Her Lost and Found Baby

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  She’d insisted that no son of hers was going to be incapable of caring for himself and his home if the need ever arose. He’d spent a summer earning his allowance—enough to buy a brand-new sports car when he turned sixteen the next fall. He’d regularly cleaned the ground floor of the five-thousand-square-foot home in which the family lived. The summer before that, he’d had to help the landscapers five days a week—his father had insisted on that one.

  He’d also taken lavish vacations to exotic places with his parents every summer. Some of that information she’d known already. Some she was just learning.

  But it pointed out their differences so acutely. He knew how much his real life intimidated her. How uncomfortable it all made her.

  She wasn’t like him. Growing up with her mom and grandmother, she’d shared the household duties. She’d never been pampered and had told him she never wanted to be. Her independence, and her privacy, were too important to her. They’d had that discussion early on, just a getting-to-know-you talk about their differences.

  Differences that didn’t matter during this time out of time, as she’d once called it.

  Very little about her life had been easy.

  Other than Angel’s death, he’d had a perfect life. Everything money could buy and the richness of family, too. Aunts and uncles. Cousins. A blessed upbringing by parents who not only adored him but were still in love with each other as well.

  Yeah, he had everything—except drive. Passion. Maybe because he hadn’t had to fight for a chance. His chances had all been given to him. That had been Angel’s take on it, as he’d explained to Tabitha. But then, Angel had had chances given to her as well, and she’d been overflowing with passion.

  His own version of his situation was a bit more difficult to understand. Or fix. He felt he’d been born with a deficit, a defect. Whatever it was that drove people to do crazy things, to take risks, to push themselves beyond endurance in the pursuit of a goal. He had no burning need. No fire.

  Not even for the food truck, except insofar as he was doing it to honor Angel. He wanted it to be a success. He knew it would be; he’d made the commitment. But that choice had been driven by his rational mind and his sense of obligation, not by something deep inside himself.

  Tabitha was driven from the inside out. Her work, the way she’d taken on the food truck, of course her search for her son...all of it came from some force deep inside her.

  It was that force he was missing.

  And that would eventually make him less in her eyes.

  As it had in Angel’s. And maybe his parents’, too. Their quick approval of his announcement that he was taking a year’s sabbatical to run a food truck was evidence of that. They’d been thrilled that he was determined to do this—to the point of walking away from everything else in his life. That he needed to do it badly enough to sacrifice for it. He hadn’t had the heart to tell them that it wasn’t about passion. Or a burning need. That it was simply his own brand of justice, the way he dealt with the fact that Angel, who’d been so filled with fire, had had her life snuffed out before she could fully live. He’d felt he owed it to her family, her parents were still some of his parents’ closest friends.

  In spite of his lack of passion for her, she’d still put Johnny, their families, first. Family first had always been his priority, too. Still was.

  He and Tabitha had just finished dinner when his phone buzzed a text message. Seeing the number, he opened it immediately and watched a couple of pictures download.

  Tabitha had been clearing the table and came up behind him as he looked at the first one. A man in running pants, a tight T-shirt and tennis shoes was looking toward someone off to his right.

  “Who is that?”

  His gut sank as he held the phone closer to her. “The text is from Alistair Montgomery,” he said.

  “That’s Matt?” She sounded shocked. Took the phone. Stared.

  “His hair’s a different color and much longer. He’s not wearing glasses. He’s twice as buff as he was, and he’s lost the little belly fat he had. His lips seem a bit more prominent, but the nose and chin... It could definitely be Mark.”

  It sounded to him as though she was talking herself into seeing Mark in the photo. He’d wanted her to instantly recognize the man she’d slept with. To be so certain it was Mark that he was reassured that they were on the right track. He wasn’t. “Tabitha...” At what point did encouraging what might be a wild goose chase become wrong? Their partnership agreement required his support. But when did support mean speaking hard truths?

  With her fingers on the phone’s screen she zoomed in on the photo.

  “Wait,” she said. Standing over her shoulder now, Johnny saw what she was focusing on. A tattoo on the man’s left arm. He’d barely noticed it.

  “Did Mark have a tattoo?” he asked. She’d never mentioned it. But then, there’d been other things she’d failed to tell him. Hence, their list-building plan for that night.

  “No,” she said, and he frowned. “Look at this,” she said, zooming in closer so only the tattoo showed on the man’s arm.

  “It’s a lily,” he said.

  “Yes, but see this...” She zoomed in even farther. Pointed at what looked like dots, or flakes of dust all over the flower. “It’s scabbing and dry skin is flaking off,” she said. “It’s the second stage of tat healing. A nurse I work with got one and this stage drove her nuts. They tell you not to scratch, since new tats are at risk of infection.”

  “So it’s new.”

  “Yes.” She looked up at him, and the glow in her eyes made him want to kiss her. “And the lily? It was Mark’s mom’s favorite flower.”

  Again, he wanted to kiss her. Instead, he put the phone away, loaded the dishwasher and sat down with his partner to make lists.

