Bitter Crossing (A Peyton Cote Novel) (11 page)

“How do you know about the baby? Is she yours?” The girl took another step back. Peyton wiped her hands, balled the paper towel, and said, “Can I buy you breakfast?”

“No. Thank you, but no. I no hungry—I’m
not
hungry.”

The girl looked over her shoulder. She was within arm’s reach of the door, but too far from Peyton. If she made a break, she’d be out the door before Peyton could reach her.

“I’m having coffee,” Peyton said. “Why don’t you join me? I’m here with my sister.”

“Where is the baby?”

“Can I get your name?”

Peyton tried for casual but knew she didn’t pull it off. She’d gone to a potato field to find a BC Bud transaction. Instead, she’d discovered a baby. A day later, she’d found this woman, bloody and stumbling, near where the baby had been located. Too many damned coincidences and questions to be asked for casual, especially with the girl standing in the same room.

The girl’s eyes moved in quick bursts. Beyond the bathroom door, a bell jingled when the front door opened. The girl turned quickly—jittery, ready to bolt. Peyton knew that look:
I
’
m talking to you, but I shouldn
’
t be.

She couldn’t afford to lose her again.

“The baby is in foster care, staying with a nice family. What’s your interest in her?”

“I …” The girl paused. “I am worried for her.”

“Why? Is she in danger?”

“Where is she?”

“I can’t disclose that information.” Peyton took a step closer. “What’s your name?”

The girl ran.

Peyton needed four steps to reach the bathroom door, which the girl threw in her face. She pushed the door open and closed in near the counter but got caught at the front door. Someone was entering. She had to turn sideways to bypass them.

“Hey, Peyton.” He grabbed her arm. “I’m glad I ran into you.”

Instinctively, her balled fist flashed up before she recognized the voice. “Not now,” she told her ex-husband and ran outside.

But the interruption was enough.

She stopped on the sidewalk and looked in both directions. The girl was gone. Twenty minutes later, she still couldn’t be found.

If Peyton had located the girl, she might not have felt so bone-tired when she walked through the front door of her mother’s house Tuesday at 6:30 a.m.

She hung her coat in the closet and untied her boots. Her mind raced. Elise’s announcement, Darrel Shaley’s sick wife,
and
she’d lost the same girl twice in twelve hours.

The kitchen light was on. She heard Lois’s spirited-but-off-key rendition of “New York, New York.” Lois’s Edith Bunker falsetto brought a weary smile to her face, as she trudged to the kitchen, where the indoor/outdoor thermometer read 61/29.

Lois raised the coffeepot. “You look exhausted. Go to bed. I’ll get Tommy up and wait for the bus with him.”

“I’m fine,” Peyton said and watched as Lois turned back to the counter, poured a cup, carefully measured two spoonfuls of sugar, added one of cream, and stirred.

Peyton had never known another soul who made coffee so meticulously. Then again, she’d spent her entire career in law enforcement, where strong coffee, regardless of taste, was considered a delicacy.

“That apple crisp I smell?”

Lois smiled. “That’s why I’ll miss you living here when you and Tommy get your own place—your healthy appetite.”

“Thanks a lot, Mom.”

“What did I say?” Lois was genuinely confused. “Hey, I’m making Tommy a good, old-fashioned farm breakfast.”

“Steak and eggs?”

“And home fries.”

“Mom, he doesn’t usually eat much before school. Just a little cereal.”

“Cereal? That’s not enough.”

“How about some fruit and cereal?” Peyton said, but she knew it was no use. Lois wasn’t changing. Peyton had added a sixth day to her weekly running regimen to counter Lois’s pot roasts, coffeecakes, and Sunday dinners.

Two deep pans were on the counter. Lois was baking bread this morning.

“When you do buy a house,” Lois said. “I’ll miss your company, too, sweetie.”

“We’ll be in the same town, Mom.”

“I know that, and I know you need your own space.” Lois started toward the fridge but paused. “Something on your mind? Look like you’re carrying the weight of the world. Let me pour you some coffee. We can sit and talk. I can make you
ployes.
” Lois turned back to the counter, opened a glass cupboard, and took down a cup.

