected two shots to print. They were cute photos, and Reezira loved kittens. Which explained how two felines had found their way into Liz’s household.

Liz had never owned a pet of any kind as an adult. When you traveled as much as she did, the idea sounded selfish. She didn’t plan to get a pet until after Prisha was completely and officially hers.

As the printer did its thing, she scrolled down the list of new messages until she found one from Jyoti. She clicked on it.

My dear
friend, may all be well with you. I have news that will concern you, but please don’t let it alarm you too much. Our darling Prisha is ill. A fever has been traveling through the ashram. It’s accompanied by pain in the limbs and some vomiting. A volunteer doctor from Delhi has visited and declared that nothing can be done except to keep the children hydrated and warm. Which we are doing, of course. I will do my best to keep you informed of how she is doing, but for now I must rush away to help with the many. Namaste, J.

A chill passed through her. Her rational mind leapfrogged about: Kids get sick all the time. She’ll bounce back right away. There’s nothing you could do even if you were there. She’ll be fine.

But dark thoughts quickly followed. Prisha was under-weight for her age. She wasn’t able to move around and exercise so her lungs weren’t as strong as they should be. She’d been prone to sinus infections since birth. She needed someone to put eucalyptus oil in a vaporizer and rock her until her breathing eased. She needed a mother. She needed Liz.

“I
BROUGHT YOUR MONEY
.”

David looked over his shoulder. He’d finished his work for the day and was just cleaning up his tools. He’d been so lost in thought remembering the slightly rueful twist to Liz’s smile that he hadn’t even heard the head of the homeowners’ association walk up.

“Thanks.”

“No problem. Well, it was some problem,” she corrected herself. “I know you prefer cash, but the association works on a two-signature check system. The last time I did this, the bank objected to our making the check out for
cash, so this time I had to get Roxanne, our treasurer, to make it out to me, then I cashed it. I just hope nobody accuses me of embezzlement.”

He counted the twenties then stuffed them into the deep pocket of his coveralls. He’d first adopted the style of clothing as a sort of camouflage. Within days of his arrival in Vegas, he’d observed that a certain age group, namely men over sixty, favored the one-piece jumpsuit. He’d figured by assuming the dress code of the retired set, he’d look older. And be less visible. Since then, he’d discovered the clothing was also practical for the climate: loose fitting to allow for movement of air.

“I’ll give you a receipt.”

She actually looked relieved when he suggested it. Normally, he was reluctant to put his signature on anything, but he figured he could forge his made-up name pretty well after four years. Funny, he thought, how long old habits, like signing your name a certain way, stay with a person.

He walked to the cab of the truck and opened the glove compartment. The hinge was bad and its long, lingering squeak sounded like nails on a blackboard.

“Ooh, that’s awful. You should oil it.”

He knew that. But he figured the sound would alert him if anyone tried to poke around in his truck.

He pulled a pen from his chest pocket and opened his two-copy receipt book to a fresh page. After sliding the cardboard protector sheet into place, he printed the name of the association and the amount she’d given him, then shifted the tablet to the left to remind himself that the signature he was signing should read David Baines. He added just enough flourishes to render it virtually illegible.

“Here you go,” he said, ripping off her copy.

She
turned suddenly and with her back to David, yelled, “Don’t be late, Eli.”

David looked past her and spotted a kid peddling away as if the devil were on his tail. The boy, a hulky, wide-shouldered kid in his mid-teens, maybe fifteen or sixteen, was dressed in a black-and-gray football jersey and denim jeans that were easily three sizes too big. The kid’s baseball cap was on backward. David couldn’t make out the logo, but noticed it matched the color of his bike—bright red.

Crissy heaved a weary sigh. “My stepson. Lives with his mother in Phoenix, but his school is off-session, and she’s working so we have the pleasure of his company.” Her tone made it clear the pleasure was anything but.

“He was such a sweet kid when his dad and I first married. Then the evil teen fairy took away his brains and left a snarling, surly, hormone-driven mouth in his place,” she said, laughing humorlessly at her joke. “I honestly don’t know how his mother stands all that attitude and rudeness on a regular basis. A month is almost more than I can take.”

He noticed her husband’s name didn’t come up. Probably because the guy was never around. Either he left before dawn and returned well after David was done for the day, or the gossips were right and the guy was a real jerk. David had overheard two women talking the day he was hired to do the landscaping.

