Sunset Bridge (10 page)

While Janya got ice, Tracy told her about Olivia.

“I am not surprised she asked you,” Janya said. “Only that she has not yet told her grandmother.”

Tracy leaned against the wall to stay out of Janya’s way. “I think she’s afraid she’s draining Alice dry. Alice is a wonderful grandmother. Nobody could be better, but Alice is in a different phase of her life than Olivia’s mother would have been. She’ll never be up on a ladder decorating the gym for Olivia’s prom, or throwing a boy-girl birthday party next year or chaperoning field trips. She dotes on that girl, but she’s already been a mother, and her energy’s flagging. Becoming one again’s just too much.”

“I’m glad Olivia could ask for help.”

Tracy hoped the occasional softball game and shopping trip were going to be enough help. She took the glass of iced water and followed Janya into the living room. She was just about to choose a seat, when somebody knocked on the door.

Janya went to answer while Tracy made a nest on the sofa,
arranging pillows against her back. According to Google, her prime source for pregnancy information, one of the more obnoxious effects of pregnancy was backache. She figured she might as well prepare.

Janya was speaking to someone on the steps, and the conversation continued for several minutes, so Tracy closed her eyes. Then the door opened wider, and Janya ushered in an attractive Indian man carrying a little girl and holding the hand of a small boy. Janya looked worried, but she made a quick introduction.

“Tracy, this is our friend Harit Dutta, and his children, Vijay and Lily.”

Tracy made a polite response and smiled a welcome at the children—impossibly small children, at that—who looked anything but happy. The little girl was sobbing, and the little boy was sniffing hard, as if trying not to.

“I have told Harit I will take care of his children for a little while,” Janya said with a smile in their direction. But the smile was forced, and Janya definitely looked troubled.

Harit smoothed his daughter’s hair; then, without another glance at her, he handed the baby to Janya. Lily wasn’t happy to go. She leaned toward her father, arms pitifully outstretched, and began to cry harder. Vijay’s sniffing became louder.

Harit squatted beside his son and spoke to him in a low voice. The little boy threw his arms around his father’s neck, but Harit untangled them and set the child away. Then he stood.

“Thank you,” he told Janya. “This will make my evening easier.”

“I will take good care of them.”

“I’ll get their things. I promise I’ll call to let you know
when I’ll be coming to get them tomorrow.” He paused. “Or the next day, at the latest.”

Tracy had been surprised to see the father saying goodbye to his children, but this new information was more surprising. Janya was going to do overnight child care for this harried young man?

“It might be best if you leave their things on the porch,” Janya told him. “We can get them later. Better, perhaps, to say one goodbye now?”

Harit Dutta nodded, ruffled his son’s hair almost as if the gesture was only prompted by Janya’s words, then made his escape.

Tracy stared her gathering questions at her friend. Janya shrugged. Lily was screaming now, as if her heart would break, and little Vijay was trying to open the door and get to his father.

Tracy leaped to her feet and got to Janya’s side before Janya could stop the boy. She grabbed for Lily and slid her from Janya’s arms. “You know him. Talk to him.”

Her words were accompanied by a thump, as if something had landed on the front steps. Then, as Janya gently took Vijay’s arm and led him away from the door, Tracy heard the start of an engine.

She was too busy to run to the window to watch Harit Dutta driving away while his children cried inconsolably. Lily was squirming in her arms with strength Tracy had, until that moment, only equated with angry nine-year-olds piled on top of each other after an umpire’s bad call.

“We can’t have this,” Tracy said firmly. “Let’s go wash that sad little face.” She took the flailing baby into the bathroom and soaked a washcloth in cool water, before she used it to wipe Lily’s streaming eyes and nose. Lily was probably a pretty
child, with delicate features and hair that would one day be as lovely and thick as Janya’s, but right now her tiny face looked like a gnome’s, angry and wrinkled.

“See the baby in the mirror?” Tracy asked. She leaned toward the bathroom mirror, then pulled away. “All gone. Where did she go?” She tried again. Lily continued to scream. “I can’t find the baby,” Tracy said calmly. “Where can the baby be?”

Lily took a deep breath to scream once more, but no sound came out.

Encouraged, Tracy tried a third time. “Baby’s gone. Baby’s gone. Where can the baby be?” She leaned over so Lily could catch a glimpse of her face before she pulled her away again.

“I saw her. I saw her!” Tracy jiggled Lily a little. “Did you see the baby, Lily? Let’s look for her again.”

