The Christmas Baby Bonus. Yvonne Lindsay
the end of the garage, a door to the outside opened and then slammed shut, making her jump. What was going on? Then, from the back of the building, she heard a vehicle start up and drive away. Fast. She raced to the doorway in time to see a flicker of taillights as a small hatchback gunned it down the driveway. What? Who?
From her SUV she heard another sound. One she had no difficulty recognizing. If there was anything that made her more antsy than the festive season, it was miniature people. The sound came again, this time louder and with a great deal more distress.
Even though she’d seen the hatchback leaving, she still looked around, waiting for whomever it was who’d thought it funny to leave a child here to spring out and yell, “Surprise!” But she, and the baby, were alone. “This isn’t funny anymore,” she muttered.
It wasn’t funny to start with, she reminded herself. The blanket covering the car seat began to move as if tiny fists and feet were waving beneath it. A slip of paper pinned to the blanket crackled with the movement. With her heart hammering in her chest, Faye gently tugged the blanket down.
The baby—a boy, she guessed by the blue knitted-woolen hat he wore and the tiny, puffy blue jacket that enveloped him—looked at her with startled eyes. He was completely silent for the length of about a split second before his little face scrunched up and he let loose a giant wail.
Nausea threatened to swamp her. No, no, no! This couldn’t be happening. Every natural instinct in her body urged her to comfort the child, but fear held her back. The very thought of holding that small body to hers, of cupping that small head with the palm of her hand, of inhaling that sweet baby scent—no, she couldn’t do that again.
Faye thought quickly. She had to get the baby inside where it was warm. Babysitting might not be the holiday break Piers had been looking forward to, but he would just have to cope with it. She reached out to jiggle the car seat, hoping the movement might calm the baby down, but he wasn’t having it.
“Sorry, little man,” she said, flipping the blanket back over him to protect him from the elements outside. “But you’re going to have to go undercover until I can get you to the house.”
The paper on the blanket rustled and Faye took a second to rip it free and shove it in her pocket. She could read it later. Right now she had to get the baby where the temperature was not approaching subzero.
Again she wondered who had left the baby there. What kind of homicidal idiot did something like that? In these temperatures, he’d have died all too quickly. Another futile loss in a world full of losses, she thought bleakly. Whoever it was had waited until she’d showed, though, hadn’t they? What would they have done if she’d chosen to stay an extra night? Leave the child at the door and ring the doorbell before hightailing it down the driveway? Who would do something like that?
Whoever it was didn’t matter right now, she reminded herself. She had to get the baby to the house.
Swallowing back the queasiness that assailed her, Faye hooked the tote bag over one shoulder and then hugged the car seat close to her body, her arms wrapped firmly around the edges of the blanket so it wouldn’t fly away in the wind. She scurried across to the house, slipping a little on the driveway in shoes that were better suited to strolling the Santa Monica pier than battling winter in Wyoming, and staggered up the front stairs.
The baby didn’t let up his screaming for one darn second. She didn’t blame him. By the time she reached the front door, she felt like weeping herself. She dropped the tote at her feet and hammered on the thick wooden surface, relieved when the door swung open almost immediately.
“Car trouble?” Piers asked, filling the doorway before stepping aside and gesturing for her to enter.
“No,” she answered. “Baby trouble.”
“Baby trouble?” he repeated, looked stunned.
“That’s what I said. Someone left this in the garage. Here, take it.”
Faye thrust the car seat into his arms and pulled the door closed behind them. Damn his eyes, he’d already started the Christmas carols collection. One thousand, two hundred and forty-seven versions of every carol known to modern man and in six different languages. She knew because she’d had the torturous task of creating the compilation for him. Seriously, could her day get any worse?
Piers looked in horror at the screaming object in his arms. “What is it?”
Faye sighed and rolled her eyes. “I told you. A baby. A boy, I’d guess.”
She reached over and flipped down the blanket, exposing the baby’s red, unhappy face.
Piers looked from the baby to her in bewilderment. “But who...? What...?”
“My thoughts exactly,” Faye replied. “I don’t know who, or what, left him behind. Although I suspect it was possibly the person I caught a glimpse of speeding away in a car down the driveway. For the record, no, I did not get the license plate number. Look, I have to leave him with you, I’m running late. Oh, by the way, he came with a note.” She reached into her jacket pocket, pulled out the crumpled paper and squinted at the handwriting before putting the note on top of the blanket. “Looks like it’s addressed to you. Have fun,” she said firmly and turned to leave.
“You can’t leave me with this,” Piers protested.
“I can and I will. I’m off the clock, remember. Seriously, if you can’t cope, just call up someone from Jackson Hole. I’m sure there’ll be any number of people willing to assist you. I can’t miss my flight. I have to go.”
“I’ll double your salary. Triple it!”
Faye shook her head and resolutely turned to the door. There wasn’t enough money in the world to make her stay. With the baby’s wails ringing in her ears and a look of abject horror on her playboy boss’s face firmly embedded in her mind, she went outside.
Faye hadn’t realized she was shaking until the door closed at her back. The baby’s cries even made it through the heavy wood. Faye blinked away her own tears. She. Would. Not. Cry. Ignoring her need to provide comfort might rank up there with the hardest things she’d ever done, but at least this way no one would get hurt—especially not her. Piers had resources at his disposal; there were people constantly ready to jump at his beck and call. And if all else failed, there was always Google.
Stiffening her spine, she headed to the garage, got into her SUV and started down the drive. It might only be four in the afternoon, but with the storm it was already gloomy out. Despite the snow tires and the chains, nothing could get her used to the sensation of driving on a snow-and-ice-covered road. Nothing quite overcame that sickening, all-encompassing sense of dread that struck her every time the tires began to lose purchase—nothing quite managed to hold off the memories that came flooding back in that moment. Nothing, except perhaps the overpowering sense of reprieve when the all-wheel-drive kicked in and she knew she wasn’t going to suffer a repeat of that night.
And then, as always, came the guilt. Survivor’s guilt they called it. Thirteen years later and it still felt a lot more like punishment. It was part of why she’d chosen to live in Southern California rather than her hometown in Michigan or anyplace that got snow and ice in winter. It didn’t make the memories go away, but sunshine had a way of blurring them over time.
The sturdy SUV rocked under the onslaught of the wind and Faye’s fingers wrapped tight around the steering wheel. She should have left ages ago. Waiting a couple extra hours at the airport would have been infinitely preferable to this.
“Relax,” she told herself. “You’ve got this.”
Another gust rocked the vehicle and it slid a little in the icy conditions. Faye’s heart rate picked up a few notches and beneath her coat she felt perspiration begin to form in her armpits and under her breasts. Damn snow. Damn Piers. Damn Christmas.
And