She had a life, a good life with Taylor. Not what she’d planned, but it was more than just existing or marking time, the way Jenn had suggested. She tried to breathe and calm her heart. She tried to let the pain go. And she tried not to remember what she’d lost. It was okay. It was part of grieving, to feel okay, then have the pain hit. She knew that. It had happened so much before, but it had been lessening. Until now.
She willed up the image of Rob, solid and blond, tanned in the summer, with the grayest eyes. An image she’d called up so many times to help her remember. But it only made things worse this time. She couldn’t quite see his face. She couldn’t quite make him out. She couldn’t claim that comfort the way she always had in the past.
She felt a real fear in her. A fear of forgetting. She scrambled to her feet and hurried back to the office. She went inside, crossed to the desk and found what she needed. A photo of Rob she kept on the desk, but it had been hidden behind stacks of papers and a box of labels. She pulled it out and stared at it, at his smile that crinkled his eyes as they narrowed in the brightness of the sun. Hair that refused to be tamed, worn a bit longer than fashion dictated, and the shirt, the Super Dude T-shirt. A moment frozen in time, a year before he was gone forever.
She hugged the picture to her, fighting the tears, and forced herself to put the picture back on the desk. She made herself pick up her purse, took a swipe at her eyes, then left the room. She could be friends with Quint. She could do that. Taylor spotted her and ran for her, falling into her open arms. “Time to go home, baby, just you and me.”
“Get candy?”
“Sure, we’ll get something on the way home,” she said.
Taylor bounced in her arms as she locked up and headed toward the back exit for the parking garage. She stepped out into the cavernous area, where there were only a few cars due to the holidays. Matt’s car was still there, a service truck off to one side, a midnight-blue SUV that was still so new it had dealer plates on it, and close to the door, her car, an old blue compact.
She turned, locked the security door, then headed for her car. She stopped, thinking she saw something moving near one of the thick pillars, but there was no one there. “Hello?” she called, her voice echoing in the garage. But there was no response.
She headed for her car, got Taylor in her car seat in the back, then slipped in behind the wheel. A friend. Yes, that would be good. She’d be running into Quint at LynTech from time to time, and better to be friends than to dread spotting him. Friends.
Chapter Seven
December 30
Quint turned from the rain that had been drenching the city all day and flipped off the lights in his office. He strode through the dimness of the reception area into the hallway. He wasn’t going down to the lobby tonight. He’d called down to Walt moments ago to let him know he was on his way out, but he’d take the executive elevator instead of the main elevators. He didn’t want to see Amy.
He went past the elevators and headed through Zane Holden’s private offices to the executive elevator. He’d come in at seven, but Amy had been here before him, her name written in precise script just above his in the check-in book.
It was then that he’d looked up and seen her, carrying Taylor. As if she’d known he was there, she’d turned, nodded slightly to him, and Taylor had spotted him. The little girl had smiled hugely and waved, bouncing in her mother’s arms, reminding him so much of Mike that it had almost hurt. A trusting child, sweet, happy. But Amy hadn’t turned again, just gone into the center with her daughter and closed the door.
What a fool he’d been to think they could be friends, that he wouldn’t have any reaction to seeing her, or that that reaction wouldn’t intensify with each encounter. He was old enough and smart enough to know that the best way to counteract that very thing was to avoid her. So he went down the back way, took the elevator directly to the parking garage and stepped out into the almost empty cement structure.
He headed for his car, pressed the security button on his key, heard the click of the locks, saw the interior lights come on, and was reaching for the door when he was stopped dead in his tracks. There was a cry, sudden and piercing, echoing in the cavernous space around him. It took him a moment even to figure out where it was coming from, and in the next second he recognized it as a baby’s cry.
He scanned the area by the day-care center security entrance, the source of the sound. There was no baby, but oddly, there was a rock on the single step going to the security door, a rock with something white under it. Then he saw the box, a plain cardboard container with no top on the far side of the step. The box was moving as the cries increased.
