Free Lullaby and Goodnight by Wendy Corsi Staub Page B

was.
    Tom.
    The complete stranger who bought her the watermelon that night a few weeks ago.
    Tom . . .
    The complete stranger who seemed to know where she lived.
    Â 
    The thing about New York is that you can be utterly anonymous, utterly unnoticed. It takes a lot more than a river of mascara running down a person’s cheeks to capture attention on a crowded sidewalk.
    Anne Marie wipes her face and eyes with a futile swipe of a tissue, but the tears refuse to subside.
    What now? she wonders, looking down at the envelope clutched tightly in her hand. She’s afraid to let go even to tuck it into her bag.
    If only you never let go in the first place, she tells herself, thinking not of the envelope but of the loss it signifies. Why did you let go?
    Somebody slams into her from behind and she realizes she has stopped walking altogether. “Sorry,” the pedestrian flings brusquely over his shoulder, striding on.
    Anne Marie forces her legs to start moving again, forces her thoughts into action as well.
    What now?
    I should probably call him, tell him. But I don’t even know where he is.
    His whereabouts can be discovered easily enough, she supposes.
    But that would mean letting him in, to share not just the burden but the decisions that will have to be made.
    Is that really what she wants?
    She clasps the envelope possessively to her chest, to her heart, knowing that isn’t what she wants.
    This is hers, for now. All hers.
    For now, and perhaps, forever.
    Â 
    â€œPeyton, wait—”
    She turns back toward Allison and finds her still poised on the top of the subway steps.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” Peyton asks, retracing the few steps she had taken down the busy street. “Did you forget something?”
    â€œYeah. I forgot to ask if you’ll be my labor coach.”
    â€œI was going to ask you the same exact thing!” Peyton exclaims, touched and surprised by Allison’s invitation.
    â€œYou were? I’ll do it. It’ll be an honor.”
    â€œSame here. Only . . . are you sure you want me? What about your mother? Or . . . someone else from the group?”
    â€œMy mother?” Allison’s gaze darkens. “She’s the last one I want in the room. No, I just want you. You’re calmer and stronger than anybody else.”
    Honored by the praise, and determinedly ignoring the jostling crowd edging by her as she hovers beside the green globe lamp at the subway’s entrance, Peyton asks, “So what do I have to do to prepare for this?”
    â€œRita will tell you. If I have you and Rita, I’ll get through it just fine. And I’ll get you through it, too, when it’s your turn. You’ll see. All you need when you’re in labor is to be surrounded by people you totally trust.”
    After making plans to meet Allison for coffee after work on Monday, Peyton waits until the subterranean staircase has swallowed her friend’s glossy black curls.
    Then she turns back to the bustling avenue—and realizes that she isn’t quite ready to go home just yet.
    Maybe it’s spring fever, thanks to the unseasonably warm weather that has driven New Yorkers outdoors this balmy Saturday afternoon: on foot, on Rollerblades, on bicycles.
    Or maybe, Peyton tells herself as she walks slowly down Seventh Avenue toward home, you’re looking for him.
    She certainly shouldn’t be.
    Nor should she assume that Tom Reilly’s appearance in Tequila Moon had anything to do with her.
    When you come right down to it, that’s hardly a remarkable coincidence. After all, Tequila Moon is a popular Mexican restaurant, and he lives right here in the neighborhood.
    So it isn’t as though he’s following her.
    Nor, on the other hand, is it as though he’s avoiding her.
    But if he was staring, as Allison claimed, then he probably recognized her. Why didn’t he come over and say hello? Why did he just disappear?
    Because you’re