Lullaby and Goodnight

by Wendy Corsi Staub

Genres: Women's Fiction; Thrillers; Crime Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

Hush Little Baby, Don't You Cry. . . At thirty-nine, Peyton Somerset has an enviable life, with a thriving advertising career and a beautiful Manhattan apartment. And now she's going to have the one thing she wants most--a baby. Peyton's biological clock went off just as her fiancé took off, leaving her at the altar. So Peyton's going it alone. Already, she's making plans for the little one inside her. . .buying the layette, daydreaming, and worrying over the littlest things. That's only natural. All mothers do. But Peyton has reason to worry. In fact, she has every reason to be terrified. . . Mama Won't Be Singing Any Lullabies. As the months pass, Peyton can't help feeling that something is terribly wrong. She's certain that someone has been in her apartment, that she's being followed, that someone is watching her. Maybe it's just hormonal paranoia that makes her distrust everyone around her. Or maybe her maternal instincts are dead on. Maybe there's someone close who doesn't think she should give birth at all. Someone who would do anything to have a baby. Anything. . . "If you like Mary Higgins Clark, you'll love Wendy Corsi Staub."--Lisa Jackson Praise for the novels of Wendy Corsi Staub "Keeps readers in the dark until the final pages. . .offers a challenging puzzle and some eerie chills." -- Publishers Weekly "Bunker down for a great read!"--Lisa Gardner, New York Times bestselling author

Release date: June 6, 2012

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 416

Sample

“I have some good news for you, Ms. Somerset,” Dr. Lombardo announces, striding into the examining room, clipboard in hand and a broad grin on his handsome face.

“Oh my God!” Tears spring to Peyton’s gray eyes. “When am I due?”

“Due? What are you talking about? The good news is that the Dow just jumped forty-one points.”

He’s teasing, Peyton assures herself—and nevertheless feels a slight twinge of too-good-to-be-true trepidation. “I am pregnant . . . right?”

“You are pregnant.” The obstetrician reaches for her right hand and clasps it warmly in his own. “Congratulations.”

She heaves a sigh of relief. Not that she had any doubt, really. Four home pregnancy tests can’t be wrong. Still, the nurse instructed her to come in for blood work, just to be certain.

So. Now she’s certain.

Nine months from now, give or take, she’ll be a mother.

“I’m going to write you a prescription for prenatal vitamins,” the doctor informs her, flipping briskly through his notes. “And we’ll need to schedule some tests. Ultrasound, amniocentesis . . .”

“Amniocentesis?”

“I recommend one for all my patients who are over forty. The risk of certain birth defects rises in older mothers, so—”

“I won’t be forty until September.” According to her calculations, the baby is due the following month.

The doctor shrugs. “It’s your call, really. I’ll give you some information so that you can make an educated decision.”

She nods, already knowing what her decision will be. Lord knows she’s done enough reading in preparation for pregnancy, childbirth, and motherhood. As far as this informed patient is concerned, the tests would be useless. Even if, God forbid, she found out that the baby in her womb has some terrible birth defect, she would choose to have it. Period.

When Peyton Somerset makes up her mind to do something, she does it. Her way.

She interrupts the doctor, who has launched into an array of possible symptoms she might experience. “Do you mind if I run and get my purse so I can write some of this stuff down in my organizer?”

“You don’t have to do that. I’ll give you a pamphlet we have that explains everything.”

“Great, thanks.” Peyton is relieved that she doesn’t have to parade, naked beneath an ill-fitting gown, into the adjoining room where her belongings are stashed on a hook.

Yes, technically, he’s already seen it all, and then some. But she can’t help it. He’s handsome.

He goes on, reminding her that this is a combination practice with several doctors and a certified nurse midwife on staff, then moves on to what she should expect at the next few appointments. She barely listens, too caught up in visions of her immediate future. Morning sickness? Maybe. Maternity clothes, definitely.

She smiles to herself, wondering what could possibly be more fun than mandatory spring shopping. She’ll need to buy a full maternity wardrobe, nothing frilly or pastel . . .

“I strongly recommend that you enroll in a childbirth preparation class,” the doctor is saying. “We have one sponsored by our on-staff midwife, and there’s also a good one at the hospital that covers not just breathing, but pain medication options.”

