Lullaby and Goodnight by Wendy Corsi Staub Page A

close, there’s a network of fine lines around his blue eyes and his smile. He’s gotten older. Not old, just older.
    Well, so has she.
    Time is running out.
    The ominous thought strikes out of nowhere. Why?
    Time might be rushing by, but it certainly isn’t running out. She’s getting older, yes, but that doesn’t mean her life is drawing to a close. In so many ways, it’s just beginning.
    â€œAre you okay?” Gil asks, putting a hand beneath her elbow as the hostess beckons.
    â€œSure. I’m fine,” Peyton assures him, trying to shake the strange, sudden sense of foreboding.
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    The phone rings, and it has to be him. He must have got the latest message by now.
    Yes, this time, it has to be him.
    But it isn’t. It’s a telemarketer.
    A rude, pushy telemarketer who deserves to be cursed at and disconnected with an abrupt click.
    When the line is tied up, nobody else can call. He can’t call.
    Then again, how can he, when he’s busy with her?
    It isn’t that he wants to be with her. It’s all part of the little game, remember? He doesn’t really feel anything for her. You’re the one he cares about.
    Sometimes, it just doesn’t feel that way. Sometimes, it feels as though he’s really gone.
    Abandonment.
    Lately, this life feels as empty as a hollow womb.
    Yet the work goes on, as it must. Donors and parents have been selected; babies are coming into the world. The donors must be punished and eliminated, the parents established and blessed.
    Now that it’s resumed, this important work, this vocation, can go on forever, if necessary.
    But it all depends on him.
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    The restaurant is typical Chelsea: high-beamed ceilings, exposed brick, wide-planked floors. What it isn’t, at least not today, is crowded. Perhaps it’s the weather, or maybe this place just isn’t as busy on weekends. In any case, the candlelit far reaches of the cavernous space could almost conceivably be romantic and intimate.
    â€œIs this okay?” the hostess asks, leading them to a large booth in the corner.
    It isn’t as far as Peyton is concerned, but Gil assures the hostess that it is.
    He motions for her to slide into the curved seat and she does, careful not to bump her stomach against anything.
    A regular table would have been better. At least at a table they’d be sitting on opposite sides, a safe distance from each other. Here, they’re forced to sit ridiculously close, the only way to have a conversation without speaking across an unreasonable expanse of table.
    â€œSo,” Gil says, once they have menus in hand, “it’s about time you called me.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” She knows exactly what he means. But it’s something to say.
    â€œIt took you long enough to get in touch. When I found out you’ve been living here for years—”
    â€œOnly a few,” she amends, glancing wistfully at the wine list, the laminated page trembling in her hands. What she wouldn’t give for a nerve-calming glass of that California Pinot Grigio. She’s still feeling vaguely uneasy, and it isn’t just about having brunch with an old flame.
    Or is it?
    There are times lately when Peyton feels almost like a squatter in somebody else’s body. This pregnancy has changed her profoundly, in ways she never expected. She’s more emotional, less secure. More . . . paranoid. She finds herself scanning the restaurant again, looking for the nameless, faceless something she senses lurking nearby.
    â€œBut you should have called when you knew you were coming to New York,” Gil is saying, and she forces her attention back to the conversation. “I would have helped you get settled, shown you the ropes . . .”
    â€œThanks, but I managed to negotiate the ropes and get settled all by my little self,” she assures him, wondering how she could have forgotten about the faint scar beside his