He tossed his briefcase in the car, then hurried over to the box. He crouched down, shocked to see a baby, little more than a newborn, swaddled in a blue blanket, in the box. With just the palest of fuzz on its head, its face contorted with misery, eyes scrunched tightly shut, and skin brightly flushed, the baby cried at the top of its lungs. A pacifier was on its chest, partly tangled in the blanket.
Quint acted out of twenty-year-old instincts, reaching for the baby and getting the pacifier, too. As he stood up, he cradled the child in his arm, offered the pacifier and was relieved to feel a tug on the soother immediately. The cries stopped and Quint looked down into eyes that might turn out to be blue, with long lashes spiked by tears, and he felt the baby shudder as it cuddled into his hold.
He looked around the garage, but there was no one there. And the idea that anyone in the center put the child out here was ludicrous. He turned, tried the door to the center, but it was locked. Making a fist, he hammered on the door, and within a few minutes, the door opened and Amy was there. Amy, in jeans and a loose white shirt with her feet bare. Her hair, in two braids, was skimmed back from her makeup-free face.
“What are you—” Her words were cut off as her eyes widened on the baby in his arms. “That’s a baby,” she said.
“It looks that way,” he muttered, moving to go past her into the center. She stood back, letting him pass, then she was on his heels as he went down the hallway and into the main room.
“Quint?” she said, stopping by him, staring at the baby who was remarkably quiet now. “Who…where did you get a baby?”
He stopped by the tree. “Outside your door.”
“What?” she whispered, ignoring Taylor who had appeared to hug her mom’s leg.
“In a box outside your door. I was leaving and heard it crying.” He looked at Amy, but she was intent on the baby, reaching to brush its silky blond hair, what there was of it, and the pacifier bobbed up and down in its mouth. “It was in a cardboard box screaming its head off.”
“Let me,” she said, easing the baby out of his arms, then cuddling it to her. “Before he spits up on your suit.”
He frowned at her. “I wasn’t worried about the suit,” he said.
She ignored that as she cradled the baby to her. “I don’t understand,” she whispered, brushing the tip of her finger on the baby’s tiny hand.
“That makes two of us.” God, she was meant to be a mother. The gentleness in her, the caring, was almost tangible at that moment. She was perfect with children around her, holding them, cradling them, loving them. “Stay here with it and I’ll go and look around.”
“Sure,” she said, crouching to let Taylor see the baby in her arms. “It’s a baby, sweetie. And maybe he’s a boy, with a blue blanket. That’s his bow.” She touched the pacifier as she spoke softly to her daughter. “That’s what you used to have, but now Taylor’s a big girl and you don’t need a bow.”
He left the three of them and headed back out into the garage. The box was there and the rock, but no human being. He glanced down at the rock, saw that there was a piece of paper under it and picked it up, then reached for the box. He brought the paper and box back into the center where he found Amy sitting on the floor now, cuddling the baby and smiling at Taylor.
He put the box down by Amy who had Taylor halfway on her lap an
d the baby on her shoulder, patting its back. “Did you find anyone?”
“No. Just the box and this paper.” She looked up at him, then at the paper as he spoke. “It was under a rock by the door, sort of guaranteed that you’d trip over it, or at least see it, and stop, then find the baby.”
He hunkered down by the three of them as he unfolded the paper and found words, not in writing, but in a childish rounded printing, with childish misspellings for common words.
His name is Travis. I can not keep him. Pleez take care of him and make sure he is happy and safe. He is not sick and he sleeps good and he likes muzik and his binky. His birthday is December 1 and there is food in the box. Thanx.
Quint sank down beside Amy with his back against the wall and held the note so she could read it for herself. “A teenager who thought a baby would be like having a doll?”
She read and reread the note, then leaned back with a sigh. “Looks that way.”
“So, he’s no doll and she dumps him?”