Lily gave a pitiful screech, but the volume was lower than it had been. Tracy rinsed the washcloth, and used it to wipe Lily’s forehead and cheeks. She continued playing peekaboo with the mirror until Lily was only groaning a little.

“Such a pretty baby,” Tracy crooned.

Lily leaned her head against Tracy’s shoulder, and Tracy felt as if she’d been struck by lightning. For a moment she couldn’t move, the sensation was so delicious, so unexpected, so…maternal. Finally, aware that the bathroom was not the best place to spend the afternoon, she reluctantly settled the little girl on one hip and went back into the living room.

“Lily tells me she’s thirsty,” Tracy said. “Vijay, what does Lily drink?”

The little boy was curled up on Janya’s lap, sobbing quietly. “Milk,” he said.

“How about you, Vijay? Do you drink milk, too?”

“No!”

“Well, neither do I,” Tracy said. “I absolutely do not drink milk. I drink bug juice.”

Vijay looked up, and his eyes widened.

“But since Janya doesn’t have any, we’ll settle for water, okay?”

He sniffed loudly, but his little head nodded.

He scrambled off Janya’s lap and ran to the window, but he didn’t make a sound when he saw his father was gone. He stood stiffly, like a soldier, and Tracy hoped he wouldn’t stay that way for the rest of the afternoon.

Half an hour later both children were asleep on the sofa, worn out from crying. Janya had put pillows around Lily to keep her from falling off, and Vijay was wedged between the back of the sofa and one of the cushions.

Only then did Tracy raise a brow in question. “What is this about?” she asked softly.

“Kanira, his wife, disappeared without a word. Harit came to see if I knew where she has gone,” Janya whispered. “Do you?”

“No. I haven’t seen or heard from her since we had dinner with them on Monday. And she said nothing of this.”

“Did he come expecting you to take the children? Just like that?”

“He said they were going to look for Kanira, and that is why he had the children’s things assembled. But I think, perhaps, he hoped I would offer.”

The children’s things had arrived in several pillowcases the women had retrieved from the steps. A few toys. Some clothing. Diapers for Lily. Very little, assembled quickly, but perhaps enough, since Janya had a washing machine and Harit had said he would be back for the children soon. While they
were on the porch he’d given Janya some hurried explanations about schedules and diets, but it was precious little.

“Does he have any idea where to look for her?” Tracy asked. Vijay moaned in his sleep, and for a moment both women went still until he was quiet again.

Janya bit her lip, then shook her head. “But he asked…he asked if Kanira had said anything.” She looked uncomfortable.

“About what?” Tracy prompted.

“Another man,” Janya said at last.

“Another man? Does he think she ran off with someone else?”

Janya’s expression said it all.

“
Did
she say something to you?” Tracy asked, although the answer was written on Janya’s features.

“She said…” Janya looked away. “She said she had resources, and that soon she might change her life for the better.”

“You think she meant a man?”

“I cannot say what she meant for certain. But she has no family to turn to. She did not complete her education in India, and even if she had, here she would be expected to do more to qualify for a job. So what could she have meant? She was unhappy with Harit. She did not hurt the children, and she did not scream at them, but she was not happy to be their mother, either.”

Tracy knew Janya was thinking out loud, but the possibilities did seem limited and, at best, uncertain. “Maybe she just took off to think a little.”

“There is a shopping center not far from their house. She left the children with Harit early this morning before he had to be at work and said she would return.”

“Did he call the police?”

“He is afraid the police will not be helpful because he is from India. I think he is hoping Kanira will call soon, that this is her way of grabbing attention and letting him know how unhappy she is.” Janya shook her head sharply. “As if everyone who has met her doesn’t know this already. She is very clear about being unhappy.”

Tracy could understand why Janya had agreed to watch the children. They were too young to be caught up in this drama, and if Harit
did
find his wife, the ensuing scene would be enough to give the little ones nightmares. Janya was trying to spare them.

“He
will
come back, won’t he?” Tracy asked.

“Of course. He must. We are strangers to him, and they are his blood. Perhaps he did not want the children, the way Rishi wants ours, but I think he cares about them. In her way Kanira cares, as well. Only…”

“Only the gods screwed up big-time giving these two kids,” Tracy said.

“This is the way it often seems to work.”

Tracy realized that she was sitting there, pregnant through her own carelessness, and the conversation had inevitably led right to that all-consuming subject again. But before she could say anything, Janya smiled, as if she had read Tracy’s thoughts.

“Not you, Tracy. The gods did not screw up. You were wonderful with Lily. You say you know nothing about babies? There you were, doing everything, as if you had always done it.”

