BABY, BABY, BABY

by Mary McBride

  All of that changed in the mid-eighties when a few brave souls moved back from the suburbs. A few more followed, and a few more, until finally the reclamation was in full swing. At last count, a hundred twenty of the square's two hundred houses were occupied and undergoing some form of rehab, all the way from the early, gritty stages of demolition to the delicate finishing touches of paint on the cornices.

  Melanie had loved every minute of the year she'd lived here. Her own Victorian painted lady was on Kassing Avenue

  , just to the west of the park. After she'd moved out of Sonny's loft, she'd bought the small limestone-fronted Second Empire town house from Dieter Weist, the architect who was rehabbing it on spec. He'd finished the first floor and two second-floor bedrooms for her in record time. All that remained to be done now was the nursery and the playroom that would take up the entire third floor. During the next nine months that was what she planned to do so everything would be ready for the arrival of little Alex or Alexis in January.

  There were far worse places to raise a child, she'd decided. Channing Square

  was a neighborhood in every sense of the word. It was like a small town where the residents all knew one another, worked together, and looked out for their neighbors' safety and well-being. If the crime rate hadn't come down quite as far as she would have preferred, that problem ought to be remedied somewhat in the future by the Cop on the Block program.

  When the moving van turned onto Kassing, Melanie smiled and made a little thumbs-up sign. All right! Now if it just stopped at the rattrap of a house next door to hers, the house everyone feared was destined to be the last to ever be renovated, her day would be complete. No, her next several years would be complete without the constant worry of living next door to an abandoned Victorian nightmare.

  The van's brake lights flared once more just before the driver signaled he was pulling over to park in front of the big red brick place at 1224 Kassing Avenue

  . Melanie waved cheerfully as she passed by to turn into her driveway at 1222.

  Life was good. It was very, very good. Come Monday, it would be just about perfect.

  * * *

  The tradition in Channing Square

  was to welcome new residents as soon as possible with a small gift, usually something edible and preferably homemade. Being the soul of organization that she was, Melanie kept a stash of her buttermilk blueberry muffins in the freezer for just such an occasion, so she picked out half a dozen, tied quick blue ribbons on each one, and arranged them in a wicker basket with a blue-and-white checked napkin.

  "Eat your heart out, Martha Stewart," she thought as she trotted down her front steps, then followed two men and a king-size mattress up the steps and through the front door of 1224.

  What a mess! With some of the windows still boarded, it was dark inside but still light enough to see that the place was a shambles. In what had once been a grand front parlor to her right, she couldn't tell the pattern on the ancient wallpaper for all the dirt and water stains. A great hole gaped in the wall where a marble fireplace had once been. There was mold growing across the ceiling and trash—a Dumpster's worth—all over the floor.

  Her new neighbors certainly had their work cut out for them. Up until that moment her excitement had pretty much been confined to the sale of the property alone. But now Melanie actually started thinking about the neighbors themselves. She wondered if they had children. Her perfect world might become even more so if one or two potential baby-sitters moved in right next door, or even better, future playmates. A smile crossed her lips as she imagined a little girl calling, "Mom, I'm going next door to play with Alexis" or a little boy yelling across the yard, "Hey, Alex. Wanna ride bikes?"

  She glanced around in the hope of seeing the people who would undoubtedly come to play such a huge role in her life. She'd feed their children peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with carrot sticks. Maybe she'd sit with them in little chairs at the kindergarten Christmas program. Maybe her daughter would marry the boy next door. All of a sudden, instead of welcoming new neighbors, she felt as if she were about to greet her future.

  "Excuse me, lady," somebody said behind her. Melanie stepped aside to let two men and a big-screen TV pass by.

  "Is the owner around?" she asked.

  "I think he's in the kitchen," one of the men said.

  Assuming the kitchen was at the back of the house, Melanie picked her way carefully down the dark, garbage-strewn hallway. Her nose identified dust and mold along with countless other odors she didn't even want to name. What a rattrap. If something small and furry skittered across one of her feet, she was going to toss her welcoming basket of goodies in the general direction of the kitchen and make a beeline for the front door.

