Jo Leigh - Not-So-Secret Baby

“Sure, Mary. Sure.”

“Thanks.” Mary smiled, then turned her attention to Patrick pulling on her arm. “Hang tight, soldier. We’ll be done here soon.”

Patrick tugged harder. “I’m hungry.”

“I know, baby. Soon.”

“That’s twelve twenty-five,” Marge said.

Mary paid in cash, as always.

“Wait a second.”

Grabbing her bags, Mary looked back at the checker.

Marge leaned over the counter, holding a red lollipop down to Patrick. “It’s okay, isn’t it, Mary?”

“Of course. What do you say, Patrick?”

“Thank you.”

“Well, you’re welcome, honey.”

“Thanks, again,” Mary said, ushering Patrick toward the door. Mary felt her shoulders relax the moment they were outside.

Patrick chattered the whole way home, which wasn’t very far. After she parked, she took him out of his car seat and handed him the can of tomato soup. He hurried toward their front door, proud to be helping with the groceries. She watched him run up the short path, his blond hair flopping around his ears, his jeans just like the big kids wore. She loved him so much it ached.

Mary’d been looking forward to making a nice meal for the two of them. Not that she didn’t cook every day, but she had Friday and Saturday off from her waitressing job at the Hong Kong Café. That meant she could spend some extra time on dinner, make chocolate pudding for dessert. After, they’d watch a movie, probably The Wizard of Oz, Patrick’s new favorite. After Patrick went to bed, she intended to soak in a hot tub. Scented candles, lavender bath salts and the new Patricia Cornwall novel. Heaven.

“Mommy, come on!”

“Hold your horses,” she said, grabbing the bag of groceries from the trunk of her old Chevy. “I’m coming.”

By the time she got to the door, Patrick had forgotten the can of soup, left squarely in the center of the doormat, and had turned his attention to the wind chimes hanging from a small branch of the elm tree that shaded the front of the house. He couldn’t quite reach the silver tubes, but he was growing so fast, it wouldn’t be a problem for long.

She cradled the grocery bag on her hip as she opened the door. As soon as the lock clicked, Patrick pushed ahead of her and raced inside. His energy amazed her.

Her own energy level continued to dwindle. She knew the reason and wished she could do something about it, but… It might do her some good to start her new craft project—making bath salts and selling them at the local flea market. She’d never been a particularly craft-wise person, but there were only so many books one could read, so much time she could focus on her son.

She closed the door behind her, locking both dead bolts. A quick glance at the windows and around the living room showed her nothing had been disturbed.

“Cookie?”

Patrick, at two and a half, was her own personal cookie monster, with chocolate chip being the uncontested favorite. She’d had to put them up on top of the fridge and dole them out or he’d just munch through the whole batch in one sitting. “Yes, but only after we put away the groceries.”

“Okay.” With that, he was off like a shot, waiting in the middle of the kitchen for her to get her act in gear. She smiled, even while she had to chase away thoughts of what Patrick’s life should have been. No use going there. This was a good life, a safe life, and that was all that mattered.

Thank heaven for the activities at the library. And, of course, Alice, who watched Patrick five days a week. Mary sighed. She really should try to make friends with the other mothers in town. She just wasn’t ready. Not yet.

She lifted the bag to the counter. Patrick could put the bread in the breadbox. He had to drag over the little stool, but once situated, he did the job like a fine young man. She, meanwhile, put the milk and butter in the fridge, then pulled out the hamburger for tonight’s spaghetti.

“Now?”

She looked down. Patrick had put the stool away and stood staring up at her, his blue eyes eager, his body bouncing with anticipation.

“Yes, now.”

He thrust his hands up in the air as if he’d just scored the winning touchdown. She reached up and grabbed the cookie jar, then gave him his prize. “Would you like milk or juice?”

“Juice.”

She put the cookies back and took a juice box from the fridge. He was already at the table, his legs swinging back and forth, his cookie the only thing in the world.

She’d make up a batch of bath salts tonight. Use it herself to see if she liked the fragrance.

So it wasn’t a thrill a minute. So what? It was safe. Safe was good.

SHE WOKE with a start, a sudden swell of panic in her stomach, a tightening in her chest. For a moment she held her breath, didn’t move an inch, just listened. There was the tick of the clock on her nightstand. Behind that, the quiet of Milford at four in the morning. But the silence did little to assuage her anxiety.

She threw back her comforter, put her legs over the side of the bed and slipped on her pale yellow slippers. Her robe, the one she’d bought from the Sears catalog, was perched at the ready on a hook by the door. She was halfway to Patrick’s room before she tied it on.

With each step the dread and fear worsened, all her nightmares of the past two and a half years melding together into an unthinkable terror. This wasn’t like the other nights she’d awakened from a bad dream… Her baby. Something…someone…

She flew into his room and the unthinkable became reality.

Patrick was gone.

She called out, but only once. Then her throat closed and the blood in her veins turned to ice. The window—his window, with the locks and the safety glass—open. His quilt on the floor, his Spider-Man sheet balled up, tossed aside. His pillow still held the impression of his head. So small.

And, in the middle of the bed, an envelope. Her hand shook so hard she could hardly pick it up.

When she finally did, it was a note telling her when to be at the Cedar City airport. It wasn’t signed. But then, it didn’t have to be.

THE VEGAS STRIP tried to be glamorous during the day, but it didn’t succeed. Like an aging actress without her makeup, all the flaws came to the fore in sunlight. The sun-baked sidewalks, the desperate bids from the small casinos, begging gamblers to come for the ninety-ninecent, foot-long hot dogs and stay for the video poker.

Nick Mason hated the place. Hated the thousands of lights, the electronic billboards with the perfect pictures and snazzy ads. He hated the heat of the place, which, according to the morning news, was almost one hundred, and it wasn’t even nine. If he’d had his way, he’d live in the mountains. Aspen, maybe, or Boulder. Somewhere green with thick trees and lots of water. He’d have himself a nice little cabin that had no address. Where he could walk to the nearest stream to catch his dinner.

This town wasn’t real. Yeah, okay, so there was Henderson and Summerlin, where there were grocery stores and dry cleaners, but there were poker machines in every damn market, in every gas station, in every drugstore. The ubiquitous machines lent an air of desperation to the most mundane of tasks. Just ask the housewife who spent five hundred bucks on that gallon of milk. Or the bank teller who’d lost the rent…again.

He’d been here too long, that was the problem. Living a nighttime life. If you were a player in Vegas, you slept during the day. Nothing important ever happened before sundown. Which could help explain his crappy attitude. He’d gotten to bed after four this morning, then Todd had called to tell him to make a pickup at the Henderson Executive Airport.

Normally he wouldn’t have to do anything so plebian, but Todd’s driver had gotten some bad sushi at one of those $3.99 buffets downtown and was riding it out at the Sunrise Hospital. As always, Nick had said, “Yes, sir,” keeping his voice even and his attitude go-to. Playing the part as if his life depended on it. Which it did.