Lullaby and Goodnight (8 page)

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Authors: Wendy Corsi Staub

BOOK: Lullaby and Goodnight
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It’s only been a few weeks since that first Pregnant and Single meeting, but Allison feels like an old friend, more so than the other members of the support group.
Kate has already delivered a baby boy and advanced to the foreign land of breast pumps and colic. Julie is a bit too militant in her views on home birth and neonatal care, and Wanda is caught up in the ongoing drama of her affair with the married father of her child.
Still, Peyton has more in common with all of them than she does lately with coworkers she’s known for a few years. Those at the office who have children are married; those who don’t seem to be determined nonbreeders. In fact, Peyton wonders how she never noticed until now how often her boss, Tara, seems to make disparaging remarks about children and motherhood. It’s almost as though she might suspect Peyton’s pregnancy and is hinting that she’s about to derail her career.
“Do you think I should talk to Tara on Monday?” she asks Allison, who is a longtime secretary at a midtown law firm and a self-proclaimed expert on corporate politics.
“I thought you were going to wait until you’re really showing.”
“I was going to, but . . . I mean, why wait? What’s she going to do, fire me?”
“Maybe.”
Peyton sticks out her tongue. “Let her try. I want that promotion when Alain leaves in a few weeks, and I’ve worked hard for it. Nobody deserves it more than I do.”
“Then don’t tell your boss you’re pregnant until after she’s promoted you. Tell her now and she’ll have you flying down the mommy track so fast you’ll need Dramamine. Trust me. I see it happen all the time at the firm.”
“So why doesn’t anybody sue? They’re lawyers.”
“Who knows? Maybe because once they become mothers, they aren’t as passionate about their jobs. You’ll see.”
“I doubt it. I know I’ll love the baby, but I also love my career.” Less at the moment than ever before, but she’s worked hard to build it, and she’s certain she’ll regain the passion. “And anyway,” she goes on, heaping her fork with spicy yellow rice, “I’ve got to support the two of us somehow.”
“Maybe you’ll find a nice rich husband. Like Dr. Lombardo.”
I never should have told her about those dreams.
Peyton knows her cheeks must be redder than the habanera chiles on her plate.
“I don’t want a nice rich husband,” she assures Allison. “And anyway, Dr. Lombardo is already somebody else’s nice rich husband.”
“Okay, then how about a great-looking husband with a good sense of humor? Because I was thinking that one of the lawyers at the firm would be perfect for—”
“I don’t want
any
husband, Allison. Trust me. I don’t want to answer to anyone.”
“Hmm, let me guess: your fiancé was a total son of a bitch. Am I right?”
Peyton shrugs, not in the mood to ask
which fiancé?
She must have mentioned one of her broken engagements to Allison in the flurry of confidences they’ve exchanged these past few weeks—not that she recalls doing so. She’s pretty forgetful these days, though. And she must have brought up Scott or Jeff at one point, because Allison is now regarding her with a knowing look, obviously convinced that one of them turned her into a man-hater.
Again, Peyton regrets blabbing her personal business. It isn’t like her. There’s just something about candid, easygoing Allison that tempts Peyton to open up more than she usually would. And something about being pregnant that has her reaching out to other women in a way she never has.
Oh well. No harm done
, she assures herself.
She just isn’t eager to discuss Scott or Jeff or the reasons neither of them became her husband.
She says simply, “I’m going to do this on my own.”
Allison’s expression isn’t exactly disapproving, yet she shrugs and asks with a touch less warmth than usual, “What are you going to do with the baby once your maternity leave is over?”
“Hire a nanny,” she says, hating that it comes out sounding like a confession and wondering what the heck Allison
thinks
she’s going to do. “Or maybe I’ll use day care. I don’t know.”
“Have you started looking?”
“Not yet. There’s plenty of—”
“You’d better start looking now,” Allison cuts in. “This is New York. People put fetuses on waiting lists for private high schools.”
Peyton laughs.
Allison shakes her head soberly. “I’m not kidding.”
Her smile fading, Peyton wants to tell her friend to stop trying to spook her. It’s not as though she’s assuming this will be a cakewalk. But neither is she willing to focus on the challenges ahead without mustering every shred of optimism she possesses.
Don’t let her scare you off. You’ll make it. You’ll be a terrific mother, and you’ll raise a terrific kid.
“Look,” Allison says earnestly, “I’m not trying to be the prophet of doom. But I feel like you think you know what to expect and you’re positive you can handle it on your own, when in reality, parenthood is full of surprises. I don’t want to see you with your hands full, wishing you had waited until you were married.”
“
You’re
not married.”
“Not this time, no. But I have a support system under my roof. You’re all alone.”
“Which is my choice,” Peyton insists. “And it’s a good one, for me. This didn’t happen by accident, remember? I chose this. I want this. More than anything.” Her voice breaks, and she looks down, needing to steel her wayward emotions.
“Just don’t rule anything out, okay? You might change your mind.”
“About getting married?”
“That, and working so many hours in such a demanding field.”
Peyton laughs. “You don’t know me very well, Allison. I rarely change my mind about anything.”
“All right, Ms.
Obstinado
. We’ll just see about that.”
“Hey, don’t call me that!” Peyton protests, though it isn’t the first time somebody has done so.
“What?”
“Bullheaded.”
“I didn’t realize you spoke Spanish.”
“Only what I learned in high school.”
“Well, if the
zapato
fits . . .” Allison smiles. “Listen, all I mean is that becoming a mother is going to change everything. You can’t know in advance how much, so keep your options open. You might wake up a year from now and decide you want a husband or a three-day workweek or a nice cushy job share like I have.”
A job share. Even if that kind of thing weren’t frowned upon at the agency, it’s out of the realm of possibility for Peyton. She couldn’t afford the salary cut now, let alone with another mouth to feed.
Allison has the luxury of living with her parents.
Luxury, or misfortune, depending on how you look at it.
Peyton would never want her mother judging her every move the way Allison’s reportedly does.
Then again, she can’t help secretly thinking it might be nice to have a built-in babysitter. Or a few of them. Allison’s parents helped to care for her children when her husband left her. Now her teenagers are old enough to take care of themselves, and to pitch in with their new sibling.
Allison will have plenty of willing hands standing by when the baby comes along. Peyton will have none. Nobody to help . . .
But nobody to interfere, either,
she reminds herself, and decides to change the sore subject.
“I keep wondering what the baby looks like,” she tells Allison. “It’s hard, you know? Never having seen the father.”
“I know, but just think. Maybe his genes won’t matter anyway. Maybe it’ll look just like you did as a baby.”
“God, I hope not. I was totally bald until I was about a year old.”
Allison laughs. “Well, I had so much hair when I was born that my uncle Norberto nicknamed me
Peludo.
”
“
Peludo?
”
“You don’t know that word? It means shaggy. He still calls me that. I hate nicknames. When my kids came out looking just like me, with piles of shiny black hair, Uncle Norberto tried to pull it again. But as soon as I told him I’d teach them to call him
Pelado
in return, he cut it out.”
“What does
Pelado
mean?”
“Baldy,” Allison says with an evil grin, and turns her attention to the menu in her hand. “So what should I order for dessert? What’s good? The margarita ice cream?”
“No liquor, young lady,” Peyton says with mock disapproval. “Not for another two months.”
“Yeah, well, the second I deliver, I’m breaking out the tequila.”
“Want me to bring you a bottle of Cuervo in the hospital?”
“Make it Patron and you’ve got a deal.” Allison grins, her old sunny self once again.
Watching her friend scanning the dessert list, Peyton decides that she’ll definitely ask Allison to be her labor coach. It’s something she’s been mulling over all week.
For one thing, she can’t think of anybody else to ask. For another, Allison’s irreverent sense of humor will be welcome in the delivery room. Yes, and she’ll certainly be well acquainted with the rigors of childbirth by that time.
Before Peyton can pop the question, though, Allison poses one of her own. “How’s the flan here?”
“As good as you’d expect.”
“Does it have a lot of caramel sauce?”
“Yup.”
“Is it good caramel sauce?”
“Delicious.”
“Then that’s what I’m having.” Allison snaps the menu closed. “Oh, and speaking of delicious, that hottie over by the bar has been watching you for the last ten minutes. If you weren’t so opposed to husband hunting, I’d tell you to turn around and wink.”
“Wink?” Peyton laughs, shaking her head, trying to imagine herself winking at a strange man. “Who am I, Betty Boop?”
“Oops, too late, Betty. It looks like he’s leaving. Anyway, men are off-limits to you, unless you’ve changed your mind already?”
Peyton assures Allison that men are as off-limits in her immediate future as margarita ice cream is.
Still, curiosity gets the best of her, and she turns around.
Just in time to glimpse a vaguely familiar face in the split second before the figure disappears out into the street.
For a few minutes, she can’t seem to place him.
It isn’t until she and Allison have given the waiter their dessert orders that she realizes, with a twinge of excitement oddly tainted by a vague sense of uneasiness, who he was.
Tom.
The complete stranger who bought her the watermelon that night a few weeks ago.
Tom . . .
The complete stranger who seemed to know where she lived.
 