Tracy had been too busy to worry about what she was doing. Lily had been screaming like a gale-force wind, so to dampen the noise, Tracy had simply tried ways to make her feel better. Everything she’d done had come naturally. She’d
simply watched, tried this and that, paid attention to what worked and then done it again. Could taking care of a baby be that easy?

“Just luck,” she said, but she wondered. She had been surprised to learn she knew how to handle the kids at the rec center. She always described her prowess as benevolent disinterest. The kids at the center learned quickly that she didn’t care why they misbehaved or have any particular stake in the outcome, so they toed the line because there was no point not to.

But maybe she had been wrong. Maybe getting along with children was a talent after all. She definitely needed a course or two on diapers and breast feeding, and maybe how to get through childbirth—which sounded physically impossible—but maybe she wasn’t going to be as hopeless as she had expected.

“It will be strange to have children in the house,” Janya said. “I must call Rishi while I can and warn him. Will you stay here a moment and keep them safe?”

Tracy nodded. She suspected the best part of mothering might just be watching children sleep. She saw no reason to deny herself that innocent reward.

T
racy never knocked herself out when she cooked for Marsh. He knew her history. Before moving to Florida she’d left meals to household staff and restaurant chefs. After her life changed and all disposable income had been disposed of, she had survived happily on snacks and supermarket delis. Gradually she had taken a few basic classes at the rec center and begun to prepare more complete meals. Marsh loved to cook, so she saw little reason to become a gourmet herself, but at least now she could prepare salads, sauté vegetables and grill fish. She had even perfected several interesting entrées with multiple ingredients, just to prove she could.

None of those entrées were in evidence tonight.

Breathing through her mouth to avoid smelling her own cooking, Tracy stepped back from the kitchen stove to examine the meal she was preparing for Marsh and Bay, who were due any moment.

Mashed potatoes. Check. Broiled chicken breasts seasoned with salt and the barest dusting of pepper. Check. Salad of
iceberg lettuce, celery and cucumber with the blandest ranch dressing she could find. Check. Sliced Italian bread and butter. Check. She hoped that with the addition of a sprig of bright green parsley, Marsh and Bay wouldn’t notice that the meal completely disappeared against the shiny white iron-stone plates that had seemed relatively sophisticated when she’d found them on sale at Target. Short of drawing a Magic Marker road map—turn right for potatoes—she didn’t know what she could do. She had prepared a meal she might be able to eat. That alone was miracle enough.

That afternoon, when Marsh had called, she’d turned down an invitation for dinner at the funky old Cracker house that had been home to his family for generations. He was likely to make something fragrant and spicy, she’d thought, and there was no way she could sidestep eating at least some of it, with dire consequences. So she had invited the Egan guys here, claiming she wanted to host, since she needed to make this an early night. She told a skeptical Marsh she’d promised to go to an early church service with Alice tomorrow. Church was the only Sunday excuse she’d been able to think of on short notice, and she’d felt so guilty using God for her own purposes that later she’d stopped by Alice’s to see if she could go with her after all. No question an hour in church was needed after so many half truths.

She turned off the stove and stepped into the bathroom to check her hair. She’d chosen a bright fuchsia blouse, hoping her pale cheeks might reflect some of the color, but so far it wasn’t working. She’d planned to spend extra time on makeup, but she’d napped too long, so the face staring back at her wore minimal mascara and only a nominal coat of lip gloss. Anything brighter against her washed-out skin and she was afraid she would look like a vampire. She’d left her
hair down and planned to lean forward a lot for maximum coverage.

Mentally she rehearsed her story, trying to stick with the truth as much as possible. She was definitely feeling better. The doctor had said everything was fine. No lie there. She was supposed to take things easy for a while and eat simply until her digestion was back to normal. Again, true. She was sorry she’d been so cranky, but she wasn’t used to being sick, and work was sapping every bit of energy while she recovered.

For a moment she considered calling and telling Marsh she just wasn’t up to this. But the longer she held him at arm’s length, the more questions he would have. The bigger the final explosion would be, too.

She was filling water glasses with ice when she heard the familiar pickup. She had set out wineglasses and a freshly opened bottle of white wine, pouring some in the sink and filling her own wineglass with water and a squeeze of lemon to make it cloudier, as if she had already started on the bottle without him. She was afraid if she turned down a real glass of wine, his suspicions would be aroused.

The front door opened, and she peeked out to find she had one visitor, not two.

“Where’s Bay?” she asked.