Peyton back-burners visions of the many Manhattan boutiques that cater to upscale corporate mothers-to-be, and informs Dr. Lombardo, “I think I’ll go for natural childbirth.”

“You might think that sounds like a good idea now . . .”

Yes, she does, and he doesn’t know her well enough to realize she can’t be easily swayed by delivery room horror stories. Not much frightens Peyton Somerset these days. Or ever, for that matter.

In fact, the only truly scary thing she can think of is not being in utter control . . . of her body, her emotions, her future . . .

Yes. Control is key.

“But,” Dr. Lombardo goes on, “if I had a dollar for every patient who said no drugs in the beginning and changed her mind by the time she was dilated a few centimeters, I’d be one young retiree.”

Peyton offers the obligatory chuckle, wondering just how old he is. He looks about her age, maybe a little younger.

Basically, he’s your garden-variety Tall, Dark, and Handsome M.D. who could easily be playing the part on an afternoon soap.

“You should also choose a labor coach, Ms. Somerset,” Dr. Lombardo tells her.

“Call me Peyton.”

He smiles. “Peyton. Get a labor coach. Somebody who’s going to be by your side day or night from the time you feel the first cramp until you’ve delivered the baby.”

Peyton forces herself to maintain eye contact and nod. “No problem.”

“Good.”

No problem?

If she had somebody like that—somebody willing to be by her side, day or night, to help her through the biggest challenge of her life—she wouldn’t be here in the first place.

She’d be back in Talbot Corners, having a baby the old-fashioned way.

But here she is, in Manhattan, facing childbirth—and parenthood—entirely on her own.

It’s your choice, she reminds herself, lifting her chin. You’re living your life on your terms. And now there’s no going back. Not that you want to. . . .

But for Peyton Somerset, to whom control is key, the future suddenly seems uncertain.

What if she loses her job now that—or because—she’s pregnant?

How will she support herself and a child?

Assuming she keeps her job, what if she can’t find decent child care?

What if something happens to her baby?

What if something happens to her, an only parent, after she has the baby?

Stop it, Peyton. Since when do you doubt yourself, or your plans?

Insecurity isn’t allowed. Period.

“Well? Any questions, Mom?” asks Dr. Lombardo.

Mom. Wow. She’s going to be somebody’s mom.

“No,” Peyton says firmly, her head spinning. “No questions at all.”

“I’m sure you’ll have some the minute you leave. Feel free to call the office any time, or you can e-mail us if that’s more convenient. We’re here for you, and we’re accustomed to patients who are going it alone.”

“That’s good.” Because she certainly fits that bill. In fact, she’s never felt more alone in her life.

“Mr. and Mrs. Cordell?”

Derry looks up from an outdated issue of Redbook she’s been pretending to read while chewing her fingernails down to nubs.

Dr. Lombardo’s receptionist is beckoning.

Beside her, Linden promptly gets to his feet and tosses aside a copy of Popular Mechanics or Popular Science or whatever it is that’s kept him utterly absorbed for the last twenty minutes. You’d think he’d be as agitated as she is. To Derry’s complete irritation, her husband seems utterly relaxed. He’s been relaxed ever since he found out that this visit is covered by their insurance plan.

Linden, who always likes a bargain, didn’t even complain about coming up with the ten-dollar copay.

“Ready?” he asks, and she nods.

But of course she isn’t ready.

Is any woman ever ready to find out why, after more than a year of trying to get pregnant, her period arrives as predictably as the Verizon bill every single month?

Don’t worry, it’ll happen.

Yeah, right. That’s easy for Derry’s mother to say; easy for her older sisters to say; for her friends to say. Things are different for all of them. Things are normal. They decided to have children, and they did.

That’s how it’s supposed to work, but—

“Derry?”

She looks up at Linden.

“Okay.” She stands and replaces the issue of Redbook on the cluttered table beside her chair. She takes a moment to straighten the table’s contents, to neatly align Redbook on top of the other magazines, telling herself that if she does it just right, everything will work out okay.

Yes, if she makes sure all the edges of all the pages are lined up, then Dr. Lombardo will have good news for her.