“No, Mom. I’m just really tired.” Only a partial lie. No way she was sitting across the kitchen table from her mother, saying what was on her mind. Elise could explain that, thank you very much. She hoped like hell Ellie told their mom soon. Her mother possessed a maternal instinct to know when her girls were hiding something.

As if on cue, Lois said, “Did your sister reach you? She called sounding upset.”

Nod.

“She did reach you?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“We met for coffee,” Peyton said.

“Everything okay?”

“Sure, Mom, fine.”

Lois looked at her, eyes narrowing. It was the same look she’d given Peyton during the Parents’ Weekend of Peyton’s senior year at the University of Maine in Orono. That Friday night, she and Jeff had sneaked the underaged freshman Elise into a bar in Bangor. Next morning, Elise passed on breakfast with Lois and Peyton, who’d also woken with mysterious flulike symptoms. On that day, Lois had stared across the breakfast table at Peyton, eyes narrowed, as they were now.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Lois said, the look vanishing. “Take one guess who waltzed in here last night with flowers like he’d never left you in El Paso. He tried to kiss me on the cheek and called me
Mom.
I damn near threw his skinny butt out the door.” She motioned to the other room.

Peyton walked to the living room, where the walls were lined with photos honoring years of farm life: Elise and Peyton, big toothless grins, sitting on tractor tires that were taller than they were; the girls picking rocks ahead of the harvester; Lois standing before a table of men, preparing to serve the afternoon meat-and-potato meal during harvest; and one of her late father fly fishing in the Alagash. But it was the bouquet on the coffee table near the television that caught her eye. She shook her head and returned to the kitchen.

“No card,” Lois sneered, “since he brought them in person. I told Jeff we already had material for the compost pile.”

Peyton chuckled. “I bet you actually said that, didn’t you?”

“Damn right I did. No one hurts my daughter and grandson.”

“Jeff showed up at Gary’s while Elise and I were having coffee,” Peyton said. “That was great timing on my part. He probably eats there every morning.”

“All the local businessmen do,” Lois said. “And the politicians. I go there at six a.m. some days to complain about my taxes.” Lois sipped her coffee, then looked at the cup as if she’d added too much cream. “May I ask why you’re buying your home through Jeff, Peyton?”

“I’m not necessarily buying it through him. We’re back in Garrett now, Mother, so Tommy will see him.”

“Jeff’s only called once to see Tommy.
In four months
.”

“I hope that changes, for Tommy’s sake. Anyhow, I have to at least be cordial.”

“Well, I’ve been cordial. I let him pick Tommy up after school, didn’t I? But Tommy was in bed when he showed up last night. I didn’t have to hold back. To tell you the truth, it felt nice to give him a piece of my mind.”

“I bet it did.”

“So you’re going house shopping at nine
for Tommy
?”

“He’s just showing me a couple houses,” Peyton said. “I need some sleep first.”

“And if the showing goes well?” Lois said. “Then what? Lunch? Then dinner …”

“Mom, there’s more to this than meets the eye.”

“Don’t give up your dignity so your son can have a father, Peyton.”

“I’m not giving up anything, Mother.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I hope you end up with someone,” Lois said. “I know this sounds old-fashioned, but Elise is taken care of. She and her son have a man to care for them. I want that for you, too. Your job is so dangerous. Peyton?”

“Yeah?”

“Why are you staring at the floor? Why won’t you make eye contact?”

“Just tired, Mom.”

“Well, just don’t forget that Jeff hurt you once.”

“Tommy comes first, Mom.”

“Think of yourself, too.”

The remark brought back Darrel Shaley, who was now facing jail time for trying to care for his wife. She didn’t know that kind of loyalty. But Tommy would be eight soon, and people could change.

She left the room. The stairwell to the second floor seemed like Mount Washington.

“Guess what, Mom?”

She registered Tommy’s tinny voice and stirred. Her sleep had been dreamless. She rolled over to see Tommy, wide-awake, wearing Superman pajamas and smiling.

“Guess what?”

“What is it, Rocket?” She’d nicknamed him as an infant, when he first started to crawl.

“Dad’s going to my soccer game today.”

Maternal fear hit her like a hand to the throat. But she managed calmly, “Well, you know your dad’s busy. He might not make it.”

The seven-year-old shifted. She realized he hoped she’d refute his fears, and she’d done the opposite. Now she’d make damned sure to remind Jeff of the game.

