Lullaby and Goodnight (25 page)

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Authors: Wendy Corsi Staub

BOOK: Lullaby and Goodnight
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Father Roberto, she concluded, will guide her toward redemption. Perhaps, she even dared to think, he’ll say that this enormous secret is better kept buried, the innocent child better left with the only parents she knows.
Mary was prepared to rest her future, her family’s future, in his sturdy hands.
How is it that now, when she can no longer bear the burden; now, when she needs the kindly, trusted priest most of all, he isn’t here?
What a cruel joke fate is playing on her.
“
Donde esta Padre Roberto?
” she blurts.
A minute later, she’s running away from the church, away from the shocking news that the elderly priest died in his sleep last night.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Prague?
Prague?
It’s been a good half hour since her boss sprang that on her, yet Peyton still can’t seem to get past the sheer audacity.
Tara knows she can’t go to Czechoslovakia any time in the near future.
Naturally, she had no choice but to come right out and admit it. Tara shook her head and informed Peyton that she’ll keep that in mind when her evaluation comes up.
When she ran into a coworker in the ladies’ room, Peyton spilled the whole story to her. She was silent at first, and Peyton assumed she was thinking,
Well, what did you expect?
But she ultimately urged her to march straight in to Human Resources and report Tara.
That might be satisfying in the short run, but it doesn’t solve the problem at hand. If Peyton doesn’t go to Prague—which she simply cannot do—she’ll be proving she can’t handle the new position. She won’t be allowed to keep the promotion, with the lofty title, larger office, and pay raise that go with it.
Maybe I had no business agreeing to take over Alain’s position in the first place,
she tells herself now.
Either that, or she has no business having a child at this stage in her career.
The phone rings, jerking her thoughts back to the immediate present—and the memo she should have been typing these last five minutes she spent stewing about Tara.
“Peyton Somerset.”
“Oh, hi, it’s Claretta,” the floor receptionist says. “There’s a man out here who says he needs to see you.”
“Is he a messenger?” Peyton asks, balancing the receiver between her shoulder and her ear so she can go back to her keyboard. “Because I’m waiting for storyboards to arrive, but you can sign for them.”
“No, he’s not a messenger. Sir, what was your name?”
There’s a brief pause, during which Peyton continues to type. According to Tara, this memo needs to be e-mailed over to the client immediately. Or, as she so exasperatingly put it, “I need it done yesterday.”
“His name is Gil Blaney,” Claretta informs Peyton. “He said he’s an old friend.”
Gil. An old friend she hasn’t seen in weeks. After a long silence, he’s left a couple of messages on her answering machine over the last few days, but she hasn’t had a chance to respond. Apparently, he’s decided an in-person confrontation is in order. Terrific.
Shaking her head in frustration, Peyton tells Claretta, “I’m tied up now. I’ll be out in ten minutes or so if he wants to wait.”
She types furiously as Claretta relays her message to Gil.
“He says that he does want to wait, Peyton.”
“Fine. Tell him to make himself comfortable.” Peyton plunks the phone back into its cradle and goes back to her memo, her thoughts only half on the topic, which is, of course, the impending new product launch.
Gil has sounded increasingly needy with every message he’s left her. She can’t help feeling sorry for him, but she isn’t capable of being his sole sounding board at a time like this. There’s just too much going on in her own life to worry about somebody else’s problems.
Memo finished and e-mailed, she returns two calls to the media department before going out to meet Gil. The calls could have waited a few more minutes, but she can’t help wanting him to realize that she’s truly busy, far too busy to drop everything just because he’s dropped by the office.
Finally, she walks out to the reception area, where she sees him pacing. Obviously, he wasn’t in the mood to make himself comfortable.
“Gil,” she calls, and he stops walking and turns around.
Instant guilt. His face is drawn, his reddish hair needs a trim, and he hasn’t shaved this morning. Maybe in a few mornings. He should be wearing a suit at this hour on a weekday, but he’s dressed in rumpled cargo pants and a more rumpled T-shirt.
“What’s wrong?” She goes over to him but stops short of reaching out to give him the hug he obviously needs, aware of Claretta’s curious gaze. She’s a notorious office gossip.
“What isn’t wrong?” is Gil’s sardonic reply.
“Come on, let’s go into my office and talk.”
Peyton leads the way down the corridor, conscious of several occupants of the secretaries’ bay glancing up with interest. She can just hear them whispering, “Do you think he’s the father?”
Let them speculate.
She closes the door and bends to move a stack of heavy binders from her lone guest chair. Rather than gallantly offer to help her, as he normally would, Gil walks to the window and gazes unseeingly into the air shaft.
“What happened?” Peyton asks, edging by him to sit down, looking nervously at her watch, then at the stacks of papers and folders on her desk.
“Karla’s got the kids out in Oregon for the summer. And I lost my job.”
“You were laid off ?”
“I was fired, Runt.”
“For what?” she asks reluctantly, settling back in her chair.
“For taking two and a half weeks’ vacation.”
“You don’t have vacation time?”
“I get three weeks. I used one in February when I took Karla and the kids skiing. I wasn’t supposed to take the other two until August. We go to the Outer Banks every August. I reserve the same house every year,” he says desolately. “But now . . .”
“Why did you take your vacation early, Gil?”
