letter? Is it a letter? Did she give you a phone number, an e-mail address?”
Megan squeezed Lana’s hand. “There was a note and a box of baby things. The note was just like the first one, Lana. The one that was pinned to Garrett’s shirt all those years ago. No return address. No signature. Nothing to identify who wrote it. For some reason, even after all these years, your mother doesn’t want you to know who she is.”
“VAN ZANDT DEVELOPMENT.” Dylan tucked the cell phone between his ear and his shoulder and went on looking at the schematic for the updated wiring he’d have to install to bring the building up to code.
“Dill Pickle? Is that you?”
“Mom?”
She giggled at his shocked tone. “Oh, dear, did I say that out loud?”
“Yes, you did,” he said, turning his back on the drawing, giving his mother his full attention. “You haven’t called me that since I was two.”
“It must be these painkillers. I swear my head feels two feet across. I had to dial you three times to get the call to go through.”
“How are you feeling otherwise?”
“I want out of this bed and this horrible contraption. I can’t even get up to go to the bathroom. How could I have been so foolish? I only fell two feet from the second step of the ladder.” In his mind’s eye he could see her shaking her head, her curly brown hair barely streaked with gray. “I really, really do have to lose some weight. The doctors have all been very nice, but I know that’s what they’re thinking. ‘If you weren’t so heavy, Mrs. Van Zandt, the injury to your ankle wouldn’t have been so severe.’”
“Mom, you’re not fat.” But she wasn’t skinny, either. He couldn’t remember her as anything but pleasingly plump. His parents were both nearing sixty, active and healthy except for his dad’s high blood pressure and now his mom’s broken ankle. Nevertheless, they were looking forward to turning over the business to him in a few years and retiring. That’s why he had to make this project work. They’d put a big chunk of their savings into it and let him take out a loan against the company assets.
“I’m not skinny, either. And I’m bored witless already, as you can tell. How’s Greg? How are you two doing? Should I send your father up there to help out?”
“We’re doing fine, Mom. And Dad needs to stay there with you and the office. The bids for the new gymnasium at the high school are coming up next week. We’ve got a good chance at getting the job.”
“I know, I know. But there are other things just as important as the school bid. Like my little Greggy. Are you sure he’s okay?”
She was beginning to sound tired, her words slurring now and then, but Dylan knew better than to try to cut the conversation short. Even half zonked on painkillers, his mother wouldn’t stand for that. She sensed how conflicted he was about his son. She had accepted the little guy wholeheartedly, but Dylan wasn’t fooled. His mother could count. She and his dad had to be aware that Greg could have been conceived during the time Jessie had lived apart from him. But it made no difference to Linda Van Zandt. Greg was her grandchild, just as his sister Christy’s and his brother Trent’s kids were. “He’s fine. I…I’ve got someone to help with him.”
“Who’s that?” His mother’s voice was razor sharp again, just like her wits.
“Her name’s Lana Lord. She’s the tenant in the store below my apartment. The store called Oh, Baby!”
“I’ve heard that name.”
“It was on the architect’s drawing of the new facade, remember?”
“Oh, yes, a baby store. I read an article about one of them in the business section of the Statesman once. Supposed to be a real growth industry. Lots of waited-till-it-was-almost-too-late professionals having babies and spoiling them rotten. Did I tell you about it? They have more hair than sense and buy whole new sets of furniture for every baby they have. Thousands of dollars worth. Then they just pitch it and start over.” She sounded shocked by the waste. “Why, I still have Grandma Parsons’ high chair and crib. It was good enough for me and Billy Joe and Gracie and the three of you. It’s good enough for Greg when I get it painted, and someday it will—”
“Mom, do you want to hear about Lana Lord or not?”
“Of course I do. It’s the medicine. I just run on and on.”
“You always run on and on, Mom.”
She laughed. “Okay. Tell me about this woman who’s taking care of my Greggy.”
“She heard him crying the first night and came upstairs. She’s keeping him with her in her store during the day. I’ve got him with me at night…at her house.” He didn’t have to tell her that. She wouldn’t know where he was if she called on the cell phone. But if she did find out, there’d be hell to pay.
“Her house? You’re living with this woman you only met three days ago?”
“We’re staying in the maid’s room. The house is huge. A big old Tudor monstrosity, cold and damp as the dickens.”
“I see. Then she must be one of the Austin Lords.”
“She is.” Dylan didn’t elaborate, although his mother’s silence told him she wanted more details.
“Well,” she said after a silence. “I’m glad Greg’s out of that musty old apartment. I mean, the paint has to be lead-based—”
Was he the only adult in Texas who hadn’t thought about lead paint on the walls? He cut her short. He could hear someone coming up the steps from Lana’s store. Only she had the key. He glanced at his watch and frowned. It wasn’t five-thirty yet. Something must be up with Greg. Another bellyache? Diarrhea? “I’ll call you back, Mom. Someone’s here.”
“Okay.” There were voices in the background. “My roommate’s getting visitors, and this call is probably costing me a fortune. I’m sure the hospital doesn’t have a five-cents-a-minute plan. Dylan, you’ll give me your number at this woman’s house, won’t you? I don’t like being out of touch.”
“You can always reach me at this number. But I’ll call you as soon as I get hold of the new one. I’ll let you talk to Greg, how’s that sound?” he asked, half teasing.
“Wonderful. I miss him so much.”
“I know you do, Mom. We’ll be out to see you this weekend. I promise.”
“Good. Take care of that precious little boy of ours.”
“I will, Mom.”
He broke off the connection and turned. Lana was standing in the doorway of his apartment, the living room of which was now doubling as his field office. “Hi,” she said.
She was holding Greg against her shoulder, against her heart. She was patting his back gently, absently, as though it were the most natural rhythm in the world. He couldn’t feel that way when he held the child. He wondered if he ever would. Physically, he was more comfortable with him in his arms, but there was no personal feeling there, no warmth, no connection.
“You
