A Mingled Yarn (4 page)

I
t was just
after five o’clock by the time Sasha and Connelly fought the early rush of Friday cross-town traffic from the birthing center to Shadyside. Sasha had nearly made several wrong turns, distracted and coasting along on an autopilot route to the condo rather than the new house. Beside her, Connelly was unusually fidgety but didn’t mention her driving.

“How’d you get to the birthing center anyway?” she asked mainly to make conversation as she waited for a city bus to take on passengers.

“Hank gave me a lift because the movers had me blocked in.”

“Wait—you left the movers at the house? I thought they were supposed to be done by four.” She cut her eyes toward him.

“Easy, tiger. Naya arranged for Carl to babysit the movers so I wouldn’t have to miss the appointment.”

She took her hands off the steering wheel and shook them a few times in an effort to release her pent-up tension before answering. Then she retook the wheel and inched the car forward, just in time to get stuck at the red light that the bus blew through.

“I’m glad you were there. Really glad. And it was nice of Carl to do that, but did you explain everything to him? How to read the chart? The color coding?”

“Sasha—”

“Don’t Sasha me.”

“I’ll Sasha you if I want to. You’re not actually getting worked up about the fact that the movers might mistakenly put the mugs in the cabinet you have earmarked for water glasses. What are you really worried about—work? The ultrasound?”

“No. Well, yes, of course. But that’s not all of it.” She bit down on her lip. She didn’t want to mention the call from Detective Benson. Not yet. They couldn’t afford to be distracted by Costopolous right now. They had to make a decision about the ultrasound. And then she hoped to convince him to swab his cheek with a Q-tip and send his DNA off into the world, a proposition she suspected he’d resist.

“What?”

“Let’s go home, walk Mocha, feed Java, and then head out for an early dinner. There’s a rustic Italian joint that just opened in the space under the French bakery. We can talk about everything over a couple bowls of ribollita. And a nice glass of red for you.”

He relaxed back into the seat and rested a warm hand on her thigh. “That sounds perfect. And we can celebrate the new house.”

They continued on in silence, but it was a less funereal, more companionable quiet. Sasha turned onto their new street and noticed for the first time that all of their neighbors had well-tended gardens in full bloom. She tried to remember if their house had a flower garden. As she pulled up in front, she saw that there was, in fact, a garden. But in contrast to their neighbors’ gardens, which boasted fragrant climbing roses and colorful peonies, their garden was a brown, weed-choked mess. She eyed a pair of stalky weeds that were easily six inches taller than she was.

As she killed the engine, she said, “I don’t suppose you know anything about gardening?”

Connelly shook his head. “I guess we’ll learn.”

“Guess we will.” She smiled at the thought of creating something green and vibrant out of the dead flowerbeds.

Her smile faded when the front door opened and Carl came sprinting down the stairs to the sidewalk with a grim expression on his normally cheerful face.

“I was just getting ready to call you,” he shouted.

Uh-oh.
Just what they needed—another problem.

Connelly was already out of the car, rushing toward the house. She grabbed her bag and pulled herself up out of the driver’s seat, using the doorframe for leverage. By the time she reached the two men, Connelly’s expression was as somber as Carl’s.

“What happened?” she asked, bracing herself.

“I’m sure it’s just some neighborhood kids screwing around,” Connelly said.

“Skip the preface and just tell me, please.”

Carl pointed around to the back of the house. “After the movers finished up and left, I figured I’d coax the cat out from under the couch. All of a sudden, I heard Mocha barking like crazy in the kitchen.”

“Mocha’s not a barker,” she said.

“Right, so I hustled out there to see what he was going on about. I was just inside the doorway when a rock the size of my fist came crashing through the window over your sink.”

“Someone threw a rock through the window?” Sasha repeated. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish. I ran out back but didn’t see anyone. I think I got all the broken glass cleaned up but I can’t say for sure that some didn’t go down the disposal. I’d be real careful the first couple of times you run it.”

“You didn’t cut yourself, did you?” she asked.

“Nah, I’m okay. And Leo may be right, it might’ve just been teenagers acting like fools. But you should call your insurance agent—you’re gonna want to get that pane replaced before it rains.”

“Thanks, Carl,” she said. She turned toward Connelly. “I’m going to go inside and change. Then we can call the cops and file a report before we head to dinner, okay?”

“I don’t think we need to involve the police.”

She glanced over at Carl before answering. “I think we’d better.” She didn’t want to bring up Costopolous in front of him unless she had to. But considering the timing, she wasn’t willing to chalk up the broken window to young vandals. It could be a message.

Carl nodded in agreement. “Or at least keep your piece handy, Leo.”

Connelly’s face was a stiff mask as he said neutrally, “Not an option. Sasha’s not comfortable having a weapon in the house.”

Sasha gave both of them a level look. “That’s right.”

Carl wagged his head. “Come on, now, Sasha. You know what the Bard has to say about this, don’t you?”

