As these plans tumbled around her mind, she got up and hurried to the closet in search of her suitcase. Yanking it down from the shelf, she set it on her bed and began tossing her clothes in randomly—panties, bras, a couple of pairs of jeans, some tops, the dress with the ladybugs on it—then she stopped. Stopped and bent over double, convulsed with both grief and the sheer, maddening futility of her plan. She could not give up her job and her home for a life on the run; she couldn’t leave her father, her friends, the secure little world she had created for herself.
When she straightened up again, she shoved the suitcase out of the way. She had to mobilize. There were calls to make: Geneva, Bea, Evan, and maybe even Lauren. Not Courtney; she was not ready to go there yet. But the first three calls went straight to voice mail; Lauren was the only one who picked up.
“You mean he surfaced because of the article in that magazine?” Lauren said when Miranda had finished telling the story. “You must be so upset.”
“Upset doesn’t even begin to describe it,” Miranda said. “But I’m not giving her up without a fight. No, not a fight. A full-blown war. I found her, I love her, and no matter who her biological parents might be, she is really and truly mine.” Lauren was silent. “Why aren’t you saying anything? You don’t think I should fight to keep her?”
“It’s not that,” Lauren said. “I’m thinking that you should call Courtney and have her talk to Harris. He’ll know the right person to help you—and God knows, Miranda, you are going to need all the help you can get.”
Miranda did not reply. But she knew Lauren was right. She had not talked to Courtney in weeks. Or was it months? It didn’t matter. She would call her as soon as she said good-bye to Lauren. She almost—almost—hoped Courtney would not answer; she would leave a message, Courtney would enlist Harris’s help, and no words between them would need to be exchanged. Instead, Courtney answered immediately. Before any of the why-haven’t-you-been-in-touch awkwardness could take hold, Miranda launched into her story, hardly giving Courtney a chance to say a word. All right, she was rude. She was desperate too, and desperation could do that to a person.
Courtney listened quietly. “Harris will know someone,” she said when Miranda paused. “The right someone. One of his classmates from Harvard.”
“I appreciate that,” Miranda said. Of course the H word had been lobbed in her direction; what did she expect? “Thank you.”
“How are you holding up, anyway? You never call.”
“I was doing fine until this happened,” said Miranda. “And you know why I haven’t been in touch.”
There was a freighted silence on the other end. Then Courtney said, “Look, I know you’re still mad, but I was just being honest with you; that’s what friends, real friends, do for each other. You don’t want honesty, though. You just want unqualified validation for what any sane person would say was a totally impractical—if not flat-out crazy—idea. Rah, rah, rah. A cheerleader.”
“I wanted your support,” Miranda said. “In fact, I was counting on it.”
“You’ve always had that! But you want it on your terms.”
“Isn’t that what all of us want, Courtney? Are you any different?”
“I’d want you to tell me if you thought I was making a big mistake. And look—I was right.”
“How can you say that?” The indignant tone of Miranda’s voice must have alarmed Celeste because she started whimpering. “Celeste is the single best thing that’s ever happened to me.” She scooped the baby up and began to walk her around the room.
“And if you lose her? Won’t that be the worst?”
Miranda said nothing; the hot, stinging pain of those words rendered her momentarily incapable of a reply.
“Look, Miranda, I’m sorry. I don’t want to fight with you, especially now—”
“Then don’t,” said Miranda, fighting the urge to weep. “Just ask Harris for a name. Please.”
* * *
At 6:59 the next morning, Miranda called the child custody attorney whose name Harris had provided; Harris had primed him, so he took her call. “It doesn’t look good,” he told her. “In fact, it looks terrible. This is going to be a tough case, and frankly, I don’t think I can win it.”
“Would you be willing to try?” asked Miranda. She was holding the phone so tightly her hand cramped. Is this what she wanted, though? A bitter and contentious court battle? Could she stand it? Could she even afford it? This initial consultation was free—again, thanks to Harvard Harris—but the rest of the countless billable hours would not be.
“If you really want to go ahead with it—yes. But you have to think about Celeste. The longer she’s with you, the harder the separation will be for her. That’s what I tell all my clients: think about the kid. Because, bottom line, that’s who it’s about.” Although she didn’t want to hear it, Miranda knew he was right.
“Well, what if I can prove I’m the more fit parent? I mean, where was he while the mother was giving birth and then abandoning their baby?”
“I don’t think that’s going to work. Unless there’s some big, surprising skeleton in his closet. When Harris told me you’d be calling, I asked my assistant to do a little digging. Nothing extensive. Yet. But I wanted to get a sense of the legal landscape, so I’d know what we’re up against. Masters—he checks out pretty well.”
“He does?” Miranda’s hopes were shrinking to a tiny little pinpoint.
“Good education, good job, nice apartment. He’s demonstrated his interest in his community; he’s a regular supporter of a few local charities. His paternity is undisputed. And he wants the baby.”
So do I, Miranda wanted to say. The suitcase she’d pulled down last night was still on the floor, her clothes a riotous jumble inside.