“Mom,” Tommy said, “if Dad says he’ll be there, he’ll be there.”

Such loyalty. She could only nod.

“I’m wearing my new cleats today,” Tommy said.

She smiled, reached over, and caught him playfully by the arm. He laughed and struggled to get away. But she pulled him closer, wrapped her arms around him, and squeezed.

“Do you know what a special kid you are?”

“You’re squishing me, Mom. And, yes, you only tell me every day.”

She kissed his forehead and released him. He dashed out of the room, giggling. She stood and started toward the shower in her flannel pajamas.

She paused to watch Tommy set out his uniform. Next to his shin guards, he carefully positioned the new black-and-white Adidas cleats, which lay unblemished.

FIFTEEN

H
AD SHE PUT OFF
the house-shopping excursion because she needed sleep, or had her mother’s words resonated? Peyton wasn’t sure, but she’d slept for three extra hours, then drove to Nancy Gagnon’s home.

Now she sat rocking the baby Nancy was calling Autumn.

“You look very natural doing that,” Nancy said.

Peyton was seated at Nancy’s kitchen table, holding the baby she’d found two nights earlier.

“I’m rusty,” Peyton said. “My son is seven, and he’s an only child.”

“Looks like you’re ready for another,” Nancy said. She stood at the counter, chopping strip steak into half-inch cubes. Occasionally, she lifted the cutting board, moved to the stainless-steel stove, and used the knife to slide the meat into a pot.

“Your soup smells good,” Peyton said.

“I told your mother I’d send some home with you. Do you want more kids?”

“That’s putting the cart before the horse.”

“You’re not married?”

“Mom hasn’t told you?”

“We just play bridge once a week.”

Peyton tried to guess Nancy Gagnon’s age. She looked closer to her own age than to her mother’s age.

“I’m divorced.”

Nancy just nodded. “There seems to be a lot of interest in little Autumn. I hope we get her real name soon.”

“We’re working on that. She wasn’t born in a Maine hospital, we know that much. Who else has shown an interest in her?”

“That state trooper.”

“Leo Miller?”

Nancy nodded. Classical music played from an iHome atop the granite countertop. “Yes. I find that man offensive. Have you dealt with him?”

Peyton reserved comment.

“But Susan Perry from DHHS is wonderful. I’ve dealt with her before.”

“As a foster parent?” Peyton said.

“Yes. And your people have been great, too, of course. Several Border Patrol agents brought clothing and toys.”

“Has Susan mentioned a timeline?”

“For moving Autumn? No. But I’ve offered to keep her as long as they need me to. Tom sold the grocery store last year, and we’re both home now. Our girls are at Bates for college, so it’s nice to have a baby in the house.”

“Thanks for doing this,” Peyton said. “I’ll try to stop in every few days.”

Peyton had heard leather seats were colder than cloth and fully expected her life to pass without getting a chance to learn the difference. But there she was, just after lunch, sitting in the posh interior of Jeff’s BMW X5; although, the answer to her question would have to wait because his leather seats were heated.

“You really look great, P,” Jeff said. “But be careful not to spill your coffee, okay?”

“Don’t forget Tommy’s soccer game, Jeff. He’s counting on you to be there.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

She looked at him and turned away. Maybe she was maturing; she’d held her tongue on two occasions today—Nancy’s mention of Leo Miller and now “wouldn’t miss it” from the man who’d missed nearly half of his son’s life.

Jeff drove from Main Street, where his real-estate agency was located, to Medway Road to see a three-bedroom cape with an attached two-car garage for $185,000. As the luxury SUV glided smoothly over the frost-heaved road, she stole occasional looks at him and thought of the past. She’d never forget how she felt the day he left—alone, in a city so far from home—yet there had been good times too: their honeymoon in Quebec City, the years before they’d married.

She recalled her father again, seated at the kitchen table, dressed in his green sanitation department uniform, shoulders slumped as he left the house each day. He’d taken that job for her. Swallowed his dignity—daily—for their family.

Tommy needed a father. Could that be Jeff? Biologically, she knew the answer. But could Jeff be a
father?

He turned and smiled at her.

She exhaled. And then smiled back at him, hearing her mother’s words from that morning, but remembering her father’s daily sacrifice.
A lot of people do things they don’t want to do for their children
, she thought.