She scanned her memory. Carl, who was a fairly accomplished amateur thespian, loved trading Shakespeare quotes with her. She could usually hold her own with him, but she wasn’t aware of any Shakespearean references to gun ownership. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

He struck a dramatic pose. “The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together.”

“
All’s Well that Ends Well?
” she ventured.

“Bingo,” he said in his normal speaking voice.

“Um…”

“You take the good with the bad. And, I’m just saying that
your
mingled yarn has got some stone-cold criminals running through it. You know? Why pretend it doesn’t? Let that man protect his family.”

To his credit, Connelly didn’t say a word. But his barely suppressed smile made it clear he was enjoying the show.

“I guess I’ll have to think about that some more,” she said faintly. “Thanks again for everything.” She nodded a goodbye to Carl and made her way up the stairs to the front door.

S
he was walking
from room to room, getting acquainted with the nooks and crevices of the new house, when Connelly came inside, shaking his head.

“I called the insurance company. And the neighbor across the street came over and gave me the name of a glazier who works weekends, so I left him a message.”

“Thanks for jumping on it,” she said.

“I figure you have enough on your mind.” He crossed the room and enveloped her in a hug from behind, wrapping his arms around her belly.

She leaned her head back and smiled up at him. “Kind of.”

“Are you ready to eat?”

“Definitely. But I have a call into Detective Benson. Let’s just hang out until he calls back.”

He screwed up in his face in confusion, sending a ripple of wrinkles across his forehead. “I really don’t think a broken window merits the involvement of the homicide squad, babe.”

“Ordinarily not,” she agreed. She turned to face him and took both of his hands in hers. She took a deep breath and locked eyes with him. “But it seems that Nick Costopolous has crawled out of his hole.”

His face tightened, and his cheek muscles twitched—the classic sign of Connelly’s controlled anger. “He’s out?”

“No, he’s still in prison. But he’s allegedly found religion and asked for permission to contact me to make amends or something.”

“What the—?”

“The warden reached out to Benson. He called me this afternoon and I told him in no uncertain terms that I didn’t want to hear from that dirtbag. He promised to make sure Costopolous got the message loud and clear. But, the timing …”

“You think he’s behind the rock through the window?” Connelly’s eyes clouded.

She had to strain to speak around the hard lump in her throat. “I don’t know. But … I’m scared, Leo.” She swallowed. “I’m huge and slow. Out of practice. I feel exposed. And this is our house. We’re going to be bringing our baby home here. And it’s already tainted by violence.” Her voice broke.

“Hey, hey.” He pulled her close and smoothed her hair. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Or the baby. Look at me.” He tilted her chin up and stared at her. The intensity rippled off him almost visibly. “I promise.”

She nodded mutely, tears shining in her eyes. A series of images formed in her mind, like a slide show, one picture fading into the next—her brother’s casket; Clarissa Costopolous, slumped over in her car, her brain matter smeared all over the window; Kathryn crouching behind the Dumpster; and then a literal murderers’ row of faces, evil men and women who were now incarcerated thanks, in part, to her and to Connelly. Her stomach tied into a knot. She couldn’t believe what she was about to say. She closed her eyes and steadied her breathing.

“I know,” she breathed. “Go get your gun. Please.”

S
asha pushed
the greens and white beans around the large, shallow bowl with the side of her fork. A quick glance at Connelly’s meal revealed that her husband wasn’t eating with any gusto either.

“Some celebratory meal, huh?” she said.

He turned his mouth up into a wry smile. “I guess I don’t have much of an appetite.”

“Yeah.”

Even the call from Detective Benson hadn’t been enough to buoy their spirits. He’d confirmed that Costopolous had had no recent visitors, had made no phone calls, and, perhaps most compelling, had no way to know that Sasha and Connelly had just moved. All the publicly available information about them still listed her old address. As far as he was concerned, the rock that had crashed through the kitchen window couldn’t be traced back to Costopolous.

Although that was a relief, it also meant that it could have been a message from some other vengeful enemy lurking in the shadows. Or a fourteen-year old with too much time on his hands. She was going to drive herself bananas obsessing over it. Besides, Connelly had retrieved his gun from the safety deposit box. She had to let it go and trust that they’d be able to respond to any threat to their little family. What choice did she have? Her time was better spent convincing him to sign up with the DNA registry. She just had to figure out the right way to broach the subject.

Across the table, he rested his fork against the side of his bowl and coughed into his fist. She looked up from her bowl. He took gulp of ice water and leaned forward, reaching for her free hand.

“Listen, I’ve been thinking about what Carl said—well, what Shakespeare said—about the web of our life.”

“Okay?”

The candlelight cast a shadow on his chiseled face. “I’ve long since made my peace with the fact that I don’t know my dad. But I guess my heritage doesn’t just affect me anymore. It affects us—all three of us.”

“What are you saying? You want to look for your father?”