“At the last minute he got a better invitation. Adam invited him to a movie.”

“Oh…great!” She pasted a smile on her wan face. “For him and us. Although I miss the kid. I’ve only seen him in passing lately.”

“It happened as we were getting ready to come here, but I should have called. We were rushing around to get him ready, and it slipped my mind.”

“No problem. It’s a very simple dinner.”

“There’s a new Thai restaurant near Wanda’s shop, and I could have taken you out if I’d known.”

She imagined lemongrass and Thai basil, and had to immediately put the thought out of her mind. “Another time, when we can stay out later. Let’s pour you some wine. I’m already sipping.”

He followed her into the kitchen. “You look cheerful in that color.”

She glanced at him. He was wearing a shirt she particularly liked. First, it had no slogan. That was a start. Second, it had buttons. And third, it was a subtle leafy print that brought out the gold in his hair and eyes. He wore jeans without holes in the knees and polished loafers without socks. This was formal Marsh.

This was Marsh hoping to score.

Her heart sank. Along with nausea and the desire to pee every three minutes had come a dip in her libido that bothered her as much as the other symptoms tied together. She had never had to fake anything with this man. Not desire. Not enthusiasm. Not orgasm. Tonight she knew she was going to have to fake the whole nine yards.

And women wanted children why?

She remembered that rapid little heartbeat, and for no good reason at all, her eyes filled and spilled over.

“Are you okay?” Marsh asked.

“It’s the chicken,” she said, waving a hand in front of her face. “Something I used when I was spicing the breasts is making my eyes water. I must have an allergy.” She split for the bathroom, shut the door, sniffed hard, carefully wiped her eyes, hit the toilet again and washed her hands.

When she returned, she grabbed her wineglass, which
she’d apparently set right beside the door, because there it was waiting for her. She took a long drink, remembering halfway through that Marsh thought this really
was
wine. She pried the glass from her lips.

“On an empty stomach?” he asked. “A stomach that’s recovering? Chugging wine? Is that a good idea?”

“White wine settles it. The doctor says it’s fine.” Two lies. She would probably need to go to church morning
and
evening tomorrow.

“So you saw the doc?”

“Did. Everything’s okay. She did a few tests and said these things take care of themselves with time. I should just eat whatever tastes good until my appetite comes back.”

“And tonight apparently white tastes good. We might need sunglasses. Dinner could be blinding.”

“I know. It does look a little…” She tried to think of a good spin to put on things. “Monochromatic.”

“Not a chromatic in sight. Even the wine’s white. Very Zen.”

“Exactly what I was going for.”

He moved behind her and put his arms around her waist, pulling her close. “It’s sweet of you to feng shui the dinner when you’re not feeling well.”

She leaned against him. “That’s me. Sweet as sugar.”

“Which is also white.”

“You’ve been patient. I appreciate that.”

He squeezed gently, but it set off a chain reaction. For a moment she thought she was going to have to bolt for the door. She wriggled away, gasping for air and composure. “Let me heat up the chicken.”

“Exactly what I was thinking. We can’t eat lukewarm chicken breasts. What would that say about us?”

She was too nauseated for repartee. Instead, she switched on the broiler again and took more deep breaths through her mouth. “I’ll just stick the potatoes in the microwave, too.”

Marsh carried things to the table, and in a few minutes she joined him with their plates, his heaped with potatoes and chicken, hers barely dotted with the same. Even so, whatever appetite she’d gained had fled. Luckily she doubted that it mattered. Whatever she left on her plate was going to blend right in.

Marsh told her about Bay and work. She caught him up on the rec center. At one point he looked up from the chicken he’d been pushing around his plate. “Which seasoning do you think you’re allergic to, Trace? Salt or pepper?”

“That’s not very nice.”

“The meal’s a study in simplicity. Maybe
that’s
what you’re allergic to.”

“I believe in tasting whatever I’m eating, unadorned, fully flavored. This chicken died for us.”

“It’s a brand-new concept. It might catch on.”

She didn’t tell him it had been in favor with the newly pregnant for thousands of years.

He helped her clear, and she was touched to see that somehow he had finished the contents of his plate. The meal, even by her skewed standards, had been horrible. Overcooked chicken. Lumpy potatoes. Limp iceberg lettuce with tasteless dressing. She doubted Marsh would ever eat anything she prepared again.

“So…tea? Coffee?” she asked brightly. “I have white tea, if you’re interested. And milk to put in it.”