He’ll tell her that there’s no medical reason for her infertility. Or that there is, but he can give her a prescription and she’ll be good as new by tomorrow.

Don’t you think tomorrow is a little unrealistic, Derry? These things take time.

Yeah, no kidding. All right, then she’ll be good as new by next week. Or next month. The next time she and Linden try, conception will be guaranteed. Problem solved.

“Mrs. Cordell?” The receptionist sounds concerned. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” She straightens and starts across the room.

Of course I’m fine. I’m not sterile, or barren, or whatever it is they call women who can’t have babies.

I have to be fine.

Please, God, let me be fine.

If I can make it to the door behind the reception desk in less than ten steps, Dr. Lombardo will tell me everything’s okay.

She counts silently as she follows her husband across the waiting room, conscious of the other couples glancing at them as they pass.

Some do so idly, then quickly go back to their magazines and newspapers and whispered conversations. Others seem more curious, or as anxious as Derry was, sitting there waiting. Especially the women.

They’re the ones who are new to this, like we are, Derry tells herself. They’re thinking there’s hope, or they’ve just found out that there isn’t and they’re here to discuss further options . . .

Whatever those are.

Derry refuses to allow herself to think that far ahead.

For one thing, she and Linden are flat broke. Much too broke to even consider further options. They’re already a month behind on their Co-op City mortgage. He’s been urging her to ask her parents or sisters back in California to help them, but she can’t do that. She isn’t particularly close to any of her family these days. Anyway, her parents are barely surviving on Social Security; her sisters have mortgages and bills of their own.

Besides, potentially expensive medical options won’t be necessary for Derry and Linden unless the doctor says one of them is sterile.

And that’s not going to happen.

All those tests they took last week are going to show that there’s nothing wrong.

After all, Derry made it to the doorway in only eight steps.

So the doctor is going to say that there’s no reason she can’t get pregnant. That in a year, maybe less, she could be holding a newborn with her auburn hair and green eyes, or Linden’s blond hair and blue eyes, or perhaps a striking combination.

That’s all she wants. A child all their own, a biological child with Cavanaugh and Cordell blood running through its veins. Is that too much to ask?

“Right this way,” says a familiar, perpetually smiling nurse who greets them at the door with a clipboard and a manila folder in her hand. “How are you today, Mrs. Cordell?”

“Fine,” Derry murmurs.

In the corridor, an attractive woman with shoulder-length light brown hair slips past them on her way out of the dressing room adjacent to the examining room.

She’s wearing an expensive-looking suit the same chestnut shade as her hair, and has a camel dress coat draped over the crook of one arm and a chic leather shoulder bag over the other.

She’s the kind of woman Derry has always envied: tall, sleek, slender. Her shiny hair is tucked behind her ears in an effortless yet elegant style. She probably has a perfect manicure, and pedicure, too. Derry, whose nails are ragged from incessant biting and whose wavy tresses are caught back in a plastic banana clip, is just over five feet tall and perpetually carrying an extra twenty-five pounds.

As the other woman passes, Derry does her best not to stare. Or glare.

“Thanks again, Nancy,” the woman says over her shoulder to the nurse.

“Congratulations again, Peyton,” the nurse replies, beaming.

Congratulations? In this office, that can only mean one thing. The woman is pregnant.

Derry is momentarily stilled by a fierce stab of jealousy as she stares after the retreating stranger in dismay.

You should feel hopeful, not resentful, she chides herself. If she’s pregnant, you can get pregnant, too.

But what if the woman paid a fortune for infertility treatments? She looks as though she can afford it. Derry, in five-dollar Kmart clearance sneakers and too-snug ten-year-old jeans, cannot.

She shouldn’t even be here, really. Her regular ob-gyn is up in the Bronx, where she lives. But one of her neighbors recommended this fancy Manhattan doctor, saying that if it weren’t for him, her daughter couldn’t have given her three grandchildren.

Derry would like nothing more than to give her aging mother three grandchildren. Then perhaps they could find the common ground that has eluded their relationship, particularly since Derry moved across the country against her parents’ wishes.

“Right in here,” the nurse says pleasantly, indicating an empty examination room.