  While she was still at Johnny’s place, she had a call from Detective Bentley. Matt Jamison appeared to be exactly who he said he was. His car was registered, a prior address had come up and checked out as far as the police computer was concerned. A birth date and social security number were listed. He’d never been arrested. There were no fingerprints on file.

  They hadn’t found a birth certificate for Jason, but for that, they needed to narrow the search to a particular county. He had someone going through the counties in California, one by one.

  Johnny hadn’t been surprised by any of it, but at Tabitha’s fallen expression he told her he’d get Alistair to take a deeper look at the information the police had given them. Not that they’d shared any specifics. They couldn’t. But Alistair had ways of finding out things. Johnny called him before she went home.

  * * *

  Friday night dinner had been at Tabitha’s place. He’d made a bourbon-based pork au jus, with shredded cauliflower soufflé and snow peas, which he’d carried over from his kitchen when he saw her pull in after work. She’d asked for seconds. And their list had grown. She’d also given him a house key so he could cook in her kitchen—after he’d refused to back down on his insistence that after a long day’s work, she needed to be able to come home, shower, get comfy and just relax in her own space.

  He knew he’d been right to stand up to her. She was pushing herself too hard. And there was no one around but him to see that.

  Or do anything about it.

  Alistair had found out that Matt Jamison had no formal certification as a personal trainer, at least none that was easy to find. And Alistair couldn’t find any college information on him, either.

  Again, that didn’t necessarily mean anything. It wasn’t like you could type in Joe Blow’s name and find out what college he’d attended, unless he’d put something on social media.

  Jamison had no social media accounts that could be traced back to him.

  Johnny called Tabitha at work as soon as he heard from the investigator. She’d taken hope, as he’d feared she would.
And she told him that Detective Bentley had called to say no birth certificate had shown up yet for Jason.

  She’d also said she was tired and looking forward to dinner. Mentioned that she’d forgotten to take out a fresh roll of paper towels and where she stored them.

  Still, it was odd, to say the least, being in her home on a Saturday afternoon without her there. He was preparing the lasagna he’d chosen after remembering how, on their travels, her first choice for dinner was always Italian, followed quickly by Mexican, and that, when Italian won, she usually ordered the dish. He was accompanying it with salad greens with homemade croutons and his own version of a Caesar dressing.

  For dessert he’d bought a white cake with buttercream icing—the same kind that she’d brought over for his birthday. She’d apologized—sort of—for the fact that it was store-bought, but said it was her absolute favorite so she never made cakes.

  The lasagna was in the oven, the greens washed and prepared and the cake covered and on the counter. He’d set the dining room table where they’d been working rather than the two-seater in the bay window nook at the other end of her kitchen. But he thought the little table might have been nicer. More intimate.

  He thought about the wine he’d purchased and retrieved a couple of glasses from the cupboard.

  He looked again at the hallway leading to her bedroom. He could walk down there. Take a peek inside. Just to know if she had a king or queen. See the things that surrounded her when she slept. If she was a bed-maker or not.

  No—going inside her bedroom would be an invasion of privacy. Johnny went to check the lasagna, then set the timer on his phone and let himself out.

  He’d go home, call his folks, catch up on everyone in his real life. Ask about the family business, maybe have some files sent over...maybe even take on a case or two. See if he could get through an entire hour without thinking about making love with Tabitha.

  And that night, after working on the list, maybe he’d head over to his side of town, to an upscale bar he knew. Meet someone who’d still want to be in his life three months from now. Someone who’d be part of the life he’d be resuming. Start getting to know her.

  Yeah, he had to do something to get sex with his beautiful blonde neighbor out of his thoughts. Something besides having it with her.

  * * *

  He was waiting inside for her when Tabitha came through the garage door into the kitchen shortly after seven that evening. With her hair falling out of her ponytail, her wrinkled scrubs sporting a stain and her makeup long since faded, she looked heartbreakingly beautiful. And exhausted.

  “Go get your shower,” he told her, taking the satchel she’d had over her shoulder and putting it on the small built-in counter by the back door. “I’ll hold dinner until you’re done.”

  He’d already poured the wine. Handed her a glass as she walked by.

  “You’re spoiling me, Johnny,” she said, sending him a grateful glance. If only it was her gratitude that he wanted.

  “It’s time someone did,” he told her, taking a sip from the other glass. He’d had half a notion, when he poured the wine, about making a toast. Something about their partnership and how well it was paying off for both of them. Maybe include a nuance about partnership fluidity, about how the best partnerships worked because both members were open to change.

  Sipping his wine alone while she walked off, no doubt needing a shower more than she’d ever need him, was more appropriate. And, truthfully, the way he really wanted it.

  Anything else and someone was going to get hurt. He needed his real life back.

  She wouldn’t be happy there. Not only because it was a completely different world, different lifestyle, but because eventually, like Angel, she’d be hurt by his lack of the internal driving force that transcended normal human capabilities. Or, if nothing else, bored by his lack of it.

