Lullaby and Goodnight by Wendy Corsi Staub Page B

eyebrow, courtesy of a childhood playground accident. For all the time he’s crossed her mind these past two decades, she never remembered the scar. Never remembered how she used to touch it gently with her fingertip before kissing it.
    â€œYou always were big on figuring things out on your own. You never liked me to do anything for you. Or anybody else, for that matter.”
    â€œI never cared what you did for anybody else, Gil. And it’s a good thing, because you were quite the good-deed doer back then.”
    He laughs. “I meant that you never wanted anybody else doing anything for you, either. You had it stuck in your head that accepting help—or God forbid, asking for it—was weak. I guess nothing has changed with you.”
    If you only knew, she thinks, resisting the urge to rest her hand on her stomach.
    â€œNot in that respect,” she says aloud. “Tell me about your life. Wife, kids, job . . . ?”
    â€œJob is great. I’m an analyst now. Kids are great. Josie’s twelve, Randy’s eight. I’d show you pictures, but I didn’t bring them.”
    â€œYou mean you don’t carry them around in your wallet?” She thinks of the sonogram stills in her purse.
    He shakes his head. “I guess I’m a bad daddy.”
    â€œWell, I would have loved to see them.”
    â€œNext time.”
    Next time? As far as Peyton is concerned, this is a onetime event.
    â€œDo they look like you?” she asks.
    A shadow crosses his eyes. “Not really. They—”
    The waiter appears to recite a list of specials and ask if he can get them started with Bloody Marys or mimosas.
    â€œI’ll stick with coffee,” Peyton says. “Decaf.”
    â€œOh, come on, live a little.” Gil looks at the waiter. “We’ll have the mimosas. And I’d like to select the champagne.”
    â€œWait, Gil, no. Seriously, I just want decaf,” she tells the waiter, who, to her absolute irritation, looks at Gil as if for confirmation.
    â€œShe’ll have decaf. And I’ll have regular. With a splash of Bailey’s.”
    â€œIn both?”
    Unlike the waiter, Gil looks expectantly at Peyton.
    â€œJust plain decaf, thanks.”
    The waiter leaves.
    â€œYou’re no fun, Runt.”
    Hearing the old familiar nickname, Peyton is transported instantly to the day they first met, back in grade school. He was throwing a tennis ball against the brick wall behind the gym and it bounced away, over his head, just as she was walking by.
    â€œHey, Runt,” he called, “can you get that for me?”
    They laughed about it later—about her indignation that he assumed she was younger than him just because he was a whole head taller. In truth, he was a whole head taller than everybody their age, having inherited the notorious Blaney height genes.
    Not to mention the notorious Blaney fondness for Irish cream, and Irish whiskey, she thinks, shaking her head with a smile.
    â€œWhat?” he asks.
    â€œIt’s not that I’m no fun, Stretch.” The last word rolls off her tongue as effortlessly as Runt rolled off his.
    Runt and Stretch. The pet names lasted as long as their romance did. How could she have forgotten?
    She says lightly, “It’s just that you’re such the party boy that next to you, normal fun-loving people seem dull.”
    â€œYou weren’t opposed to a little cocktail back in the day, as I recall.”
    â€œWe were underage back in the day, remember? It was forbidden contraband. Now that I’m all grown up . . .”
    â€œThe formerly forbidden stuff isn’t half as much fun, right?” he asks with a spark in his eye that tells her he isn’t just talking about liquor.
    Gil always was a flirt. So was she. But things are different now. Vastly different.
    â€œYour wife,” Peyton says abruptly.
    â€œMy wife? What about her?”
    â€œHow is she?”
    â€œI