“Thanks, Nancy.” Derry nods, as though she and Dr. Lombardo’s nurse have always been on a first-name basis when in reality, she never even paid attention to the woman’s name tag in the past.

You should be more aware of things like that from now on, she tells herself.

Not that being casually friendly with the fertility specialist’s staff has any bearing on whether or not she’ll eventually find herself on the receiving end of pregnancy congratulations. But it can’t hurt, right?

Linden steps back to allow Derry to step over the threshold ahead of him.

She’s careful to do it with her right foot.

Yes, if she steps over the threshold with her right foot, everything will be all right.

Out on the street, Peyton is greeted by a burst of icy air. Overhead, the midtown skyscrapers are outlined against a pastel blue backdrop, milky February sunshine cascading down between them to cast her lanky shadow on the dry concrete sidewalk.

She smiles at the notion of how drastically that silhouette is going to change in the coming months. Glancing down at her stomach as she buttons her long cashmere coat over it, she imagines that it’s the tiniest bit swollen. She knows it isn’t, not yet. But soon enough, it will be.

A man in a trench coat brushes by her, jostling her slightly with his briefcase. Peyton’s arms automatically cross in front of her, shielding her midsection and its precious cargo. In that momentary instinct, she grasps the scope of the tremendous responsibility that awaits.

Another human life is in her hands. Forever.

How can she do this alone?

Too late to turn back now, she reminds herself, reclaiming her staunch Somerset mentality. And you can do it. Plenty of people do it, these days.

Single motherhood may still bear a stigma back home in the Midwest, but it’s become commonplace—almost trendy—here in the city, not to mention in the media.

Reassured for the time being, Peyton checks her watch, then looks around for a vacant taxi. The only yellow cab in the immediate vicinity is occupied and trying to back its way out of a turn down East Fifty-second Street, and no wonder. The block is clogged with traffic, funneled down to one lane at the corner because of construction. Jackhammers vibrate, car horns blare, pedestrians jaywalk, bike messengers weave in and out . . . typical midtown midday pandemonium.

There are times when she inexplicably longs for small-town Kansas, wondering why she ever traded serenity for chaos. But that always passes quickly.

Especially today, she thinks, absently watching the hapless yellow cab attempting to retreat to the avenue. Nothing is going to burst her bubble today.

Peyton is happy to be right where she is, just as she is, Kansas and her past a mere speck in a rearview mirror she rarely bothers to check.

And that, Peyton tells herself, again resisting a strange pang of foreboding, is just as it should be.

Startled by the sudden screeching of tires and the discordant clash of metal against metal, she looks up to see that the cab has backed into another car. Both drivers are already out in the street, shouting at each other in two different languages, neither of them intelligible.

So much for not checking the rearview mirror, Peyton tells herself with a wry shake of her head as she heads on down the block on foot.

Anne Marie Egerton would kill to have a nanny on days like this.

Or at least, to have a husband who isn’t currently somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, flying off to London—again—on business.

Since the second option is out of the question, she collapses into the nearest kitchen chair and briefly considers the first.

Again.

Jarrett has been telling her for months to hire somebody to help her with the boys. He doesn’t understand why she won’t. Money certainly isn’t an issue. His latest promotion has pretty much guaranteed that money will never be an issue for them.

Not that it ever was.

It’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as it is a poor one.

Grandma was right about that. As for the rich man falling in love with Anne Marie in return . . . well, she’s always been certain that her Italian grandmother had a hand in that. There’s no doubt in Anne Marie’s mind that Grace DeMario is as controlling in death as she was in life, a celestial puppeteer. That would certainly be her idea of heaven.

This—being married to Jarrett Egerton III, the mother of his children, living in Bedford, wearing the finest designer clothes and Italian leather shoes—would have been Anne Marie’s idea of heaven, at least in theory.

She ruefully remembers another of her grandmother’s favorite sayings.

Be careful what you wish for.

She takes a deep breath to steady her nerves, gazing out the tall, arched window at the sunken brick terrace and the barren white trellises of her landscaped rose garden beyond. The New York winter has been harsher than usual. It’s hard to remember the lush foliage and fragrant blossoms that have been replaced by clumps of brown, thorny stalks.