  His own hurt, he could handle, but if he hurt Tabitha...

  There’d be no excuse good enough for that.

  * * *

  “This is delicious.” Tabitha’s mouth hung open as, forkful of lasagna suspended in front of her, she praised his meal.

  Like the night before, she’d come to dinner in sweats and a long-sleeved cotton shirt, black sweats and white shirt both times, her face freshly scrubbed and devoid of makeup, her hair shiny and hanging over and around her shoulders.

  Both nights, just looking at her had given him a hard-on.

  “Lasagna’s my favorite,” she said, as though he didn’t already know. Johnny watched the fork. Anticipated the moment the pasta would slip inside, the exact second the fork would touch her tongue and her lips would close around it.

  He was in trouble. Real trouble.

  * * *

  Sunday night, after three twelves and working on their lists each night, Tabitha should’ve been exhausted to the bone. Instead, she felt a lift in her spirits as she clocked out and left the hospital with almost a spring to her step as she made her way to the employee parking lot.

  She was starving and anticipating another home-cooked Johnny meal. Although, truthfully, fast-food carryout would’ve been fine with her. Mostly she was looking forward to an hour or two alone with him. Talking about Jackson, answering Johnny’s gazillion questions about life with her son, questions designed to bring up memories from the year they’d had together. The Mark questions she wasn’t looking forward to. And yet, being able to share her past with Johnny as she remembered things—such as the fact that Mark didn’t like dark chocolate, only milk—made the remembering...easier.

  She wished there was something she could do for Johnny. Something in addition to the relatively simple task of being his food-truck employee. In the past couple of weeks, he’d done so much more for her than they’d ever agreed upon. Meeting with Mallory, giving legal advice, paying for Alistair, just to name a few. He’d become one of her greatest sources of strength. No matter how tired she felt when she left the hospital, walking in the door to Johnny’s grin always woke her right up. Gave her the mental and emotional fortitude to get through an evening of sometimes painful memories and then be able to fall asleep when her head hit the pillow.

  If she didn’t know how wrong it would be, she’d think she was falling in love with him. Best-friend kind of love. The feelings that lasted long after sexual attraction faded. Love that lived on even after death.

  That would be wrong, though, and she knew it. Johnny was counting on a one-year partnership that would let him walk away without regret when his sabbatical was up. He needed a friend who didn’t interfere with his grieving, one who would help him honor his wife, not try to replace her in his affections. One who would be perfectly fine on her own when he left.

  That was what she owed him. That was what she could do for him. Keep to her part of their agreement. Be ready, willing and able to say goodbye with a smile on her face when the year was up.

  That reality deflated her good mood. But only until she reminded herself that for the next three months Johnny needed her to tell him everything she could, to share her thoughts and feelings with him in regard to finding Jackson—which was pretty much every thought and feeling she had these days. With her mind back on track, she focused on the evening ahead—refining and then printing the list they’d made and the packing she had yet to do. First thing in the morning they were going to be on the road again. Spending the next six nights in the suite in San Diego, since she wasn’t due at the hospital until the following Monday.

  Filled with something akin to excitement, she pulled into the garage. She thought about the fact that she’d be spending six nights with Johnny, and maybe even have Jackson back home with her before she’d be driving her car again. Chiding herself for her whimsy, she wondered what they’d be having for dinner.

  She felt an instant rock in her gut as she pushed open the garage door into a dark, deserted kitchen.

  �
��Johnny?” Was he in the living room? They’d joked about ordering a pizza some night. Perhaps he’d decided not to cook?

  She didn’t blame him and would have gladly picked one up.

  Dropping her bag on the counter by the door, she called his name again. Made her way through the dining room to the living area, turning on lights as she went.

  “Johnny?” Hand to her chest, she could feel her heart pumping hard. Too fast.

  Something had happened to Johnny. She couldn’t breathe for a second and then, gasping for air, or maybe exhaling a sob, she ran for the front door and didn’t stop until she was on his step, knocking at his door.

  “Johnny?” she called again, completely overwhelmed by panic. Telling herself to calm down. To quit being such an idiot.

  There was no reason to cry.

  Johnny was fine.

  He’d probably just had something better to do that night than cook for her and print a list. The work was almost done. He knew pretty much everything she did about Jackson and Mark.

  And he had other people in his life, even if, for the past nine months, he’d chosen to have little contact with them. His sabbatical was three-quarters done. The food truck was going to exceed all goals. Perfectly natural that he’d be thinking ahead. Making moves to resume his real life.

  That thought didn’t help stem the tears.

  There was no answer to her knock. Stubbornly she stood there, knocking again. Ringing the bell. Calling his name.

  What if he was inside and in trouble? Should she call the police, ask for a wellness check?

  And if he was just out, which was more likely considering that there were no lights on except the one he usually kept burning when he was going to be out past dark, she’d show herself for the fool she was in calling the police.

  Could be he’d had a call from his parents. What if one or the other of them had fallen ill? Or someone else in his family had?