With or without you?
She pushed the wayward thought out of her head. How did parents ever go on to have more than one child? Hanky-panky must be the last thing on their minds.
She stood up and stretched. Abraham had finally quietened down around an hour ago. He was now looking all angelic, breathing steadily as if sleeping came easily to him.
‘The offer of pancakes sounds good. Do you think you can cook them without waking His Lordship? Because at this rate, ancient or not, Mrs Van Dyke’s going to have to take her turn babysitting.’
Dan nodded. ‘Right there with you, Carrie. For some reason I thought this would be a breeze. You’ve no idea how many times I nearly picked up the phone to call Shana last night and beg her to come and pick him up.’
Carrie leaned against the door, giving him her sternest stare. ‘Well, maybe you need to think about that a little more.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ve been pretty down on Abraham’s mum. We’re presuming he was just born. But what if he’s actually a few days old? Maybe she was struggling to cope. Maybe she’s young—or old—and didn’t have any help. Maybe she’s sick.’
The dark cloud quickly descended over Dan’s face again. ‘Stop it, Carrie. Stop trying to make excuses for her. And if Abraham’s not newly born, then where were his diapers? Where were his clothes? And no matter how hard she was finding it to cope—is that really a good enough reason to dump a baby on a freezing doorstep?’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’m just throwing it out there, Dan. I’m not trying to make excuses for anyone. What I am going to do is take a shower and change my clothes.’ She headed over to the door. ‘I’ll be back in ten minutes and I expect my breakfast to be waiting.’ She gave him a wink.
He lifted his eyebrows. ‘Hmm, getting all feisty now, are we? I think I preferred you when you were all please help me with this baby.’
She picked up the nearest cushion and tossed it at his head. ‘No, you didn’t,’ she said as she headed out the door.
‘No. I didn’t,’ he breathed as he watched her head upstairs.
* * *
Carrie took a few moments to pull open her blinds and look outside.
A complete white-out with no signs of life. Not a single footprint on the sidewalk. Every car was covered in snow, with not a single chance of moving anywhere soon. It seemed that New York City would remain at a standstill for another day.
For a moment she wished she were in the middle of Central Park. Maybe standing at Belvedere Castle and looking out over the Great Lawn, or standing on Bow Bridge watching the frozen lake. It would be gorgeous there right now.
She didn’t care that it was closed because of the snowfall. She didn’t care about the potential for falling trees. All she could think about was how peaceful it would be right now—and how beautiful.
But with daydreams like this, was she just looking for another opportunity to hide away?
She tried to push the thoughts from her head. There was too much going on in there. What with virtually bare baby and bare-chested Dan, her head was spinning.
She switched on the shower and walked through to her bedroom, stripping off her clothes and pulling her dressing gown on while she waited for the water to heat.
The contents of her wardrobe seemed to mock her. A sparkly sequin T-shirt. Trying too hard. A red cardigan. Impersonating Mrs Van Dyke. A plain jumper. Frumpy.
She pulled out another set of jeans and a bright blue cap-sleeved sweater. It would have to do.
Her eyes caught sight of the silver box beneath her bed and her heart flipped over.
It was calling her. It was willing her to open it.
She couldn’t help it. It was automatic. She knelt down and touched it, pulling it out from under the bed and sitting it on top of the bed in front of her.
Her precious memories, all stored in a little box. But how could she look at them now after she’d just been holding another baby?
It almost seemed like a betrayal.
She ran the palm of her hand over the lid of the box. Just doing it made her heartbeat quicken. She could feel the threat of tears at the backs of her eyes.
She couldn’t think about this now. She just couldn’t.
Steam was starting to emerge from the bathroom. The shower was beckoning. She couldn’t open the box. Not now. Not while she was in the middle of all this.
For the contents of that box she needed space. She needed time.
She needed the ability to cry where no one could hear. No one could interrupt.
She sucked air into her lungs. Not now. She had to be strong. She had to be focused. Her hand moved again—one last final touch of the silver box of memories—before she tore herself away and headed inside, closing the door firmly behind her.
* * *
There was a whimper in the corner. Dan’s pancakes were sizzling; was the noise going to wake the baby? He sure hoped not. He didn’t know if he could take another cryfest.
The television newscaster looked tired. He’d probably been stuck inside the New York studio all night. The yellow information strip ran along the bottom of the news constantly. Telling them how much snow had fallen, how the city was stranded, all businesses were closed, food supplies couldn’t get in. Nothing about how to look after a newborn baby.
It was time to do an internet search again. They must have done something wrong last night. There was no way a baby would cry like that for nothing. At least he hoped not.
He tossed the pancakes and his stomach growled loudly. He was starving and they smelled great.
A jar of raspberry jam landed on the counter next to him. She was back. And she smelled like wild flowers—even better than pancakes.
‘What’s that for?’
‘The pancakes.’
‘Jelly?’ He shook his head. ‘Pancakes need bacon and maple syrup. That’s what a real pancake wants.’
She opened his fridge. ‘Pancakes need butter and raspberry jam. It’s the only way to eat them.’
He wrinkled his nose, watching as she flicked on the kettle.
‘And tea. Pancakes need tea.’
He grimaced. ‘You might be out of luck, then. I’ve only got extra-strong coffee.’
She waved a bag at him. ‘Just as well I brought my own, then.’
Dan served the pancakes onto two plates and carried them over to the table, pulling some syrup from his empty cupboards and lifting the brewing coffee pot. ‘I can’t tempt you, then?’
Something flickered in her eyes. Something else. Something different. She gave him a hesitant smile. ‘I’m an English girl. It’s tea and butter and jam all the way.’
They both knew that the flirtation was continuing.
And right now he wanted to tempt her. The cop in him wanted to forget about the mountain of paperwork he’d need to complete about this baby. The cop in him wanted to forget about the investigation that would have to be carried out.
The guy in him wanted to concentrate on the woman in the lovely blue sweater sitting at his table with her jar of raspberry jam. He wanted to reach over to touch the curls that were coiling around her face, springing free from the clip that was trying to hold them back. He wanted to see if he could say something to make her cheeks flush even pinker than they currently were. He wanted a chance to stare into those cornflower-blue eyes and