He shook his head. “I wouldn’t go that far. That’d be wasted effort. I really think if he were findable, the feds would have found him by now. But his genetic information, I guess that could be out there somewhere. And Katrina’s right. It’s important. So, I’m going to submit a sample to that database she told us about. I wouldn’t hold your breath, but who knows? Maybe something will turn up and we’ll have something to tell the baby.” He smiled crookedly.

“Thank you.” He’d never say how hard it had been to agree to take this step, but she
knew.
Her heart squeezed in her chest.

He picked up her hand and kissed it. “No, thank you for not pressuring me about it. I love you, you know.”

“So I’ve heard.” She grinned back at him for a moment. Then she leaned back against the leather booth and rested her hands on her belly. “Now what are going to do about our giant baby?”

“The ultrasound?”

“Right.”

“That’s your call.”

“That’s not fair. This is
our
baby,” she pushed back.

“It is. But you’ve done all the research, read all the studies. I trust you to make the right decision. Besides, I’m nearly paralyzed with fear over here at the prospect of having this tiny, dependent little life relying on us.”

She nearly laughed at the hyperbole. Then she took a closer look at his drawn face and wide eyes. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You’re really afraid.”

“Of course I am. Aren’t you?”

Was she?
She considered it for a moment. Then she shook her head. “No. I’m honestly not.” She didn’t know
why
she wasn’t at least a little bit apprehensive, but she wasn’t. What she was, she realized with surprise, was
ready.

“Why not? What if we’re terrible parents? We have no idea what we’re doing.” His face was a study in pure panic.

“Connelly, this baby is going to be well loved and completely cared for. That’s enough.” She smiled encouragingly.

“Are you crazy? That’s not enough. We don’t know anything. How will we know when it’s hungry? Or if it’s sick? Or if something’s wrong? What if we make a mistake?” His voice was rising.

She pushed his wine glass toward him. “Pull yourself together, Big Daddy. Let’s be serious here. We’re both reasonably competent adults, right?”

He nodded and gulped his wine.

“And we’re pretty smart. I mean, I’ve had twenty years of formal education. And the government trusts you to do whatever very important, top secret stuff it is that you do.”

“Right?” he said, still unsure.

She leaned forward. “Well, then shame on us if between the two of us we can’t outsmart an infant. Just … fake it until you make it.”

“That’s it? That’s your plan for taking care of a helpless little baby?”

“In total.”

He tilted his head and looked at her for a long moment. Then he shrugged. “I guess it could work.”

“It better. I read babies can smell fear. You know, like dogs.”

“Really?”

“No.” She laughed. “We’ll figure it out together,” she promised.

A
fter sharing
a plate of fruit and cheese for dessert, Sasha and Connelly started the short walk back to the house in much improved spirits. As they waited for the light to change so they could cross South Highland Avenue, she pulled out her cell phone to call Katrina.

“What are you going to tell her?” Connelly asked as the phone rang.

“I want to ask her what she hopes to find out from the ultrasound. If it’s just that the baby’s gargantuan, I don’t think we need an ultrasound to tell us that. But if there’s something specific and actionable that could make the delivery easier or safer for the baby, then sure, I’ll do it.”

“Or you. The labor and delivery has to be safe for you, too,” he insisted. A shadow crossed his face.

As she listened to the phone ring, she couldn’t help but wonder what it was like for him—to be so integral to the whole pregnancy and childbirth, but yet so unable to control it. She imagined it made him feel powerless. And powerlessness was not a feeling Leo Connelly was overly familiar with. She actually felt a little sorry for him. She nodded.

“Answering service,” a bored female voice trilled.

“I’m trying to reach Katrina Waterhouse.”

“Are you a client?”

“Yes, Sasha McCandless-Connelly.”

“In labor?”

She swore she heard the operator stifle a yawn. “No, no. I just need to talk to Katrina about a test she recommended. She said I could call her tonight.”

“She’s attending a birth right now. When she checks her messages, I’ll let her know you called. Can she reach you at this number?”

“Yes. Please tell her it doesn’t matter how late it is. I’d really like to talk to her tonight.”

“I’ll give her the message, but it could be several hours before she checks in.”

“That’s okay. Really, any time.”

“Understood. Good night, Ms. McCandless-Connelly.”

“Good night.”

The light turned green as she dropped the phone back into her purse and took Connelly’s hand. “She’s with a client who’s in labor. She’ll call back.”

The heat of the day was finally evaporating, and the sun had faded from the sky. She breathed in deeply, inhaling the scent of wild roses in full bloom and released a small, contented sigh.

“Do you have to work this weekend?” Connelly asked.

“A little bit, but I can do most of it from home. Why?”

He shrugged. “I was just thinking this might be our last quiet weekend for a while. It’d be nice to spend some time just hanging out, beating you at Scrabble and trying to figure out how to fit all those casseroles your family’s made into the freezer.”

“We can play casserole Jenga all you want, but I don’t know how you think you’re going to win at Scrabble—I’m pregnant, not comatose.”

He laughed and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close.

Remember this moment,
she told herself.
A completely ordinary, perfect moment in their sometimes extraordinary, imperfect life together.