Baby In The Making

She bit her lip thoughtfully, a gesture that was slightly—surprisingly—erotic. “I’m not allowed to take tips.”

“Oh, c’mon. I don’t see Leo or Monty around.”

“Mr. Cathcart is on a buying trip to London,” she said. “And Mr. Quinn is at lunch.”

“Then they’ll never know.”

She expelled the kind of sigh someone makes when they know they’re breaking the rules but they badly need cash for something. Yeager was intrigued. What could Ms. Goody Two-shoes Hannah need money for that would make her break the rules?

With clear reluctance she said, “I can’t. I’m sorry. I just don’t have time to do it here—we’re so backlogged.” Before he could protest, she hurried on. “However, I happen to know a seamstress who does freelance work at home. She’s very good.”

Yeager shook his head. “No way. I don’t trust anyone with my clothes but you.”

“No, you don’t understand, Mr. Novak. I guarantee you’ll like this woman’s work. I know her intimately.”

“But—”

“You could even say that she and I are one of a kind. If you know what I mean.”

She eyed him pointedly. And after a moment, Yeager understood. Hannah was the one who did freelance work at home. “Gotcha.”

“If you happened to do a search on Craigslist for, say, ‘Sunnyside seamstress,’ she’d be the first listing that pops up. Ask if she can make you a shirt by next week for the same price you’d pay here, and I guarantee she’ll be able to do it.”

Yeager grabbed his phone from his pocket and pulled up Craigslist. He should have known Hannah would live in Sunnyside. It was the closest thing New York had to Small Town America.

“Found you,” he said.

She frowned at him.

“I mean...found her.”

“Send her an email from that listing. I’m sure she’ll reply when she gets home from work tonight.”

He was already typing when he said, “Great. Thanks.”

“But you’ll have to pick it up at my—I mean, her place,” she told him. “She can’t bring it here, and she doesn’t deliver.”

“No problem.”

He sent the email then returned his phone to one pocket as he tugged his wallet from another. He withdrew five twenties from the ten he always had on him and placed them on the counter. Hannah’s eyes widened at the gesture, but she discreetly palmed the bills and tucked them into her pocket.

Even so, she asked, “Don’t you want to wait until you have the extra shirt?”

He shook his head. “I trust you.”

“Thanks.”

“No, thank you. That was my favorite shirt. It will be nice to have a spare. Not that I’ll be letting any sharks near my clothes, but you never know when you’ll meet another Jimena.”

She nodded, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t in understanding. Someone like her probably wouldn’t let a lover that spontaneous and temporary get anywhere near her. She was way too buttoned-up, battened-down and straitlaced for idle encounters, regardless of how beautiful her eyes were or how erotically she bit her lip. Hannah, he was certain, only dated the same kind of upright, forthright, do-right person she was. To Yeager, that would be a fate worse than death.

“I’ll see you in a week,” he said, lifting a hand in farewell.

As he made his way to the door, he heard her call after him, “Have a great day, Mr. Novak! And remember to look both ways before you cross the street!”

* * *

A week later—the day Yeager was scheduled to pick up his new shirt at her apartment, in fact—Hannah was in the back room of Cathcart and Quinn, collecting fabric remnants to take home with her. Everyone else had gone for the day, and she was counting the minutes until she could begin closing up shop, when the store’s entrance bell rang to announce a customer. Hoping it would just be someone picking up an alteration, she headed out front.

She didn’t recognize the man at the register, but he had the potential to become a client, judging by his bespoke suit from... Aponte’s, she decided. It looked like Paolo’s work. The man’s blond hair was cut with razor-precision, his eyes were cool and keen, and his smile was this just side of dispassionate.

“Hello,” Hannah greeted him as she approached. “May I help you?”

“Hannah Robinson?” he asked. Her surprise that he knew her must have been obvious, because he quickly added, “My name is Gus Fiver. I’m an attorney with Tarrant, Fiver and Twigg. We’re a probate law firm here in Manhattan.”

His response only surprised her more. She didn’t have a will herself, and she knew no one who might have included her in one. Her lack of connections was what had landed her in the foster care system as a three-year-old, after her mother died with no surviving relatives or friends to care for her. And although Hannah hadn’t had any especially horrible experiences in the system, she could safely say she’d never met anyone there who would remember her in their last wishes. There was no reason a probate attorney should know her name or where she worked.

“Yes,” she said cautiously. “I’m Hannah Robinson.”

Gus Fiver’s smile grew more genuine at her response. In a matter of seconds he went from being a high-powered Manhattan attorney to an affable boy next door. The change made Hannah feel a little better.

“Excellent,” he said. Even his voice was warmer now.

“I’m sorry, but how do you know me?” she asked.

“My firm has been looking for you since the beginning of the year. And one of our clients was looking for you long before then.”

“I don’t understand. Why would anyone be looking for me? Especially when I’m not that hard to find?”

Instead of answering her directly he said, “You did most of your growing up in the foster care system, yes?”

Hannah was so stunned he would know that about her—few of her friends even knew—that she could only nod.

“You entered the program when you were three, I believe, after your mother, Mary Robinson, died.”

Her stomach knotted at the realization that he would know about her past so precisely. But she automatically replied, “Yes.”

“And do you remember what your life was like prior to that?”

“Mr. Fiver, what’s this about?”

Instead of explaining he said, “Please, just bear with me for a moment, Ms. Robinson.”

Hannah didn’t normally share herself with other people until she’d known them for some time, and even then, there were barriers it took a while for most people to breach. But there was something about Gus Fiver that told her it was okay to trust him. To a point.

So she told him, “I only have a few vague memories. I know my mother was a bookkeeper for a welding company on Staten Island and that that’s where she and I were living when she died. But I only know that because that’s what I’ve been told. I don’t have any mementos or anything. Everything she owned was sold after her death, and what was left in her estate after it was settled was put into trust for me until I turned eighteen and was booted out of the system.”

Not that there had been much, but it had allowed Hannah to start life on her own without a lot of the stress she would have had otherwise, and she’d been enormously grateful for it.