Title Page
The side door was open just a hair, but that little bit brought a hint of wintry air that sent a chill racing down Vickie Preston’s spine. She shivered. She moved closer to the door and found herself looking out at the day through the double-paned window.
It was gray. Turning darker quickly as the day waned into the late afternoon.
Nothing unexpected, since it was winter, and still...
She felt unnerved. The wind seemed to have a keening sound about it—a sound that made her think of her granny O’Malley talking about banshees wailing.
Or maybe it was the fact that the door was open—even though she didn’t know why it would be. But she knew it was all right. Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine hadn’t even left for their night out yet. She would just ask him about the door—maybe he’d been taking something out to the car.
Still, oddly trembling, she closed the door and locked it. As she did so, Chrissy Ballantine came sailing into the kitchen, adjusting her gloves.
“Choose any of those little packets of food you’d like,” Mrs. Ballantine said. “You know where they all are. Noah will probably need to eat about 8:30 tonight and there’s a six-ounce bottle he can have after he eats his food. He’ll most likely fall asleep after that. The baby monitor is next to the crib, of course. The diapers are next to the crib...and well, you know the drill. You have my number, and you have George’s number, and...”
“Chrissy, can we go, please!” George Ballantine said, coming up behind his wife, slipping an arm around her waist. “My dear, as we know, Vickie is the most amazing babysitter in the world and if you torture her to death with commonsense details, she’ll leave us!”
Vickie Preston smiled at them both.
God bless the Ballantines!
They were both in their midforties; Noah was, truly, a miracle child for them.
It had never been easy for her, Chrissy had once told Vickie. It seemed like a gift from above that she had finally gotten pregnant again. Fertility drugs before—and now? Just a miracle.
Yes, Noah was a miracle.
And before...
Even though they had little Noah, tears often sprang to Chrissy’s eyes when she referred to an earlier time—and the son they had lost. After all their first efforts twenty years ago, they had finally had a child: Dylan. Dylan had been great, a son any parent could adore. Good in school, good in sports, but more—a great sport himself, happy when he won, able to shrug it off and smile when he or his team lost.
A year shy of his eighteenth birthday, Dylan had been killed by a drunk driver. His death had nearly killed his parents as well; it had devastated a community. George Ballantine had left his high-tech job in New York City—too many memories—and relocated in Boston. And while his wife had still been in mourning, she’d suddenly found out that she would have the second child she had always wanted.
Vickie knew all about the Ballantines because the families knew each other through church. Chrissy Ballantine had called Vickie’s mom, and Vickie had been interviewed. She had been in awe when she’d heard how much she could make, just babysitting a sweet child. And while she was very happy about Noah, she also felt terrible for the couple, and she thought about the young man she saw in pictures about the house—Dylan Ballantine—often enough. She was now just about the age he had been when he died, almost eighteen. She found herself wondering what his life had been like—he’d been popular, certainly. Had he dreamed about college, being on his own, the places he might go, the things he might do in life?
Dylan was gone, but it was just sixteen months and three days ago that Noah Ballantine had made his stunning and miraculous arrival into the world.
For the first six months of his life, Chrissy had refused to leave his side. Her psychiatrist had finally convinced her she would smother her poor child, herself and her marriage if she didn’t learn to trust someone. Vickie was always grateful they had chosen her.
“Yes, yes, of course, we can go,” Chrissy said. “I’ll just look in on the baby one more time, though, I know, of course