“I went out West to be near her and the kids. But she didn’t want me there, and the kids . . . I don’t even know if they wanted me there. So I finally came back . . .”
“And lost your job?”
He nods. “I didn’t clear the time off in advance. I left my boss a message, but apparently, he doesn’t understand. He’s been married thirty years and his kids are grown. What the hell am I going to do now, Peyton?”
“Listen, Gil, you’ll get past this. I know you will. Everything is going to fall into place and . . .” She trails off, spotting Tara standing in the doorway.
“Peyton? Do you have the storyboards yet?”
“Not yet. They should be here any second.”
“They should have been here an hour ago. Can you follow up, please? And if you can’t get this resolved quickly please send me an e-mail recapping this situation. Thanks.”
She nods, glancing uncomfortably from her boss to Gil, who steps forward, hand out, as if he’s suddenly remembered to be civilized.
“I’m Peyton’s friend Gil Blaney.”
“Nice to meet you,” Tara says curtly, not bothering to introduce herself. “Peyton, if you can check on those storyboards. . . ?”
“I’m on it, Tara,” she promises as the boss strides off down the corridor. To Gil, she says, “I’ve got to do that right away or you won’t be the only one without a job.”
“Can you go to lunch with me?”
“Gil, I’m swamped.”
“You’ve got to eat.”
“I’ll order something in.”
“How about dinner?”
She starts to agree, then remembers Rita. “I’ve already got plans.”
“With who? For what?”
The fact that he obviously considers his personal crisis more pressing than her social life shouldn’t be surprising, considering his condition. Nor should it irk her the way it does.
After all, a friend in need . . .
But I’m in need, too,
Peyton reminds herself stoically.
I can’t deal with a divorced-and-unemployed sob session on the heels of a day like this. I just can’t
.
“Sorry, Gil. Maybe tomorrow? Call me and—”
“Come on, Runt. I don’t have anybody else to turn to. I’m falling apart, here.”
Her phone rings before she can reply.
She seizes it gratefully. “Peyton Somerset.”
“Peyton, the messenger just left your package.”
“Thanks, Claretta.” She hangs up. “Gil, I’ve got to go. Come on, I’ll walk you out.”
“Forget it, you don’t have time.” He heads for the corridor.
“I’m going that way anyway,” she says, but he’s already disappeared around the corner.
She stares after him, raking a hand through her hair.
He’ll be fine,
she assures herself halfheartedly, wistfully recalling the happy-go-lucky Gil she once knew.
“Peyton Somerset was in today for her monthly,” Nancy mentions to Rita around a mouthful of tuna sandwich. “She looks great.”
“She does, doesn’t she?”
“She wants another ultrasound so she can tell what she’s having. I bet it’s a girl. What do you think?”
“I really don’t have anything to go by.”
“Neither do I. I’m going by instinct. What’s your guess? Boy or girl?”
Rita takes a bite of her sandwich: her usual turkey on whole grain bread with lettuce and mustard. “I don’t really like to guess.”
“Why not? I love to guess. My mother always said that if you conceive on an even day of the month during a full moon, you’re having a girl.” Nancy’s smile betrays the predictable note of sadness.
Searching for a cheerier subject, Rita asks, “How’s your tuna?”
Nancy looks down at her half-eaten sandwich. “Not great. It’s kind of runny. I hate when it’s like that.”
So much for cheer.
For a moment, they sit in silence.
Then Nancy says brightly, “You know, I forgot to mention to Peyton that I was window-shopping down in Soho over the weekend and I saw a painted yellow crib like she wanted.”
“She already ordered a white one.”
“Well, maybe it’s not too late to cancel if she likes this yellow one. It would match the nursery walls.”
“Actually, she doesn’t have a nursery,” Rita gently corrects Nancy. “It’s a one-bedroom apartment. The baby will sleep in Peyton’s room. We painted the walls in there yellow.”
A flicker of envy in her eyes, Nancy asks, “You helped her?”
“I had to. She’s got those high ceilings, and she can’t go around climbing ladders. Listen, I’ll tell her about the yellow crib when I see her later,” Rita promises, to appease her, though she knows she probably won’t mention it.
Peyton has enough to think about these days between her stressful job and her busy personal life. For somebody who claims to be mere friends with two men, she’s been seeing an awful lot of both Tom and Gil, against Rita’s advice.
“You’re seeing Peyton later?” Nancy asks, a bit too casually. “Business or pleasure?”
“Business,” Rita lies, knowing Nancy is prone to inviting herself along. “Hey, want to split a piece of blueberry pie for dessert?”
Nancy shakes her head. “I’m not really in the mood for pie.”
She’s hurt,
Rita thinks.
She’s hurt, and lonely, and she’s thinking she has no life outside of work
.
The sad thing is, she doesn’t.
Rita should come up with some way to lift her spirits. Something other than inviting her to the movies later.
“So tell me what’s going on at the office today,” Rita suggests, and is promptly rewarded when her friend’s eyes become animated once again.
“Let’s see,” she says, “Elsa Lang was in with contractions—just Braxton Hix, though. And remember Helen Cantero? She’s having twins.”
Rita pops the last bite of her turkey sandwich into her mouth, thinking what a shame it is that poor Nancy must live vicariously through her patients.
 
Karen looks up from her magazine as Anne Marie follows the housekeeper into the spacious family room, and blurts, “Oh, my gosh. You look like you’ve been through hell.”
Hell
doesn’t begin to cover it, but Anne Marie forces a smile, remembering to act as though it hurts to move her facial muscles.
“How are the kids?” she asks, needing to hold her boys close.
“They’re downstairs eating sandwiches with Barbara,” Karen tells her, uncrossing her barefooted legs and patting the love seat beside her. “I know you said not to give them lunch but you were gone longer than I expected and they were hungry.”

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