Baby 101

“I haven’t exactly had time to send out engraved announcements.” The baby screamed. Dylan Van Zandt didn’t budge, just stood there stiff and unmoving.

Lana leaned the baseball bat against the door frame, tucked the little flashlight into her pocket, and held out her arms. “Let me have him.”

“What?”

“I said let me have him. He’s probably afraid you’re going to drop him.” She wiggled her fingers. “Come here, sweetheart.”

Still frowning, Dylan let her take the child. The infant was tiny, a newborn, light as a feather in her arms. Where is his mother? She wanted to ask but didn’t. Instead she cuddled him against her breast, one hand under his bottom, one hand gently patting his back. He didn’t stop crying. His legs were drawn stiffly up against his belly, his face screwed into a scowl that was a perfect match for his father’s.

Dylan Van Zandt stood aside and let her precede him into the apartment. And it was a residence, not unused office space as the real estate agent had led her to believe. The ceilings were high, with ornate plaster cornices. A small marble fireplace graced one wall. Light streamed onto the hardwood floor, dulled by years of neglect, from long windows that looked onto Kings Avenue. The room was empty except for half a dozen cardboard packing boxes piled in the middle.

“This way.” Dylan Van Zandt gestured toward another doorway. It led into the kitchen, Lana discovered. Green and white thirties-era linoleum covered the floor. Glass-fronted cupboards reached to the ceiling above a granite countertop. The refrigerator was so old it had a round compressor on the top, but it was humming away. The gas stove belonged in a museum. A brand-new microwave oven was on the counter, probably because the gas had been shut off up here years ago. She wondered if the water was also shut off. There was no way he could take care of a baby properly with no water and no heat or air-conditioning, although it was surprisingly cool in the big high-ceilinged rooms.

The kitchen was long and narrow. A small table and two chairs sat in one corner. An overstuffed recliner, a man’s chair, held pride of place by the window. Beside it an end table held a lamp, a combination radio and CD player and long metal tubes that looked as if they contained blueprints or architect’s drawings. The bathroom was directly ahead of her. She could see the corner of a claw-footed tub and a pedestal sink with a black leather shaving kit on the rim. The only baby items in view were a diaper bag and a glass bottle of formula with a screw-on nipple top like the ones they gave new mothers when they left the hospital. And a top-of-the-line infant carrier, draped with yellow and blue blankets.

“He doesn’t like you holding him any better than he does me,” Dylan said over his son’s continuing screams. He was standing behind her, and she couldn’t tell if she heard frustration or anger in his tone.

She turned. “He’s colicky. Does he cry like this often?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I…I haven’t been around him that much. He’s only been out of the hospital two weeks. He was a preemie. He weighed three and a half pounds when he was born.”

Lana took a closer look at the baby. “How old is he now?”

“Ten weeks.”

“He’s so tiny.” The sound of her voice penetrated the infant’s self-absorbed misery. He opened cornflower blue eyes and stared at her for a long moment while Lana held her breath. He was the most beautiful baby she’d ever seen. Perfect little ears, creamy skin, a button nose and silky hair the color of winter sunshine.

He didn’t look anything like the dark-haired, hawk-nosed man in front of her. Maybe he had kidnapped the child, after all.

“What do you do for colic?” Dylan was asking her.

“What?”

“How do I stop him from crying?”

“You really don’t know anything about babies, do you?”

“No.” There was no smile, no self-effacing shrug to soften the denial.

What if he was a kidnapper, after all? Maybe he was in the middle of a nasty custody battle with the child’s mother. It happened. You read about it all the time. What had she gotten herself into? Lana looked at his hands. He was wearing a plain gold wedding band. He caught her looking at him. Followed the path of her gaze. Something of what she was thinking must have shown on her face.

“My mom’s been taking care of him. She fell and fractured her ankle yesterday putting up curtains in the nursery. She had to have surgery on it. She’s going to be laid up for at least six weeks.”

“Where’s the baby’s mother? Where’s your wife?” Lana asked, whispering to avoid upsetting the baby.

Dylan Van Zandt didn’t meet her eyes. He looked past her at something or someone she couldn’t see. His eyes were storm-cloud gray, she saw, bleak as the hill-country sky after a December rain. “She’s dead,” he said, not a trace of emotion evident in his words or his voice. “She died two months ago. Ten days after our son was born.”

CHAPTER TWO

HE SHOULDN’T HAVE blurted it out that way. Her eyes were as big as saucers. Her grip on Greg tightened perceptibly. For a moment he thought she was going to turn and run, taking his son with her. He saw the thought flash behind her green-gold eyes, then vanish as quickly as it came.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I…I don’t know what to say.”

