Sophie labeled the thought that popped into her mind inappropriate and told herself to grow up. “Oh, sure,” she said airily. “When it comes to antiques, there’s the house itself, only it’s not mine yet. Unless the heirs of the woman who owned it stop squabbling, it might never be mine, but I do have a cookbook that belonged to my great-grandmother if that counts as an antique. As for jewelry, my watch came from the drugstore. Everything else went south a long time ago, but I still have a TV that’ll pick up four-and-a-half stations when weather conditions are just right.”
Joe didn’t even crack a smile. Hardly surprising. Sophie’s heart felt like a lump of wet dough. This was it, then. He’d leave in a few minutes. He was certainly under no obligation to stay and help her get settled and cheer her up when she got the blues.
That was probably what ailed her now. Postpartum blues. She’d heard all about it. It was miserable, but hardly terminal.
Forcing herself to smile, she said. “There’s some sliced beef and a Vidalia onion in the refrigerator if you want a sandwich before you go. Here, I’ll take her now.” She held out her arms for the small, pink-wrapped bundle.
Joe handed her over. “Feeling possessive, are we?”
What she was feeling was happy, tearful and hungry all at the same time. At this rate it might take her emotions even longer to recover from childbirth than it did her body.
“Sure she’s not too heavy for you to be carrying? You just got out of the hospital.”
“I carried her for almost nine months.”
“I’d have thought more like twelve.”
“She’s a big baby. Twenty-three inches long. I was twenty-two and weighed over ten pounds when I was born.”
“Your family runs to big babies?”
She shrugged. “I was an only child. When you’re little it’s hard to judge sizes. The whole world’s ten-feet tall.”
They were standing in the front room. Sophie had painted the walls and hung the curtains from her apartment when she’d moved in. Seeing it now through the eyes of a stranger, it struck her that the new furnishings she’d been so proud of when she’d lived in town weren’t quite right for a house in the country. Less glass and wrought iron, more wood and chintz would’ve been better. She’d sold off one of the jade pieces to lease the house, buy the appliances she’d needed and pay a mover. There’d been little left over for redecorating. Insurance had bought a replacement for her car, but she’d had to settle for a secondhand one. It had given her nothing but trouble ever since. By the time she sold off the next piece, she’d have another stack of bills waiting to be paid, but she was determined to save as much as possible for Iris’s future. Wood and chintz would simply have to wait.
Joe continued to watch her, his interest disguised by the lazy-lidded look he’d cultivated over the years. He couldn’t quite figure her out, and that bothered him. As a rule he was good at reading people. Give him half an hour, one-on-one, and he could tell you what motivated a particular suspect, whether or not he was hiding anything, how close to breaking he was and just where to apply the pressure to make him bust wide open and spill his guts.
Ms. Bayard appeared to be an open book. Unfortunately it was written in a foreign language. She was tired and edgy, which was only natural. She wasn’t a whiner. She’d struck him right off as the kind of woman who looked on the bright side of things, even when the going got rough. In that respect, she reminded him of Miss Emma. Or rather, of the way Miss Emma used to be.
“You got any family?” he asked.
“No.”
“Friends?”
“Well, of course I have friends. Everyone has friends.”
So where were they? Why hadn’t they showed up at the hospital with flowers and pink balloons?
At least she had neighbors. Correction—she had a neighbor. An old boozer who’d turn in his own mother for jaywalking if there was a reward.
He still wasn’t sure who the baby’s father was. Had a pretty good idea, but he wasn’t certain. If it was Davis, as he suspected, then what had their relationship been? Did she know he was dead? Did she know he’d had a wife in Rowlett, a suburb about twenty miles east of Dallas?
“Well, anyway, if you don’t want a sandwich, maybe you’d like a cup of coffee. One for the road? It won’t take a minute to make a pot, or I have iced tea already made. I don’t reckon it’s gone cloudy since yesterday.” She paused, and a wondering look came over her face. “Just yesterday. When I made that tea, I didn’t have any family at all, and now look at me—I’m a mother!”
Joe tucked his questions back into a mental file and managed to scrape up what passed for a smile these days. It was easier than he’d expected. She looked so damned earnest with her tired eyes, her frowsy hair and her baggy dress. “You’re mighty eager to get rid of me.”
“You’re welcome to stay as long as you want, of course, but I know you’re anxious to get on with—well, whatever. Anyway, I’m truly beholden to you. I don’t know what I would’ve done if—”
He cut her off. Dammit, now she was making him feel guilty.
Holding the baby in one arm, she went and shook a few flakes into the aquarium. “Hi there, Darryl. Look what I brought home,” she said softly.
“I could’ve done that,” Joe muttered.
“Darryl’s no trouble. He’s real good company...for a fish.”
“Yeah, well...don’t overdo things.” He took the baby from her, jiggled the lightly wrapped bundle in his arms and said, “You mentioned coffee? Point me in the direction of the nursery and I’ll put her down and join you in a cup. I could use that sandwich, too, come to think of it. You like mayo or mustard on yours? I’ll make ’em.”
Jeez, would you listen, he thought. Cook, butler and baby-sitter, all rolled into one. He blamed the woman. She had no business treating him as if he were a lifelong friend. He wasn’t. He was a man with a mission, one that wasn’t going to endear him to her once he got down to brass tacks.
She reached up and set the can of fish food on a shelf, throwing her prominent bosom into even more prominence. Joe tried not to stare, but it wasn’t easy. He felt a crazy combination of lust and protectiveness streak through him, gone almost before he was aware of it. It wasn’t a feeling he welcomed.
Hell, it wasn’t even anything he recognized.
The baby hiccuped, reminding him of his mission, and he turned away, grateful for the distraction. “Listen, Fatcheeks, I need to talk to your mama, so be a good girl and give us a break, will you?”
The nursery was a nice shade of yellow, not too pale, not too brash. The white crib was obviously secondhand, but in good condition. There was a table, a chest of drawers and a lopsided wicker rocking chair, all painted white. She’d done a nice job of building her nest, he’d hand her that, especially if she’d had it all to do alone.
She was right behind him. “What do you think?”
He said it was nice, because she obviously expected it. One thing he’d noticed about her—she soaked up compliments the way a bone-dry field soaked up rain. As if she hadn’t heard too many.
“Is she wet? Do I need to change her? I’m not sure when I need to feed her again, but the nurse wrote down some instructions, and—”
“Sophie. Slow down.” She was twisting her hands. “She’ll let you know, all right? When she needs changing or wants to nurse, she’ll let you know. Babies have a way of communicating these things.” At least he hoped they did. “Now, come on into the kitchen and settle down while I make us some lunch.”
She looked kind of embarrassed when he mentioned nursing. As if he’d never seen a woman’s