“Okay, then why do you need me so badly? My shift lasts another few hours, and the dinner rush is always crazy. If your issue can wait, I will—”
“I can’t get into it on the phone, Bee. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t necessary.” I gazed at the now flailing baby. To try to soothe her, I rocked the boat back and forth with my foot. She fussed just a bit less. “Just get here as soon as you can. Please.”
“All right. Let me talk to Mitch. I’ll see if someone can cover for me.”
“Thanks.” I gripped the phone. “You don’t know how much I appreciate this.”
But she would soon. Because there was no way in hell I could solve this situation alone.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can. You’re home?” I could practically hear the frown in her voice. “With a baby?”
“Yes. Thanks again.” I clicked off before she could ask more questions.
She always asked questions. There were seasoned journalists, and then there were the Ramos women, who could ferret out the truth faster than any TV correspondent. But tonight, I wouldn’t be hiding anything.
I nudged the boat with my socked foot again. I really needed that beer now, but I had to be one-hundred percent lucid to deal with a baby.
God help me.
The kid kept crying so I wiped my sweaty palms on my uniform pants—I hadn’t even had a chance to change after work—and dug through the basket that had contained the baby. My fingers brushed the folded note again, and I bypassed it to dig through the folds of the nearly threadbare blanket. I let out a relieved breath when I found a small bottle, half full. I lifted it and checked the level again while my gut tightened. Less than half.
What kind of mother had this baby been sacked with anyway?
One like your own.
“Here, here.” My voice sounded scratchy and not at all like my own as I crouched beside the boat. “Look what I have. Your blanket and your bottle.” I held it up while the kid sobbed. “Baba?” I ventured, trying to recall things women said to infants in the café.
She seemed unimpressed, or else did not speak my language.
Since I lived in Baby Central, USA, you would assume I’d have a better handle on what to do with a child. You’d be wrong. I’d been single for a long time, barring a weekend last winter, and I didn’t spend a lot of time with my friends with babies. Gideon and Macy had just cranked one out, but they were nesting these days. I hadn’t made it over there for family dinner since right after Michael was born.
And he was a boy. I knew what to do with that variety.
At least I had the same damn parts.
This one was so female and pink. So small and wrinkly and whiny.
Not that I blamed her. She must’ve been so cold outside. Snow was threatening, as it did all the time here from approximately November until April. Sometimes until May in a particularly heinous year.
Here I’d taken away her blanket, such as it was. There was even a hole in the hem, and it wasn’t clean.
And none of that mattered right now.
I set her bottle on the floor, since that was of no interest to her at the moment. I could only hope the milk inside was fresh.
“Here you go,” I said in that same scratchy, gruff tone as I tucked the blanket around her.
She fussed even more, raising her arms, but I went with instinct and pinned them down against her sides. For a minute, I was fairly certain my so-called instinct was really my chili dog from lunch kicking back on me, because she certainly didn’t seem calmer. Then I grabbed her bottle and held it to her mouth, feeling like the biggest dolt ever. Lo and behold, her tiny pink mouth screwed up, and she finally stopped crying long enough to suck.
My brief elation that I obviously was a natural at this stuff faded when she turned her head away and spit up all over the blanket I hadn’t wanted to give her in the first place.
Quickly, I set aside the bottle and tugged up the blanket before taking it right over to the trash. I had to have something better than that to put her in. I glanced back at her before darting a look toward the stairs. If I