“There’s nothing you can say.” She had guts, he’d give her that. Climbing that dark stairway, confronting him with nothing but a baseball bat. He could have been some criminal. A kidnapper, a drug dealer—a wife killer.

“How did it happen?” she asked. The baby squirmed against her shoulder, as though trying to get closer. She laid her cheek against the top of his fuzzy head and swayed gently the way Dylan had seen his mother do. Greg quit squirming, and his cries trailed off to whimpers. When he didn’t answer right away she said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be asking such a personal question.”

Dylan raked a hand through his hair. “It’s okay. It was a car accident. She was on her way to the hospital to visit Greg.” And to get away from me. Best leave that thought unspoken. Technically he’d been miles away when the accident occurred, but in a way he had killed Jessie, with his accusations and his lack of trust.

“How terrible.” The baby stiffened and began to howl again. “Poor little tyke.”

“Is he hungry? Would a bottle help?” He had no idea what it was the scrap of humanity he called his son wanted.

She shook her head, moved to the table and set Greg in his carrier. She took one little foot in each hand and stretched his legs out, then pushed them back against his body. She kept doing that, stretching and bending, and after a minute or so his son quit crying. He gave a hiccuping burp, answered with the same sound from his diapered end. A blissful look came over his pinched features. “Now you feel better, don’t you, little one.” She held out her hand, and Greg grabbed on to her finger as though he’d never let go. “Got rid of all that nasty gas. Yes, that’s better. I’ll bet you’re hungry, too, aren’t you, Greggy?” She looked at Dylan and almost smiled. “You did call him Greg, didn’t you?”

“Yes. He’s named for his uncle. My best friend. I…I have a bottle all ready to go.” Dylan rushed to the fridge, afraid if he hesitated Greg would start crying again. He put the small bottle of special formula in the microwave, remembering to take the nipple off. He hadn’t last night, and it had melted enough to clog the hole. Greg hadn’t been able to get anything to eat, and he’d worked himself into a frenzy before Dylan figured out what was wrong and got a new nipple. “It’ll be ready in a minute. He eats every two hours, around the clock. If he’s not screaming to beat the band, that is.”

“Such a little tummy,” Lana crooned, tickling his son there. Her hair, the color of cinnamon and nutmeg, brushed against her cheek, soft and shining. He liked the way she wore it smooth and simply cut. Her makeup was simple, too, lipstick and a little mascara, not much more. Her skin was peaches and cream, she had a nice body. He wouldn’t have been a man if he hadn’t noticed that right off. Her breasts pushed against the silky apple-green blouse she wore. Her waist was small, her hips rounded. Her voice softened, the crisp boarding-school accent she’d used before melting away into the softened vowels and dropped gs of a native Texan. “It has to be filled so you get big and strong. Then your daddy will start callin’ you Bubba and hopin’ for football scholarships to come wing-in’ your way.”

Dylan set his jaw. That’s exactly what he had fantasized when Jessie first told him she was pregnant, back when he had no doubts at all that Greg was his child. But no more. Now it was hard for him to say the words my son. He thrust the bottle at her. “Here’s his formula.”

“Don’t you want to feed him?”

“Do you want him to start crying again?”

If she was startled by the harshness in his voice, she didn’t show it. “You really are new at this, aren’t you?”

“I’ve never had anything to do with a baby this small. I’ve got two nieces and two nephews, but they were big strapping Bubba babies.” He tried for a smile and hoped he got it on straight.

“This one’s no different.” She took the bottle, then set it on the table. She picked Greg up and handed him over.

“Here, take him. Show me your stuff.”

“What?”

“Show me how you feed him.”

“I…” What the hell did she think she was doing? She had no business ordering him around like this. He was about to tell her so when he thought better of it. Greg was his sole responsibility, at least until his mom was up and around again. He set his jaw and did as she demanded, feeling big and clumsy and self-conscious. Greg stiffened as soon as Dylan touched him. His eyes snapped shut, and his face puckered into a scowl. “He’s going to start crying again.”

Lana sighed. “Here, let me show you. Like this. Loosen up.” She touched his arm lightly. He felt the warmth of her fingers through the sleeve of his shirt, felt the connection all the way to the marrow of his bones.

“I’ll drop him.” She didn’t seem to be affected by the contact.

“No, you won’t. Just pretend he’s a football and you’re a running back.”