The thing about New York is that you can be utterly anonymous, utterly unnoticed. It takes a lot more than a river of mascara running down a person’s cheeks to capture attention on a crowded sidewalk.
Anne Marie wipes her face and eyes with a futile swipe of a tissue, but the tears refuse to subside.
What now?
she wonders, looking down at the envelope clutched tightly in her hand. She’s afraid to let go even to tuck it into her bag.
If only you never let go in the first place,
she tells herself, thinking not of the envelope but of the loss it signifies.
Why did you let go?
Somebody slams into her from behind and she realizes she has stopped walking altogether. “Sorry,” the pedestrian flings brusquely over his shoulder, striding on.
Anne Marie forces her legs to start moving again, forces her thoughts into action as well.
What now?
I should probably call him, tell him. But I don’t even know where he is.
His whereabouts can be discovered easily enough, she supposes.
But that would mean letting him in, to share not just the burden but the decisions that will have to be made.
Is that really what she wants?
She clasps the envelope possessively to her chest, to her heart, knowing that isn’t what she wants.
This is hers, for now. All hers.
For now, and perhaps, forever.
 
“Peyton, wait—”
She turns back toward Allison and finds her still poised on the top of the subway steps.
“What’s wrong?” Peyton asks, retracing the few steps she had taken down the busy street. “Did you forget something?”
“Yeah. I forgot to ask if you’ll be my labor coach.”
“I was going to ask you the same exact thing!” Peyton exclaims, touched and surprised by Allison’s invitation.
“You were? I’ll do it. It’ll be an honor.”

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