to need Shana on speed dial. He glanced at the clock and let out a sigh.
This was going to be a long, long night.
* * *
Carrie slammed the apartment door behind her and slid down behind it. Her mind was on a spin cycle. She couldn’t think a single rational thought right now.
What Dan must think of her.
She tried to take some slow, deep breaths. Anything to stop her heart clamouring in her chest. Anything to stop the cold prickle across her shoulder blades.
She sagged her head into her hands. Calm down. Calm down.
This was ridiculous. Avoiding babies for the past year was one thing. Body-swerving pregnant friends and brand-new mothers was almost understandable.
But this wasn’t. She had to stop with the self-pity. She had to get some perspective here.
What would she have done if Dan hadn’t been in the building?
There was no way she would have left that baby on the doorstep. No matter how hard the task of looking after him.
And if she’d phoned the police department and they couldn’t send anyone out? What would she have done then?
She lifted her head from her hands. She would have had a five-minute panic. A five-minute feeling of this can’t be happening to me.
Then what?
There was a creeping realisation in her brain. She pushed herself back up the door. Her breathing easing, her heartbeat steadying.
Then she would have sucked it up. She would have sucked it up and got on with it.
Because that was what any responsible adult would do.
She strode over to the bedroom, shedding her dressing gown and bed socks and pulling her pyjama top over her head. She found the bra she’d discarded earlier and fastened it back in place, pulling on some skinny jeans and a pink T-shirt.
Her pink baseball boots were in the bottom of her cupboard and she pushed her feet into them.
There. She was ready.
But her stomach started to flutter again.
The light in the bathroom flickered. Was the light bulb going to blow again? Which it seemed to do with an annoying regularity. She walked inside and ran the tap, splashing some cold water over her face.
She stared into the mirror, watching the drops of water drip off her face. Dan would have labelled her a nutjob by now. He probably wouldn’t want her help any more.
But the expression on his face was imprinted on her brain. He’d looked stunned. As if he couldn’t understand—but he wanted to.
She picked up the white towel next to the sink and dried off her face. Her make-up was right next to her. Should she put some on? Like some camouflage? Would it help her face him again?
Her fingers hesitated over the make-up bag. It was late at night. She’d been barefaced and in her pyjamas. He wouldn’t expect anything else.
But it might give her the courage she needed. It might make her feel as if she had some armour to face the world.
She pulled out some mascara and a little cream blusher, rubbing some on to her cheeks and then a touch on her lips. There. She was ready.
She crossed the room in long strides before any doubts could creep into place. There was no point in locking her apartment door. She would only be down two flights of stairs.
She placed her hand on the balustrade, ready to go down, and then halted. The television was booming from the apartment across the hall. Mrs Van Dyke.
The neighbour she’d only glimpsed in passing and never spoken to. The neighbour who might have some baby supplies they could use.
She hesitated and then knocked loudly on the door. ‘Mrs Van Dyke? It’s Carrie from across the hall. Daniel Cooper sent me up.’
She waited a few minutes, imagining it might take the little old lady some time to get out of her chair and over to the door—praying she’d actually heard her above the theme tune from Murder, She Wrote.
She could hear the creaking of the floorboards and then the door opened and the old wizened face stared out at her. Oh, boy. She really could be six hundred years old.
‘And what do you want, young lady?’
Carrie jerked back a little. She had such a strong, authoritative voice, it almost reminded her of her old headmistress back in London.
She took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs Van Dyke, but we found a baby on the doorstep and Dan said you might be able to help.’
As the words tumbled out of her mouth she knew she could have phrased it better. If this old dear keeled over in shock it would be all her fault.
But Mrs Van Dyke was obviously made of sterner stuff.
‘Oh, dear. What a terrible thing to happen. What does Dan need?’
Just like that. No beating about the bush. No preamble. Just straight to the point. Wonderful.
‘We got some things from Mr Meltzer’s store. He opened it specially to help out. We’ve got nappies—I mean, diapers—and pacifiers and bottles and milk.’
There was a gleam of amusement in the old lady’s eyes. ‘Just as well. I doubt I would have had any of those.’
Carrie shook her head. ‘Of course. I mean—what we don’t have is any baby clothes. Or any clean blankets. Do you have anything like that? Dan wondered if you might have some things packed away.’
Mrs Van Dyke nodded slowly and opened the door a little wider. ‘I might have a few things that you can use, but most of them will be at the back of my cupboards. Come in, and I’ll see what I can do.’
Carrie stepped into the apartment and stifled her surprise. ‘Wow. What a nice place you have here.’
Clutter. Everywhere.
The floor was clear, but that was pretty much it.
There was no getting away from it—Mrs Van Dyke was clearly a hoarder.
She gave a smile and stepped further, keeping her elbows tight in against her sides for fear of tipping something off one of the tables or shelves next to her.
On second thoughts, Mrs Van Dyke wasn’t your typical hoarder. Not the kind you saw on TV with twelve skips outside their house so it could be emptied by environmental health.
There were no piles of papers, magazines or mail. In fact, the only newspaper she could see was clearly deposited in the trash. And all the surfaces in the apartment sparkled. There was no dust anywhere. Just...clutter. Things. Ornaments. Pictures. Photo frames. Wooden carvings. Tiny dolls. Ceramics. The place was full of them.
No wonder Dan had thought she might have something they could use.
‘They’re mementos. They’re not junk. Everything holds a memory that’s special to me, or my family.’
Carrie jumped. Mrs Van Dyke seemed to move up silently behind her. Had she been so obvious with her staring?
‘Of course not,’ she said quickly.
Mrs Van Dyke picked up the nearest ornament. ‘My husband used to carve things. This one he gave me on our first anniversary. A perfect rose.’
Carrie bent down and looked closely. It really was a thing of beauty. She couldn’t even see the marks where the wood had been whittled away—it was perfectly smooth.
‘It’s beautiful.’
Mrs Van Dyke nodded. ‘Yes, it is.’ She walked slowly through the apartment, pointing as she went. ‘This was the globe he bought me at Coney Island. This was a china plate of my grandmother’s—all the way from Holland.