“She didn’t just dump him,” she said, smoothing her hand on his tiny back as Taylor hovered at her shoulder, staring at the tiny face.
“Amy, he was in a box, like some puppy being given away, and left all alone in a garage that was pretty much deserted. That’s being dumped to my way of thinking.”
She met his gaze. “I know it looks bad, but whoever left him there loved him in their own way. They wanted him to be happy and safe and even told us what he liked and when his birthday is.” She closed her eyes for a fleeting moment. “Maybe a teenager did this, but whoever it was was overwhelmed and probably didn’t see anything else they could do. They love him, no matter what.”
“They love him? That doesn’t compute.”
Her eyes opened and met his again, her expression tight and tense. “They didn’t leave him in a garbage can, or under a bush in the cold and rain, and they didn’t abuse him. He looks healthy and well fed and cared for. They didn’t do the right thing, and that might not be your idea of caring, but the world can be overwhelming with a child. And it sure could be overwhelming if you’re just a child yourself.” She barely intercepted Taylor’s attempt to take the baby’s pacifier. “No, Tay-Tay, that’s not yours.” She shifted the baby, drawing her knees up and lying him back against her legs. “Isn’t he just about the sweetest thing you ever saw?”
He glanced at the face, a cherubic face at ease now, with eyes closed and the pacifier bouncing up and down. “He didn’t deserve to be dumped like that.”
“No, he didn’t,” she said, “but he’s safe. He’ll be okay.”
“Thank God he was found. I’ll call the police,” he said, reaching into his inside jacket pocket for his cell phone, but Amy caught him by his arm, stopping him.
“No, don’t.”
He looked down at her hand on his arm, then at her, “We need to contact someone in authority to take care of this.”
“No, no we don’t,” she said, slowly letting go, but the intensity in her expression didn’t ease. “What’s in his box?” she asked, looking past him at the cardboard box. “He’s damp. Maybe there’s diapers in it.”
He hesitated, then figuring that another few minutes wouldn’t matter, he reached for the box and looked inside it. There was a package at one end wrapped in another blue receiving blanket. He took it out, laid it on the floor and unwrapped it. “Some diapers, a bottle, a couple of cans of formula, an extra pacifier.” He itemized the meager bundle for her. “A nightgown, a cassette tape.” He lifted the tape and read, “Baby songs, everything from ‘Rock-a-bye Baby’ to ‘Itsy-Bitsy Spider.”’ He put the tape back with the rest of the supplies. “That’s it. Now, let’s get the authorities to come out and—”
“We can’t do that.”
“Why not?” He glanced at his watch and was surprised to see that it was almost eight o’clock. “It’s getting late and he’s been abandoned.”
“She’ll be back for him,” she murmured as she gathered him close to her again.
“I doubt it,” he said, wrapping up the supplies and putting them back in the box.
“She will be. I know it, and if we call the police, they’ll call in Child Protective Services, and it’s out of our hands…and out of the mother’s hands.”
“Then she can talk to the police or Child Protective Services, or whatever.”
She shook her head. “No, if we call in the police or get the social service system involved, it will only make things worse. And it’s the holidays, and he’ll be lost in the system until well after New Year’s. And God knows where he’ll be kept until they figure out what to do.” She shook her head again. “I can’t do that.”
“You have to.”
“No, I don’t have to,” she said, casting him a narrowed look. “I won’t.”
“What’s your option, sitting here and waiting for her to come back, then you’re going to hand a baby back over to a parent who dumped him like that?”
“No, I’ll try to help, to get her help. There’s all sorts of agencies that can help.”
“Like Child Protection Services?”
“No, no,” she muttered as the baby began to squirm in her arms. “He’s hungry and he’s probably wet. While we’re debating this, could you make up some formula in the kitchen, and I’ll change him? Or you can change him, and I’ll mix the formula?”
