Dance Away with Me - Susan Elizabeth Phillips Page 0,55

edge of the counter with one hand and made herself breathe. Wren smelled like sour milk. She snatched a paper towel, wetted it, and did her best to clean her up.

Wren gazed at her with those big navy eyes. Her mouth quivered. Her forehead wrinkled. “No!” Tess whispered. “No, sweetie, no. Please. No crying.”

Tess put the baby to her shoulder and jiggled her, using the two-in-the-morning move that sometimes soothed her. “Have I ever asked anything of you? Have I?” she whispered into the top of her fuzzy, dark hair. “Anytime other than in the middle of the night?” She heard voices in the living room. Ian had let them in.

Wren’s legs and spine stiffened, and her whimper grew louder. “Not now. Please, not now . . .”

The baby let out a window-rattling wail.

A woman shot into the kitchen. She had to be in her sixties, but she looked younger. Warm, blond highlights shone in her jaw-length bob. Her makeup was perfect—neither too little nor too much. She wore precisely tailored white slacks with a crisp black shell, a chunky silver and jet necklace, and a youthful denim jacket. Although she wasn’t a tall woman, the three-inch heels on her strappy nude booties brought her to a respectable height.

“Is that her?” The question was rhetorical because the woman was already reaching forward, arms outstretched, ready to snatch the squalling baby from Tess’s arms. “Oh, sweetheart . . .”

Tess was allowed to call Wren “sweetheart,” but not this slender, Chicos-wearing, pathetic excuse for a grandmother. Where was the curly gray hair, the pillowy breasts, the scent of cookies baking? This sleek, new operating system was an insult to cozy grandmothers everywhere.

“May I hold her?” the woman asked.

No, you may not! “She’s a little upset right now.” Tess clutched her tighter.

“Of course.”

Wren took in this new face and immediately stopped crying. You little traitor.

The woman’s eyes filled. “She looks just like Simon’s baby pictures.” A tear made a miniwaterfall over the bottom edge of her mascaraed lashes. “Same eyes. Same mouth.”

A man appeared. With his smooth-shaven jaw, curly salt-and-pepper hair, and preppy clothes, he looked as though he’d come straight from the golf course. “Jeff Denning,” he said to Tess with an obnoxiously friendly nod. “You’ve met my wife, Diane. And who do we have here?”

“Her name is Wren,” Tess said, although neither of them seemed to be listening.

Another tear slipped down the Stepford Grandmother’s cheek. “Look at her, Jeff. She looks like Simon. And her nose. That’s your nose.”

“Don’t wish my nose on her,” he said with a smile.

“You have a great nose.” His wife didn’t take her eyes off the baby.

Only the most despicable human being would refuse to hand Wren over to these two youthful, athletic, smitten grandparents. Tess clutched the baby more tightly.

A set of familiar arms swept in and scooped up the baby. “I’m sure you’d like to hold her.” Ian set Wren in Diane’s arms.

Tess hated them. Hated him. All he’d wanted to do from the beginning was get rid of Wren. These two could have been human traffickers, and he’d have handed her over. Okay, maybe not human traffickers, but the point was, he didn’t care. Not like Tess did. Not even close.

Wren nestled in her grandmother’s arms, her fussiness gone, totally content. Diane sniffed, the end of her nose beginning to turn red. “We never expected this. Simon’s our only child, and he’s been so adamant about never marrying or having children.”

“He got one out of two right,” Tess muttered.

Ian grabbed her by the arm and steered her toward the door. “Why don’t we go in the living room where we can be more comfortable?”

“I’m not turning her over to them,” Tess hissed so only he could hear.

Ian gave her arm a warning squeeze.

Behind them, Jeff was glued to his wife’s side. “Are you going to hog that baby all day?”

“Yes, I am. You know how long I’ve dreamed of having a grandchild. You’re not getting a turn until I say.”

It was the kind of fond exchange that long-married couples did best.

Diane walked toward the windows. Wren was mesmerized by the glittering silver in her grandmother’s chunky necklace. “Look at her arms,” Diane said. “I’ll bet she’s going to be a swimmer like Simon.”

Tess heard one of Wren’s baby coos, as if she couldn’t wait to jump in the pool. What a suck-up.

Jeff had gone to the windows with his wife but glanced over at them to explain. “Simon was on a very competitive