“There’s something else I think you should know.”
“What’s that?” The tone of his voice put her on alert.
“What I’m about to share is confidential information. Very confidential. You can’t tell anyone. And if you do, I’ll be forced to deny everything.” He paused, letting that sink in. “I can’t give you her name; that would jeopardize my source. But I can tell you the baby’s mother had some . . . issues.”
“Issues?”
“She used drugs and alcohol, though not excessively. But there was mental instability. And her death may even have been a suicide.”
“How could you find all this out?” Miranda was horrified. “And—so quickly?”
“Masters had to undergo a background check before the baby can be released to him; even though he’s the biological father, that’s standard procedure. There were questions about the identity of the baby’s mother, and he was forthcoming. I have a contact in Children’s Services; we go way back, and he was willing to do me a favor. A big favor.”
“But—doesn’t that help my case? Even a little? Isn’t he guilty by association or something?” Miranda was frantically trying to process this information as well as figure out how it might affect the outcome.
“Not really. Because as detached as it sounds, that unstable mother is out of the picture.” The lawyer paused as if to let Miranda speak, but she had nothing to say. “Let me know what you want to do.”
“How long?”
“Excuse me?”
“How long do I have to decide?” Miranda knew she had to get moving; Supah would be here in an hour and she was due at the office. Reaching into the suitcase, she plucked out clean underwear and a floral-printed linen blouse, the latter not too badly wrinkled.
“Have you heard from the father yet?”
“Not directly,” she said, thinking of her own unwillingness to meet him.
“Well, you will,” he said. “Take the weekend to think it over and let me know first thing Monday morning. Once they’re set in motion, these cases tend to move pretty quickly.”
“Monday
morning,” she repeated woodenly. Then she said good-bye. For a few seconds she did not move. The enormity of what he had told her was devastating. But in some way, it was not surprising. This unknown woman had somehow met and made a child with Jared Masters; she gave birth and then left her infant in a subway station. What had she expected the backstory to have been?
Then she snapped out of it. Although Celeste, miraculously, was still asleep—had she ever slept so late?—Miranda had to get moving. How she would get through the day with this decision weighing on her was anyone’s guess.
She made it only until five o’clock, the strain of holding herself together was so intolerable. Heading down into the subway station, she thought about the evening and then the weekend with Celeste; what if it was their last one together? Miranda’s eyes welled at the thought; she swiped at them impatiently. She had to focus, not wallow.
There was a long delay on the train, and by the time Miranda walked through the door, Celeste had been fed, bathed, and dressed in pink striped pajamas. She waved her arms in the air as if she were conducting a symphony; was she always so glad to see Miranda, or did she sense something was wrong?
“Hello, baby girl,” Miranda cooed, taking the baby in her arms. Celeste uttered a few soft, snuffling sounds of content.
“She roll over today,” Supah reported proudly. “First time.”
“Oh!” said Miranda, gazing into Celeste’s face. “Who’s a big girl now?” She was rewarded with Celeste’s wet, gummy grin. But wait—was that tiny bump the beginning of her first tooth, pushing its bony way to the surface?
When Supah left, Miranda washed her hands and gently rubbed a finger over the protrusion on Celeste’s gum. It was hard and just the slightest bit sharp: yes, a tooth. Would Celeste even be here when it finally broke through? Oh God, if she were to lose her now, she couldn’t bear it; she really couldn’t. But she would not let herself think this way; she would not. Instead, she spent the next hour getting Celeste ready for bed: changing, final bottle, rocking, before setting her gently down in her crib. Miranda waited to see if she was really asleep; Celeste’s tiny snore let her know she was.
Then she sat down at her laptop and began to write. She began with the story of finding Celeste, the trip to the police, the subsequent visits to Judge Waxman’s courtroom. What began slowly, haltingly, soon turned into an avalanche of words, the words she hoped would plead her case so convincingly and eloquently that everyone would see that of course Celeste belonged with her.
But once she had finished, the urgency that had propelled her suddenly drained, sucked cleanly away. Even if she could convince a judge to let her keep Celeste, should she? This was her father who had come to claim her; why did she think her claim trumped his? It was hubris on her part, monumental and ugly.
And what would happen to Celeste during a court battle? Miranda doubted she’d be allowed to keep her. Maybe Celeste would go into foster care until the case was decided—another disruption to her brand-new life.
The sound of her phone startled her, and she regarded it with a kind of primal suspicion, as if the caller might say he was on the way now, this minute, to come and get Celeste. But no; it was Evan’s number she recognized. When she answered, tears of relief were coating her cheeks.
“I’m sorry I took so long to get back to you,” he said. “I had this insane shoot in Connecticut that ran over, and then I left my phone at the studio and they had to messenger it to me.” Miranda could not speak; the tears were dripping down her face, onto the keyboard. “Hey,” he said. “Are you all right?”
“No,” she said. “I’m not.”
“I’m coming over,” said Evan. “Now. So just sit tight, okay?”
And although she knew Evan could not see her, Miranda’s head bobbed in grateful assent. He was there within the half hour.
