You Don't Want To Know - By Lisa Jackson Page 0,37

brother, Kelvin, had always occupied at family gatherings. Of course he was missing, his chair occupied by Clay Inman, who was an associate of Wyatt’s, a junior partner in the firm. Inman’s family lived somewhere in North Carolina, if she remembered right, and he’d had nowhere else to celebrate the holidays. He’d innocently taken Kelvin’s chair. No one save Ava, or perhaps Jewel-Anne, who had caught her eye at one point during the meal, had seemed to notice.

By nine o’clock, Noah had become cranky and she’d carried him upstairs, rocking him a bit and placing him in his crib.

“No,” he’d objected, and pointed a finger at the twin bed that had been delivered just that week.

“I don’t know . . .”

“Big bed, Mommy!”

“Okay, okay.” She’d given in, a mistake she’d regretted immediately. “But you go to sleep.”

She’d tucked him in and waited in the rocker as he’d closed his eyes, feigning sleep. Then he’d opened one eye again.

“Sleep,” she’d repeated firmly, and settled into the rocker.

Twenty minutes later, he’d given it up and was breathing regularly. Ava had gotten up from the creaking rocker, leaned over the twin bed, and whispered, “Merry Christmas, big guy,” as she’d brushed his dark curls from his forehead and planted a gentle kiss upon its soft skin. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

He’d offered up the ghost of a smile though his eyelids were closed, sooty lashes lying upon his cheeks. She remembered stopping at the door and looking over her shoulder to double-check that his blanket was covering his body and the night-light was glowing softly under the window situated between his crib and bed.

Her heart ached as she thought of that last, final glimpse she’d had of her son. The pain was palpable and she picked up the pencil again, twisting it anxiously as the memories rolled through her brain.

She’d been in a hurry.

Satisfied that Noah was asleep, she’d left his door ajar as she’d walked out of his room. Then she’d gathered the skirt of the red dress she’d bought for the occasion and hurried down the stairs to join her guests. She remembered pausing on the landing, thinking she’d heard Noah call “Mommy?” but as she’d waited, straining to listen, his little voice hadn’t drifted to her over the cacophony of sounds rising from the first floor, and she’d told herself she’d imagined it.

“There you are!” Wyatt had called up to her, and she caught sight of her husband standing at the foot of the stairs, a drink in his hand as he grinned up at her. “We’ve got guests!”

“I know, I know. I was just putting the baby to bed.”

She hurried down the rest of the stairs and said good-bye to Inman and a couple of others who had gathered near the front door, slipping into coats, scarves, and gloves before being ferried back to the mainland.

The guests came and went and she engaged in small talk and made certain that the drinks were flowing, the candles remained lit, each guest was involved in a conversation, the music never died, and her smile was clearly in place. For over an hour, no one checked on Noah. She’d had the baby monitor set up, an audio system with remote speakers in their bedroom as well as the den and morning room. They’d installed a video monitor as well, but the camera had been angled toward the crib; it hadn’t been redirected toward the twin bed because Noah hadn’t moved to it yet.

Both had proved useless. That night the audio monitor had been muted by the noise level of the party, and the camera had offered no clues. It wasn’t outfitted with a tape, and even if it had been, it was unlikely with its limited view that any image would have shown.

The guilt that had been with her since that night was still her companion.

How many times had she wished she’d returned to her son’s room?

How much mental self-flagellation and anguish had she borne thinking that she’d ignored her child when he’d called for her, when he’d needed her most? That one, stupid decision might have been the difference between . . .

She closed her eyes for a second and felt her throat thicken with the tears that were always just under the surface. No. Crying wouldn’t help. Neither would railing at the heavens.

She knew.

She’d already tried those two tacks and had beaten herself up for ignoring her heart and rushing back to Wyatt and the party . . .