She wasn’t going to give in easily, he knew that. “I’ll take the formula. I’ve done that often enough. I’ll leave the diapers for you. Then once he’s fed and dry, we’ll get help. Agreed?”
“Give me the extra blanket, please.”
He held it out to her.
“Put it on the floor,” she said.
He laid out the blanket, then she put the baby on it and started to change his diaper. “We’ll get help, right?” he asked again.
She hesitated, then tugged at the tapes on the baby’s disposable diaper. “We’ll talk,” she murmured.
“No, we’ll—”
The baby suddenly let out a cry, and Amy caught the pacifier when it shot out of his mouth before Taylor could make a grab for it. She gave it back to the baby, then looked at Quint. “Give me a clean diaper?”
He grabbed one, handed it to her, and felt as if they were speaking two different languages. She understood, but she wasn’t giving the answers she should have been giving. “Amy, there isn’t anything to discuss on this.”
She already had the baby’s diaper off, a diaper that was only wet, and was putting on the clean diaper. “Are you going to get that formula for him?”
He exhaled, then got to his feet, grabbed the can of formula and a bottle and started for the kitchen. Unexpectedly, Taylor toddled along with him. “There’s cookies in there, and she can have one, but that’s it, just one, or she’ll never sleep tonight,” Amy called after them.
“Sure, sure,” he called over his shoulder, then looked down at the little girl half running to keep up with him. “You can have as many as you want,” he said in a low voice as he reached the kitchen door.
Amy looked up as Taylor and Quint disappeared into the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind them. She’d been shocked to see Quint at the back door with the baby cradled in his arms. He’d looked so natural with the blue blanket against the expensive charcoal-gray business suit and a perplexed look on his face. If she hadn’t been so shocked herself, she would have laughed. Another expensive suit in jeopardy? But any humor died when she remembered the situation.
She picked the baby back up and cuddled him to her. He was the sort of baby that seemed to melt into you, the way Taylor had when she was tiny. She knew he was used to being loved. And he’d be so easy to love.
The baby stirred in her arms, then snuggled so trustingly into her neck. With a sigh, he settled against her and she knew right then that she wasn’t going to let him be hurt, not if she had any say in it at all. And calling the police was the one thing she wouldn’t let Quint do, no matter what.
“Mama,” Taylor called, comi
ng out of the kitchen before Quint. She ran for her mother, a cookie in her hand, and Amy barely stopped her from throwing herself into her arms and against the baby.
“Whoa, there, honey,” Amy said, circling Taylor with her free arm and drawing her onto her lap. Looking over her daughter’s head, she saw Quint standing over them with the bottle in his hand.
“He’s asleep?” he asked.
“Seems so. I guess the wetness was enough to make him fuss.”
“Give baba,” Taylor said, reaching up for the baby’s bottle.
Quint dropped to his haunches. “No way. This bottle is a very special bottle.” Taylor looked at the man with huge eyes, apparently fascinated by his low, slightly rough voice. “It’s a boy’s bottle. See, the top is blue. And your bottle is a girl’s bottle. Pink. Girls’ things are always pink.”
Taylor frowned at the man, then went closer to him. “Baba, blue boy?” she said with all seriousness.
“You got it,” he said with a smile for her. “Very smart. Very good girl.”
“I was wrong. You don’t hate kids. You’re good with them,” she said.
He reached for the doll Taylor had discarded earlier and gave it to her. “Here’s your baby. She wants her bottle, I bet.”
“Huh,” Taylor said with a shake of her head. “Baby’s baba.” With that she took off toward Amy’s office.
Then Quint was looking at her. “It won’t work.”
“What?”
“Buttering me up, saying how good I am with kids. We have to call the police.”
“But you are good with kids,” Amy said, embarrassed that he’d seen through her so easily.
“Just old habits, twenty-year-old habits.” He came closer and sank down on the floor in front of her. “Now, quit trying to sidetrack this discussion. Let’s get back to this child and what to do.”
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