Three board members had been required to approve his bid and sketches. When Crissy left the room to talk to her daughter—a fashionably dressed princess in pink at least five years younger than her half brother, he’d overheard the other two women discussing Crissy’s family.

“That boy is a terrorist waiting to happen,” the gray-haired woman in the Sam’s Town Windbreaker had predicted.

“His
father needs to step in now or they’ll lose him to a gang. Too bad the man is always away on business.”

David had never had the liberty of being a rebellious teen. His grandmother would have castrated him. Or kicked him out. Maybe people who knew unconditional love could afford to thumb their noses at the ones giving it, but that hadn’t been his experience.

He started to clear his throat to get her attention back on the receipt he was still holding when a flash of purple caught his eye. He turned toward the house where he’d shared a glass of tea earlier. A slender woman in navy shorts and a royal purple tank top sprinted across the lawn and took off jogging down the street.

He used his sleeve to wipe a bead of sweat out of his eye. Running? In this heat? Was she nuts?

“Ugh,” Crissy said, her gaze following Liz. “Self-discipline is one thing, but self-abuse? No, thank you.”

When David didn’t comment, she added, “Early evening is a terrible time of day to run. Traffic is bad. The pollution in the air is ghastly. And visibility is worse than at night. I sure hope she doesn’t get run over.”

David was surprised by her concern. He almost changed his opinion of her, until she added, “I don’t know what would happen to her place if she were killed. Probably her family would sell it, but I suppose there’s a chance she might have willed it to those
women
who are living with her.”

Her disapproval of Liz’s roommates was obvious. Curious, David asked, “You don’t like them?”

She snatched the receipt from his fingers. “They don’t belong here. This is a family neighborhood, not a refugee camp. Did Liz tell you what they did for a living before they snuck into America? They were prostitutes.” She shook her
head. “I can’t believe I have prostitutes living next door to me. Not that I’m planning to sell, but can you imagine what that kind of information would do to the property values around here?”

Her tone positively dripped with repugnance.

He slammed the door of his truck with such force the bang made her jump. He didn’t say anything. This wasn’t his problem. Besides, he didn’t know why he was surprised by her attitude. Snobs abound in this world, he thought, even in relatively ordinary neighborhoods like this one.

“Oh, I almost forgot, the association approved the extra expenditure for the vacant lot around the corner. I put together a couple of sketches of what I think might work. Do you mind coming in a minute?”

Yes, he did. But money was money.

S
TUPID
. S
TUPID
. S
TUPID
.

The word repeated in her head every time her right heel hit the pavement. Only a stupid person would take off jogging at this time of day in this heat, Liz thought. If not for the wind, she probably would have melted into a puddle before she was ten blocks from home.

Normally, she ran in the morning. The earlier the better. But she’d overslept this morning and had had to race to her breakfast meeting with her sisters. Now she was running to get the frustration of not being able to help Prisha out of her system. So far away. So little she could do.

A soft cry escaped from her lips. Liz set her jaw and picked up the pace. Whimpering and moaning wouldn’t help. Staying focused on her goal would. She’d made several online acquaintances who had undertaken a challenge similar to hers. One, a single woman like Liz, had recently
celebrated her daughter’s fifth birthday with a trip to Disneyland.

Happy endings do exist, she reminded herself.

There were differences in their cases, of course. Her friend was an executive with a prominent fast-food chain. Money was not a problem. Also, the child she’d adopted came from Calcutta, which didn’t fall under the Central Adoption Resource Agency boundaries. That adoption had been faster than normal—a mere eight months, start to finish. Liz had been told to expect the process to last at least a year, if not two.

Liz could only pray that Prisha would survive that long. The child was a fighter, but how long could the spirit flourish when the body faced so many obstacles? If Prisha were here—receiving daily, one-on-one encouragement and treatment—her medical condition might not be life-threatening. But she wasn’t here, and Liz couldn’t do anything to help.

Her breath suddenly left her and she had to stop. Bending at the waist, she rested her hands on her thighs and tried to draw in enough air to keep her tears at bay.
Prisha will be fine. She’ll get through this
.
And sometime within the next year, I’ll be flying over there to pick her up and bring her home with me.