Free Lullaby and Goodnight by Wendy Corsi Staub Page B

corner.
    Where the heck are you going? she asks herself, frowning even as she strides on down the sidewalk.
    Who knows? is the hardly satisfying answer to her silent question.
    Unaccustomed to harboring wishy-washiness, Peyton decides to chalk it up to pregnancy. Maybe aimless wandering is just another incongruous symptom, right up there with the leg cramps and facial pigmentation Allison warned her about earlier.
    Allison also mentioned a great maternity boutique called Baby Blue that happens to be located down on Fourteenth Street, not far from here.
    Okay, that’s a desirable destination. She’s far more comfortable heading some place specific rather than simply strolling the streets.
    Strolling is for people who don’t know—or don’t care—where they’re going.
    That’s so not me.
    No, Peyton’s always known exactly where she’s going. She prefers to have every detail of her life mapped out with the same precision that landed her in New York, and in Dr. Lombardo’s office.
    Dr. Lombardo.
    The thought triggers an image of dark good looks, and a forbidden stirring.
    Stop it, Peyton.
    She forces herself to think in strictly professional terms about her upcoming visit with the doctor on Tuesday afternoon. His nurse, Nancy, sent Peyton an e-mail last week suggesting that she arrive with a list of questions she wants to ask the ob-gyn. So far, Peyton has come up with only one that’s not entirely inappropriate: how does Dr. Lombardo feel about home deliveries?
    The more she’s read—and the more time she spends with her support group—the more interested she is in that particular topic. There’s something reassuring about going through a traumatic experience like childbirth right in your own home, surrounded by familiar things and familiar faces.
    Familiar faces . . .
    As she walks downtown, Peyton finds herself scanning the crowded sidewalks for another glimpse of one familiar face in particular.
    Every so often she looks over her shoulder, feeling as though somebody is watching her. Which is ridiculous. Odds are, she’ll never see Tom again.
    Not necessarily, she can almost hear Allison saying.
    As her friend pointed out in the restaurant when Peyton told her about her initial meeting with Tom, sometimes New York is a smaller town than legitimate small towns.
    “You’ll probably run into him again in your neighborhood. Or maybe where you least expect it,” Allison informed her, and went on to tell Peyton about how she once found herself sharing a subway car with her ex-mother-in-law.
    “The thing about this city is that its boundaries are relatively small, and people are absolutely everywhere,” Allison said. “You’re bound to cross paths with everyone in town, sooner or later.”
    Peyton doesn’t know about that theory. She’s never run into, say, the mayor. Or any of her favorite local movie stars. Or her ex-boyfriend Gil Blaney.
    She’s heard through the Talbot Corners grapevine that he’s living and working in midtown Manhattan. In fact, both her mother and Peyton’s old friend Caroline, with whom she exchanges e-mails, have mentioned recently that Gil would love to hear from her. Peyton’s mother even mentioned that he had called there last Christmas, hoping she was home for the holiday. He asked for her phone number, but Mom didn’t feel comfortable giving it to him.
    “I know how much he hurt you,” she told Peyton. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to speak to him ever again, but I took his number for you anyway, just in case.”
    Peyton still has it, scribbled on the back of a bill envelope and stuffed into her desk drawer. Just in case.
    It wouldn’t be so horrible to talk to Gil. Or even see him. Presumably, he spends most of his time a stone’s throw from her own apartment and office, but their paths have yet to cross by chance.
    Sometimes, out of sheer nostalgia, Peyton is tempted to pick up the phone and give him a call. Yes, she thinks, as she spots the Baby Blue down the block