  If she'd had any sense she would have changed into her sneakers rather than wear the new pair of black Ferragamo pumps she'd worn to work that day. The soles kept sticking to the floor as she walked, and she could only hope it was bubble gum that she'd have to be cleaning off later. A little shiver of ickiness ran down her spine.

  "Hello?" she called out. "Anybody home?"

  When no one answered, Melanie decided she'd leave her welcome basket with a note saying she'd drop by tomorrow. She stepped through a doorway into a kitchen that was quite a bit brighter than the rest of the house and not nearly as trashed. There was a man standing at the sink, drinking from the plastic top of a thermos. His back was to her so all she could see was longish hair, a pair of wide shoulders, and the lovely hug of faded denim over one truly great male butt.

  How come whenever she hired moving men they always turned out to be thugs with crew cuts and beer bellies rather than pure hunks like this guy? She was making a mental note to get the name and number of the moving company from the side of the van when the hunk at the sink slowly turned around.

  Melanie made a little strangling sound deep in her throat, then gasped, "Oh, my God!"

  He cocked his head, setting that killer grin of his on a sexy, almost perilous slant. "Hello, darlin'."

  "What the hell do you think you're doing here, Sonny?"

  "I live here, Mel. I'm the new Cop on the Block." His gorgeous blue-one-minute, green-the-next gaze strayed to the basket of muffins in her hands. "Are those for me?"

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  « ^ »

  It was a good thing Sonny Randle had quick reflexes, otherwise he'd have a shiner the size of Oregon thanks to the rocklike frozen muffin his ex-wife had hurled at him just before she'd turned and fled the kitchen.

  He ignored the slight tremor in his hand as he refilled the red plastic cap of his thermos and stood at the sink sipping his lukewarm coffee and watching Mel storm across her driveway and back into her house. A moment later, one by one, he watched the interior shutters on the south side of the house snap closed.

  Okay. No surprise there. It was exactly what he'd expected. The muffin had been unanticipated, however. Actually, he was probably lucky that she'd thrown a muffin at him instead of a brick.

  Suddenly one of her shutters opened a fraction, just enough for Sonny to discern her silhouette as she peeked out. He couldn't see her face, but he knew her eyes were giving off hot blue sparks and she was grinding her teeth and clenching her fists, already making a mental list—complete with Roman numerals and subheadings—of what she was going to do to get rid of the menace next door.

  He smiled and lifted his hand in a friendly little wave, then watched the shutter snap closed again.

  You can run, babe, and you can hide, but it's not going to do you any damned good. Now that I know what I did wrong, I know how to do this right. And we're so right, Mel. You and I.

  "Hey, Lieutenant," a voice called from the hallway. "Where do you want this couch?"

  "Be right there."

  Sonny drained the last of his coffee and screwed the cap back on the thermos without taking his eyes off the battened-down house next door. Right about now Melanie would be wound in a tight little ball in the corner o
f her own couch, her long legs tucked beneath her and her soft, shiny hair hooked firmly behind her ears and her lower lip wedged between her teeth while she took pen in hand to compose her battle plan.

  * * *

  Number One on her list was calling city hall, but that proved to be useless on a Friday at almost six o'clock when everyone had gone home. Melanie swore as she slammed the receiver back into its cradle, then looked at her list again because she was so upset she'd forgotten what Number Two was.

  Right. Call Mike Kaczinski, Sonny's partner, to see just what the hell her ex-husband was up to. She didn't believe for one millisecond that he had taken out a loan, low-cost or otherwise, to buy the place next door. Cop on the Block, her aunt Fanny's sweet behind! Lieutenant Sonny Randle not only worked undercover vice, he also ate, slept, and breathed it. What did he want a house for? He was never home!