He pulled her close. “You’re a trouper. I pushed you into this. I’m sorry. I’ve just missed you. And I’ve been wondering if something else was going on.” He waited, as if to see
whether she had anything to add. “But I should have left you alone until you felt a hundred percent,” he finished, when silence reigned.

She put her arms around him and rested her head against his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“I should go.”

She wondered if she ought to simply confess her charade while he was feeling repentant. She didn’t plan to keep the truth from Marsh for long, just long enough to make sure she knew where they stood without a baby between them. But here they stood right now, arms around each other, and the baby
was
between them. Right between them, and she was the only one who knew it, the only one who had heard its pin-dot heart pounding.

“Not yet,” she said, kissing him. Maybe she was trying to make up for the deception, she didn’t know, but when he gathered her closer, she kissed him harder.

They left the dishes and the leftovers and undressed each other on the way to her bedroom. Marsh’s shirt in the hallway, pants by the bed. Her outer clothing everywhere and her lacy underwear hanging from a doorknob. She’d changed the sheets and worn her prettiest thong, just in case. Thongs wouldn’t be all that inviting in a couple of months, and she’d figured she ought to wear hers out while she could.

They fell to the sheets, and she told herself she was fine, she was good, better than good, and that this was exactly what she wanted to be doing. She didn’t protest when he nuzzled her breasts, although they felt oddly tight and almost painfully sensitive. She couldn’t complain, because that symptom would be a dead giveaway. She moaned, but not from pleasure. The bland dinner had helped with the nausea, but now everything else seemed out of whack. Breasts that didn’t want to be
touched, heartburn bubbling in her chest and worst of all, a strong desire to close her eyes and fall asleep.

She fought them all, responding the way she knew he wanted her to. She was doing fine until he stopped, leaned over the bed and felt for his pants.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“I doubt you prepared, did you? This wasn’t exactly a foregone conclusion.”

For a moment she wondered what she was supposed to have prepared for. Then she realized he was talking about her diaphragm. He was searching his pants pockets for a condom. Marsh was worried about birth control at the precise moment when there was zero need to be.

For a moment she wanted to cry. Then she had the absurd desire to laugh. She couldn’t control it. She giggled. He looked at her and smiled. “I like a woman with a sense of humor. But what’s funny about taking precautions?”

“I’m just glad you’re here and we have a reason to,” she lied, the laughter dying. She wanted to cry again. Nobody had told her pregnancy was the gateway to insanity, but here she was, living proof.

“Me, too,” he said, finishing what he’d started.

She welcomed him back fiercely and held him tight. She was lying to Marsh about too much, but at the last moment she was glad to discover that despite everything else, her response to this man was no lie at all.

Blake drove an expensive copper-colored hybrid that was both environmentally sound and sleek. Maggie liked the way it purred softly, like a huge, tawny cat. This evening he wore a dark leather jacket over a lightweight cashmere sweater, and cowboy boots with vintage-washed jeans. She’d taken him at
his word and dressed simply—dark slacks, green silk blouse with a darker scarf, a gold chain with the single diamond her mother and father had presented at her college graduation. She’d started to pull on a pair of suede pumps until she realized Felo had given them to her, and settled for dark flats instead.

The house that Cardrake Brothers had rented for their staff was beachy and sprawling, a two-story gray wood contemporary with a porch off Blake’s suite that was high enough to catch glimpses of the Gulf in the distance and the remains of a tumbledown fish camp to the west. The area was sparsely populated, which made it perfect for parties, and Blake had told her that the company who managed it had been delighted to get professionals in for a long-term stay.

By the time she chatted with Blake in the car, then suffered through introductions to almost everybody, including a variety of city and county officials, she was ready to retreat.

Blake had been straight with her, this was a smallish party. But since she didn’t know anyone but him, it was a smallish party filled with strangers, more taxing than the backyard bashes she and Felo had hosted, with him in the kitchen laughing and creating Cuban delicacies, and her filling glasses with beer and cheap wine.

When he had to leave to talk to the caterers, Blake turned her over to Ned, one of the partners who shared the beach house. Ned was older than Blake, lanky and socially awkward, but he gamely introduced Maggie to a few more guests before he found an excuse to leave her on her own.

Glad to be alone, she wandered the fringes of conversation, enjoying a beautifully prepared buffet of gourmet finger foods and champagne that probably cost more than a month of the house payments she had shared with Felo. The beach house
was sparely but tastefully furnished, and she was particularly drawn to a series of professional photographs embellishing one wall, most with a bridge silhouetted against extraordinary scenery.