“Have you eaten?” Miranda had skipped dinner entirely, and suddenly she felt starved.
“Not really.”
“Good. I’ll fix us something.”
He sat in her kitchen while she opened the fridge, cracked eggs and grated cheese. But the omelets she slid onto the plates were leathery and tough; the bread she’d toasted was burned.
“I’m sorry.” She stared at the unappetizing meal she’d assembled. “I guess I’m having an off night.”
“Everyone has an off night sometimes.”
“Don’t tell them at work, okay? I’m supposed to be one of the Domestic Goddess’s acolytes; I can’t have this getting around.”
“Your secret is safe with me.” Evan got up and took the plates over to the trash. “Okay?” he asked, and when she nodded, he scraped everything into the garbage pail. “Now, how about I order something for us? My treat?”
“Okay,” she said. She felt so comforted by him; he really did know how to say the right thing. She wished she could tell him about what the lawyer had said. But she remembered the warning and kept silent. Instead, as she dug into the bacon cheeseburger, onion rings, and milk shake—he’d called it a throw-back-to-high-school meal—she allowed herself to be mollified just the smallest bit. Not that the situation with Celeste looked any more hopeful. But Miranda felt that at the very least, she had an ally and, if necessary, a shoulder to cry on.
It was past eleven when Evan got up, said good night, and headed for the door. So he wasn’t going to make a move; she was not sure if she felt relieved or disappointed. Then a noise from the other room distracted her. “Celeste,” she said, hurrying toward the baby. “Don’t leave yet; I’ll be right back.”
Celeste was awake in her crib, not crying but making those preliminary-to-the-squall sounds. Miranda scooped her up for a quick diaper check. Soaked. She changed Celeste’s diaper, and since the pajamas had gotten wet, changed those too. Then she settled her back in the crib on her side and rubbed a spot between her little baby shoulder blades; this had worked in the past and it seemed to be working now. Celeste’s eyelids dropped and her body relaxed as she eased into sleep.
As she soothed the baby, Miranda was aware of Evan’s presence in the other room. She had to ask herself why she had let him come over. She wanted his company—for moral support, for a willing ear. But it was late, and the evening’s conclusion was an unanswered question. Did she want him to stay the night? Certainly, that’s the way things were heading with them, and the idea was not unappealing. She liked him—a lot. And his tall, lanky frame had kind of grown on her. Also, those eyes. Still, she was too upset about the likelihood of losing Celeste to know what she really wanted.
Miranda suspended the rubbing and waited a few seconds. Asleep. She kept her eyes on the baby as she backed up toward the doorway. Then she jumped slightly—Evan was right there. They went back into the other room.
“Everything all right?” he said.
“Fine. Just a diaper change and back to sleep.”
“Okay. I’ll be going then.”
“Don’t.” There. She’d said it.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Very.” She walked over to where he stood and tilted her face up for a kiss. He kissed her back with such passion that she felt her own desire rise to meet it. It had been more than a year since she’d been with anyone—a long time.
They stood kissing for a while until Miranda saw that she would have to be the one to move things along. Gently she pulled away and led him toward her bedroom. “We’ll be more comfortable in here.”
Fortunately, the bed was made—some mornings there just wasn’t enough time—and when they sank down onto it, Evan seemed less tall and more graceful. She let him undress her, which he did slowly, with something approaching reverence. “Your skin is so soft,” he murmured into her ear. “So soft and so luscious.”
When he took off his clothes, she discovered, with pleasure, that he was more muscled than she would have guessed. His long legs with their taut thighs and calves had been hon
ed to precision by cycling, running, and who knew what else.
They got off to a slow start—there was the unfamiliarity of a new body, with new textures and tastes, and a certain hesitance about him that Miranda found endearing. But as they relaxed, his shyness dropped away and he moved with more confidence. Later, he did not want to roll over and go to sleep but kept her close, in the enveloping circle of his arm. “I’m glad you stayed,” she whispered. And it was true.
TWELVE
Evan sat up, momentarily confused about where he was. Then he remembered. It was Saturday morning, and he was in Miranda’s apartment. Miranda’s bed. He’d come over intending only to offer what comfort and support he could—and then leave. She was the one who’d asked him to stay.
“Are you sure?” he had said. God knew he wanted to, but he wouldn’t have taken advantage of her vulnerability; he just wasn’t made that way.
“Very.” She came close and tilted her face up; her kiss was filled with such heat and longing. He knew it wasn’t just for him—it was for everything she wanted, everything she now stood to lose. He didn’t care about her reasons, though. She wanted him to stay and that was enough.
Evan looked around. He didn’t see her, but he heard her in the other room, and a minute later, she appeared in the doorway, wearing a thin robe from which her unbelievable skin just seemed to pour. Celeste was in her arms. The baby’s dark hair stood up in points on her head, and her tiny mouth was open in a big yawn.
“Good morning,” she said. “Would you like some coffee?”
“Coffee would be great.” He spied his clothes a few feet away on the floor; should he reach for them?
“Can you hold her? I’ll get it going.”
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