  Melanie stalked to the window again and opened the shutter a quarter of an inch. Squinting fiercely, she could see the movers close the back of their truck as they prepared to leave. There was no evidence of the new alleged homeowner. She craned her neck and angled her head so she could look down his driveway where his horrible muscle car sat like a black pit bull chained to a cement block. Wonderful. If he really was moving in, she had that roaring engine to look forward to at all hours of the night.

  It was starting to get dark so she closed the shutter tightly and turned on a lamp in the living room. The exposed brick of the walls was always warm and comforting, and seemed no less so now that she was about to have a nervous breakdown. She went back to her cozy corner of the couch, pulled up her feet, and hugged her arms around herself, pretending for a moment that this wasn't happening, that the perfection she'd experienced just half an hour ago was still possible.

  She gazed around at the lovely haven she'd created for herself here in this more - than - a - century - old house in its antiquated cranny of the city. Almost all of the furniture had belonged to her parents so, just like them, it was an odd blend of elegant and eccentric. The camel-back Victorian sofa was upholstered in a rich rose silk and piled with bright needlepoint pillows that her father had designed. Just to her right, on the marble-topped table beside the sofa was the bronze-and-stained-glass lamp Pop had made, with its shade like lovely bits of melted rubies and emeralds and sapphires. Scattered across the floor were the Persian rugs her mother had collected.

  On the other side of the foyer, the dining room was an odd but somehow perfect blend of American and European antiques. Beyond that, the kitchen was a cozy mix of blue-and-white Portuguese tiles and gleaming copper and brass.

  While the whole house was colorful and eccentric, it was also neat and orderly, just the way Melanie liked it. The way she needed it. There was security in order, in having everything in its proper place. She wasn't fussy, though. And she certainly wasn't Felix Unger, although that's who she'd felt like when she shared Sonny's Oscar-Madison-like space.

  Sonny.

  Damn.

  Casting a baleful glance at the list she'd left by the phone, she realized she couldn't call Mike Kaczinski. Not at the Third Precinct, anyway. If he had been involved in last Friday's shooting, along with Sonny, then he'd probably be on leave or vacation, too. That also meant that the new Cop on the damned Block would have time on his hands and nothing to do but aggravate her until he went back to work.

  Fine. Let him try. She'd keep her shutters closed and her doors locked and she wouldn't answer the phone. There was plenty of food in the fridge and freezer. She didn't have to go out. At least not until…

  Oh, my God. Her appointment Monday at eleven. No. Don't even think about that right now, she warned herself. Don't think about the little vial packed in dry ice that arrived just yesterday at Dr. Wentworth's office from the sperm bank in Chicago. How long did those little guys last? She couldn't remember.

  If she cancelled and set a new appointment for next month, that would shift everything. Everything! Instead of being born in January, her baby wouldn't be born until February. Then, instead of being a determined and hardworking Capricorn, Little Alex or Alexis would be a quirky Aquarius. Oh, Lord. Instead of having a little photocopy of herself, she'd be giving birth to a Sonny.

  She was shuddering at the very thought when her doorbell suddenly chimed.

  Don't answer it. Let him stand out there all night, all weekend, all year.

  But being the orderly soul that she was, Melanie couldn't stand not responding to a ringing phone or the repeated ding-dongs coming from her front door. She opened it a crack, then let out a tiny bleat of relief when she saw that it wasn't Sonny, but rather Joan Carrollis from down the street. Melanie practically pulled her in by her lapels, then slammed and locked the door behind her.

  "What in the world…?" the little brunette exclaimed.

  "I'm sorry." Melanie reached out to realign the lapels of Joan's navy blazer. "I just didn't want… Oh, never mind. Did I miss anything at the association meeting the other night?"

  Joan and her husband Nick, both CPAs, had been the co-treasurers of the Channing Square Residents Association since its founding. Melanie liked the forty-ish woman and appreciated her no-nonsense style not to mention the precision with which she kept the association's books.

  "No," she said, "you didn't miss a thing, but if you haven't been next door yet, you're missing the boat. Have you seen your new neighbor?" Joan sounded as breathless as a teenybopper.

