her.
But Dan looked so natural, even though he kept shifting in the chair. He looked as if he was born to do this. Born to be a father. Born to be a parent.
The thing that she’d been denied.
She glanced at the screen and stood up quickly.
She had to leave now, while he was trapped in his chair and before the tears started to fall. She needed some breathing space.
‘You should stop after every ounce of milk, Dan. Take the bottle out and wind the baby. I’m sorry. I have to go.’
‘What? Carrie? Wait a minute, what does wind mean? How do I know how much an ounce is?’
But she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t listen.
‘Carrie? Come back.’
But her feet were already on the stairs, pounding their way back up to the sanctuary of her solitude.
DAN STARED AT the wall. What had just happened?
One minute she seemed fine, next minute a bundle of nerves, ready to jump out of her skin at the slightest noise.
She’d caught him unawares. She’d caught him while he was in no position to run after her. Probably planned it all along.
Still, it wasn’t as if she could go anywhere. The city was at a standstill and if this little guy started screaming she was right upstairs. Whether she liked it or not.
He shifted on the sofa. The little guy was feeding fast and furious. Was this normal?
He heard some rumbling, the noises of the milk hitting the baby’s stomach. How much was an ounce anyway? And how on earth could he tell if the baby had drunk that much when the bottle was tipped up sideways? At this rate he was going to need Shana on speed dial. He glanced at the clock and let out a sigh.
This was going to be a long, long night.
* * *
Carrie slammed the apartment door behind her and slid down behind it. Her mind was on a spin cycle. She couldn’t think a single rational thought right now.
What Dan must think of her.
She tried to take some slow, deep breaths. Anything to stop her heart clamouring in her chest. Anything to stop the cold prickle across her shoulder blades.
She sagged her head into her hands. Calm down. Calm down.
This was ridiculous. Avoiding babies for the past year was one thing. Body-swerving pregnant friends and brand-new mothers was almost understandable.
But this wasn’t. She had to stop with the self-pity. She had to get some perspective here.
What would she have done if Dan hadn’t been in the building?
There was no way she would have left that baby on the doorstep. No matter how hard the task of looking after him.
And if she’d phoned the police department and they couldn’t send anyone out? What would she have done then?
She lifted her head from her hands. She would have had a five-minute panic. A five-minute feeling of this can’t be happening to me.
Then what?
There was a creeping realisation in her brain. She pushed herself back up the door. Her breathing easing, her heartbeat steadying.
Then she would have sucked it up. She would have sucked it up and got on with it.
Because that was what any responsible adult would do.
She strode over to the bedroom, shedding her dressing gown and bed socks and pulling her pyjama top over her head. She found the bra she’d discarded earlier and fastened it back in place, pulling on some skinny jeans and a pink T-shirt.
Her pink baseball boots were in the bottom of her cupboard and she pushed her feet into them.
There. She was ready.
But her stomach started to flutter again.
The light in the bathroom flickered. Was the light bulb going to blow again? Which it seemed to do with an annoying regularity. She walked inside and ran the tap, splashing some cold water over her face.
She stared into the mirror, watching the drops of water drip off her face. Dan would have labelled her a nutjob by now. He probably wouldn’t want her help any more.
But the expression on his face was imprinted on her brain. He’d looked stunned. As if he couldn’t understand—but he wanted to.
She picked up the white towel next to the sink and dried off her face. Her make-up was right next to her. Should she put some on? Like some camouflage? Would it help her face him again?
Her fingers hesitated over the make-up bag. It was late at night. She’d been barefaced and in her pyjamas. He wouldn’t expect anything else.
But it might give her the courage she needed. It might make her feel as if she had some armour to face the world.
She pulled out some mascara and a little cream blusher, rubbing some on to her cheeks and then a touch on her lips. There. She was ready.
She crossed the room in long strides before any doubts could creep into place. There was no point in locking her apartment door. She would only be down two flights of stairs.
She placed her hand on the balustrade, ready to go down, and then halted. The television was booming from the apartment across the hall. Mrs Van Dyke.
The neighbour she’d only glimpsed in passing and never spoken to. The neighbour who might have some baby supplies they could use.
She hesitated and then knocked loudly on the door. ‘Mrs Van Dyke? It’s Carrie from across the hall. Daniel Cooper sent me up.’
She waited a few minutes, imagining it might take the little old lady some time to get out of her chair and over to the door—praying she’d actually heard her above the theme tune from Murder, She Wrote.
She could hear the creaking of the floorboards and then the door opened and the old wizened face stared out at her. Oh, boy. She really could be six hundred years old.
‘And what do you want, young lady?’
Carrie jerked back a little. She had such a strong, authoritative voice, it almost reminded her of her old headmistress back in London.
She took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs Van Dyke, but we found a baby on the doorstep and Dan said you might be able to help.’
As the words tumbled out of her mouth she knew she could have phrased it better. If this old dear keeled over in shock it would be all her fault.
But