But the roses will come again. They always do, if you wait long enough.

Anne Marie forces her weary body up out of the chair.

“Mommy’s coming, boys,” she calls, picking up a tray that holds three individual portions of applesauce, three pieces of buttered toast, three sippy cups filled with whole milk, three napkins, three spoons.

Three.

Three of everything.

All for a trio of three-year-olds who almost didn’t make it.

Stepping into the breakfast room, Anne Marie smiles cheerfully at her noisy sons, who are seated at a small table parked directly in front of the enormous, wall-mounted plasma television. The Wiggles video she turned on before she left the room mere moments ago only adds to the cacophony.

“All right, guys, snack time,” she chirps above the din, and begins handing out cups and spoons.

In a matter of minutes, the floor is littered with crumbs, a puddle of spilled milk is seeping dangerously close to the imported wool area rug, and the boys are wearing most of their applesauce, clamoring for more.

Anne Marie surveys the mess with a weary sigh.

This is heaven?

She smiles. It is. It really is.

This is heaven.

If anybody knows that, she does.

Because if anybody has ever truly been to hell, it’s Anne Marie Egerton.

Falling into step in the throng of scurrying New Yorkers, Peyton shoulders her way to the corner of East Fifty-second and Lexington, then turns down the avenue toward Grand Central Station and the subway. If the 6 train is running without delays, she might be back at her desk thirty blocks away before Tara notices she’s taken a two-hour lunch.

She suspects she might be doing that fairly often in the months to come. With any luck, her boss will understand and bear with her. In fact, maybe she should just march right in today and tell Tara she’s pregnant. Get it out in the open from the start.

Then again, maybe she shouldn’t. Maybe that would be a big mistake.

She’s set her sights on a promotion to management rep, aware that a spot will be vacant after Alain transfers back to the Paris office in April or May. Tara might be reluctant to offer it to Peyton if she suspects a maternity leave is looming.

Having seen several of her childbearing female colleagues get passed over for promotions and perks, Peyton concludes that her best bet is to keep the pregnancy to herself for as long as she can. Nobody at work would ever suspect there’s a Mommy Track in her future.

Just a few years ago, when she was still living in Talbot Corners, Peyton herself wouldn’t have imagined it, either. She had long since put aside her dreams of New York, of a high-powered career on Madison Avenue, of motherhood.

She set them aside nearly two decades earlier, the moment her stepfather of five years, Douglas, died on the heels of her college graduation.

Realizing she couldn’t abandon the widowed mother who had raised her single-handedly, Peyton watched her childhood sweetheart head to the East Coast without her. For a while, she convinced herself that she might somehow still marry Gil Blaney and have his children. But while she was writing him long letters and sending her resume to every corporation within a hundred-mile radius of Talbot Corners, he was embarking on a Wall Street career—and on a relationship with the woman he would soon marry.

Mercifully, the wedding was at a New York cathedral, rather than at the First Community Church of Talbot Corners, a stone’s throw from Peyton’s front porch swing.

By then, Peyton was over him, anyway. She had found a job commuting to Eaton Brothers, a Kansas City packaged goods company, where she eventually worked her way from an entry-level position in shipping to marketing and finally, to product manager.

All that time, she was oblivious of the silent ticking of her biological clock. But somehow, she turned into a time bomb on her thirty-seventh birthday—which happened to coincide with a broken engagement, her second since Gil left.

Three shattered relationships. Maybe she wasn’t meant to be married.

Looking back, Scott, who followed Gil, was all wrong for her. He was older, somewhat arrogant, and far too controlling for her. She got cold feet, and it was a good thing. She would never have been happy as Scott’s wife.

But with Jeff, who came later, she was head over heels in love. Who wouldn’t be? He was a former NFL running back, the pride of Topeka. Everyone in Talbot Corners knew who he was; everyone was thrilled that a hometown girl had landed a Kansas hero like Jeff. He’d retired comfortably from football and now traveled as a sports commentator. With his fame, strapping good looks, and financial security, he was too good to be true.

At least, that was what Peyton’s mother said.

Unfortunately, she was right.