  "Briefly," Melanie said, wondering if that was actually drool beginning to form in a corner of the woman's mouth. Good grief.

  "Hubba, hubba." Joan rolled her eyes and poked Melanie's arm with her elbow.

  "Excuse me?"

  "I said, hubba, hubba. You know, as in the man is majorly attractive."

  "Oh." He wasn't that major, Melanie thought sullenly.

  Joan gave a little sigh. "Well, I just wanted to give you a heads-up before he's swamped by invitations from all the single women around here. And I wanted to thank you, too, you devious little bureaucrat."

  Melanie blinked. "Thank me?"

  "For seeing that the first Cop on the Block is ours, of course. Nice going, Melanie. You didn't waste any time. I can't tell you how much we all really appreciate it."

  "Oh. Well…"

  Now, wishing it had occurred to her to do something devious, such as rushing through the paperwork for some nice, balding sergeant and his family of five, Melanie waved goodbye to Joan while she cast a furtive glance next door.

  Then she stepped back inside and locked herself in. Permanently. She'd been looking forward to making pasta for the first dinner of her leave of absence and to enjoying what would be just about her last glass of wine for the next nine months. Now, with her perfect evening in a shambles, she ate a grudging bowl of cold cereal, then climbed into bed at eight, in the hope that she'd wake up in the morning to discover this was just a terrible dream.

  Instead, she woke up shortly after midnight to the sounds of a party next door.

  * * *

  Sonny pulled an ice-cold beer from the cooler, snapped off the cap, and lifted the bottle in a toast.

  "Hey, with warm friends and wet beer, who needs electricity or plumbing, right? Thanks, guys."

  When a dozen or so candlelit faces grinned back at him, Sonny had to swallow a lump in his throat. For such a hardass, he was getting pretty soft and mushy these days, he thought as he sidled out of the front room and made his way toward the kitchen and a moment of solitude rather than blubbering in front of his colleagues.

  He'd only told Kaczinski and one or two others about the house, but at least forty people had shown up over the past few hours for the surprise housewarming. It was heartwarming, too, because he'd been working alone and undercover so long he'd actually forgotten how many friends he had in the department after nearly thirteen years.

  A few new neighbors had dropped in, too, but not the neighbor he loved. Mel had doused all her lights about eight o'clock. Then, around midnight when the volume of the part
y went up a couple notches, he noticed a bit of yellow light seeping through the shutters of one of the upstairs windows next door.

  It wouldn't have surprised Sonny if she'd called the cops when things got a little noisy, but then on second thought she'd been peeking out the window enough to realize that most of the cops in the Third Precinct were already here.

  Most importantly, he was here and alive after the incident last week that should have killed him. The DEA had asked for local backup on a raid on a meth lab in a desolate block on Sixteenth. Since Sonny was familiar with the area and the layouts of most of the abandoned buildings there, he was the first one through the door of the defunct auto dealership.

  Normally, when he worked undercover, he didn't wear a vest. But that day somebody had tossed him one, saying, "This could get ugly." He'd shrugged into the heavy blue garment just before kicking in the front door and walking into the wrong end of a .44 Magnum and the path of a cop-killer bullet.

  The damned thing had blown him backward through the dealership's dirty plate-glass window, practically out onto the street. He remembered lying there, in all that broken glass, looking up at a bright blue sky and thinking it was a shame that he was dead because all of a sudden he knew how badly he'd screwed up with Melanie and he realized just what he needed to do to fix things. If ever somebody had craved a do-over, it was Sonny just then.

  As it turned out, when the bullets had stopped flying and the dust had settled, he hadn't been dead or even that badly injured. The impact of the bullet had cracked a rib and the subsequent collision with the pavement outside had given him a concussion. Maybe that was good. Maybe he'd needed a brutal jab to his heart and a thorough shaking of his head to see things straight. Now all he had to do was convince his ex-wife that he was no longer the selfish son of a bitch who had ruined their marriage.