Jeff didn’t exactly leave his bride at the altar, but he came pretty damned close. Close enough that the First Community Church of Talbot Corners was already decked out in a thousand dollars’ worth of white roses and organza pew bows, and Peyton found herself with a paid-for white silk gown in her closet and a truckload of crystal and china to send back.

He got cold feet, he said.

What goes around comes around, Peyton’s mother said profoundly, as if she were the one who had coined the stale phrase.

But there is truth in cliché.

What goes around comes around.

Once again, Beth Somerset was right.

In the wake of the fairy-tale wedding that wasn’t, the only way Peyton could escape the probing questions and sympathetic stares was to get the hell out of Talbot Corners.

She might just as easily have found herself in Los Angeles, Chicago, Boston, Phoenix. But an account management job fortuitously presented itself at Kaplan and Kline, the Manhattan ad agency that had long handled the Eaton Brothers account. With her client-side experience, she was a shoo-in for the position.

She’s settled in the big city at last, twenty years after she first dreamed of doing so. Pregnant at last, twenty years after she all but dismissed motherhood as an option.

Scott had two teenagers from a first marriage and didn’t want more children, period. Looking back, maybe that was part of the reason Peyton wouldn’t let herself go through with marriage to him. Maybe somewhere deep down inside, the first fragile tendrils of midlife maternal instinct had already taken hold.

Now that it’s crept into every part of her, irrevocably entwined around her heart and soul, there’s no doubt about her destiny. She, Peyton Somerset, is going to have a baby.

A baby!

She can’t wait to tell . . .

Somebody.

Anybody.

If only there were somebody to tell.

So.

This is it.

All the months of hoping and planning to conceive; the weeks of worrying and wondering why she hadn’t yet; the days of waiting and praying for test results . . .

It’s all come down to this.

No more planning, wondering, praying.

Now she knows.

Feeling numb, Derry struggles to maintain eye contact with Dr. Lombardo. She nods slightly, feigning interest in whatever it is that he’s saying when in reality, her brain shut down a few minutes ago.

Right after he informed her and Linden that they are incapable of having children.

Rather, Derry is incapable of conceiving and carrying a child.

Impaired fecundity, he called it.

Impaired fecundity? What the hell does that mean?

“I know this is difficult for you, Mr. and Mrs. Cordell,” Dr. Lombardo is saying gently, wearing a suitably somber expression.

Difficult? All her life, Derry assumed she would be a wife and mother.

It isn’t the only thing she ever wanted to be, not like her oldest sister, Peggy, who never even wanted to go to college or have a career.

But Derry wanted motherhood, just as she wanted college and a career. She wanted to have it all.

Now . . . she’ll have nothing.

“You’ll need to investigate other options at this point,” the doctor goes on.

Sure. Options. Options mean she’ll have to settle, just as she settled once before, after graduating from high school back home in California. She was accepted to several private colleges on the East Coast, but couldn’t swing it even with tuition aid. And her parents couldn’t—or perhaps wouldn’t—help her. They had her late in life; they had raised two other daughters; they were depleted.

So she went to community college in San Diego for a few semesters, thinking she might be able to at least transfer to a state university if she kept her grades up.

Her grades were fine; her finances were not.

She dropped out of school to waitress full time, telling herself it was only temporary.

Yeah. Right.

Some career. Her parents and sisters treated her as though she were an embarrassing disappointment; her old friends were busy with college life. She was consumed by loneliness and depression.

But that fell away when she found Linden. All she wanted then was to shed her pervasive loneliness and move across the country to be with him in New York, to become a wife and mother, to fill the gaping void in her life with a family of her own.

She made it to New York, although not Manhattan, as she pictured. She and Linden live in Co-op City, in a one-bedroom apartment they can barely afford on their salaries as a welder and a waitress.

Three years have passed since she fled the West Coast, her family, and all her old friends to wed the man she swore she would marry before she ever laid eyes on him.

Derry and Linden may have met over the Internet in a Classic Rock chat room, but everything else about their courtship, their lifestyle, their plans for the future, has been old-fashioned.

It never occurred to her that she—that they—would be denied something so basic.

Something so many people take for granted.

It isn’t fair. Derry swallows hard over the monstrous lump in her throat. So many women who don’t plan it, who don’t deserve it,. . .