Sweet Baby

by Sharon Sala

  Sometime later, she glanced up and then dumped everything in her lap to the floor. Brett would be home before long, and she still hadn’t gone to the store.

  “Shoot,” she muttered. Just when things got interesting, reality always managed to intrude.

  She made a mental grocery list as she drove, and by the time she got to the supermarket, she had her trip down the aisles all mapped out in her head. In and out. That was what she was planning to do. Get in. Buy the food. Get out. It didn’t get any simpler.

  But things rarely go as they’re planned.

  Tory was in the middle of aisle five, trying to decide between a jar of dill pickle slices and one of dill pickle chunks, when she heard the unmistakable sound of flesh slapping flesh. Once. Twice. Three times. The skin on the back of her neck crawled. When it was followed by a childlike voice begging someone to stop and then a high, plaintive wail, she lost it. With the inborn skill of a seasoned shopper, she spun the cart around on two wheels and began pushing it toward the end of the aisle, determined to find the source.

  It wasn’t hard. The child’s muffled sobs and the man’s angry voice continued to permeate the store. Tory wasn’t the only shopper who’d heard, but she seemed to be the only one willing to get involved.

  And then she saw them in the middle of aisle eight and turned down it like a woman possessed. The little girl was dirty-faced and shoeless. Her hair was greasy and looked as if it hadn’t been combed in days. The shoulder seams of her T-shirt hung halfway to her elbows, and if she had anything on under it, it was lost beneath the voluminous folds of the hand-me-down shirt. She couldn’t have been more the five, maybe six, but it wouldn’t have mattered to Tory if she had been eighty. The tiny stream of blood running from her nose and the handprint on the side of her cheek were all she needed to see.

  “Stop that snivelin’,” the man snarled, and lifted his hand again.

  Tory didn’t think. She just reacted by grabbing his arm and yanking him around before the next blow could fall.

  “Don’t hit her again.”

  He spun around in shock. When he saw Tory, his face turned a dull, angry red, and he took a menacing step toward her.

  He smelled like liquor and sweat, and she wanted to gag as he doubled his fist and shoved it right beneath her nose.

  “Mind your own business, bitch. ’At’s my kid, and I’ll whup her any time I feel like it.”

  With him being drunk on his feet, and the lack of expression in his eyes, Tory knew a moment of fear. But the child’s need was stronger than her own need to flee. She stood her ground, her voice rising in anger to match his.

  “I said, don’t hit her again,” she repeated. “No child deserves to be beaten.”

  At that point, a store manager came running down the aisle. “What’s going on here?” he cried.

  The drunk pivoted, swaying on his feet, and took a swing at the manager, missing him by at least a foot. As he swung, he just kept going, falling headfirst toward a shelf full of baby food jars.

  Tory grabbed the child, pulling her out of the way just in time to keep her from being knocked into the shelves beneath her father. Glass and baby food shattered and splattered as the manager groaned.

  “Oh man,” he mumbled, and reached for a two-way he had in his pocket. “I need some mops and buckets on aisle eight… and somebody call the police.”

  He looked up at Tory and then down at the child. “Are you with them?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “What was going on?” he asked.

  “Look at her,” Tory said, pointing to the child. “I heard him slapping her from two aisles over.”

  The manager’s face paled. The handprint on the child’s cheek was still visible, and the steady stream of blood from her nose was evidence of the force of the impact. He shook his head.

  “The world is full of crazies,” he muttered.

  Tory’s eyes were blazing, her hands shaking from anger. “Unfortunately, some of them are parents.”

  She thought of her years in foster homes. Some of the people had been decent. Some of them had not. And when she’d needed help most, there had been no one to hear her cries. Ignoring this child’s cry for help had been impossible. She fished a handful of tissues from her purse and then knelt by the child.

  “Here, sweetie,” she said softly. “We need to clean the blood off your face, okay?”

  Too stunned to argue, the little girl stood while Tory swiped at her face. The sound of sirens could now be heard in the distance, and she knew within minutes the child would be gone. There was a panic within Tory, wondering if her interference in this child’s life was going to make it better… or worse.

  “What’s your name?” Tory asked.

  “Clydene.”

  “That’s a pretty name.” And then she added, “For a pretty girl.”

  The child smiled, and it was all Tory could do not to cry. By tomorrow, the child would have a black eye to go with the busted lip and swollen nose. Maybe she would remember that someone told her she was pretty.

  The drunk was starting to rouse, so Tory pulled the child a bit farther up the aisle.

  “Let’s just move back a little bit more until they get through mopping up that mess, okay?”

  The child nodded. “Daddy’s gonna be pissed,” the child said calmly.

  Tory hid her shock. From what she could see, Clydene’s vocabulary was well in keeping with her home life.

  “The police will see that he doesn’t hurt anyone else,” Tory said.

  The child shrugged. “He’ll be pissed.”

  “Maybe not. Maybe your mother will be able to—”

  “Ain’t got one,” Clydene announced.

  A strong sensation of déjà vu rocked Tory back on her heels. She could almost hear herself saying the same thing in the same monotone voice.

  “I’m sorry,” Tory said softly. “Did she die?”

  The drunk rolled over on his back, groaning and cursing loud and long. The child gave her father a nervous look.

  “Don’t know,” she said. “She’s just gone.”

  Something nudged Tory’s memory. Something old. Something bad. But before she could follow the thought, the store manager handed Tory another handful of wipes.

  “Thank goodness,” she said. “The police are here.”

  Tory looked up to see three uniformed officers coming down the aisle. She glanced at the child. There was a look of terror on her face that made Tory sick. Something told her this wasn’t the first time the girl had seen them coming.

  Within minutes, they were gone. Tory retrieved her basket and then stood in the middle of the aisle, staring down at the food and trying to remember what she needed to do. But her stomach hurt, and so did her heart, and she couldn’t quit thinking about the look on Clydene’s face as an officer carried her away. She hadn’t been afraid. She’d just been resigned.

  ***

  Because of what had happened at the store, Tory was certain that Brett would beat her home. But as she hurried into the apartment with an apology on her lips, the blinking light on the answering machine interrupted her anxiety, and listening to the message, she began to relax even more. She’d been given a reprieve.

  “Tory, it’s me, Brett. I’m going to be late. Conroy is taking a case to court tomorrow that just fell apart in his lap. I’ve got to find his other witness or the whole thing will have to be dismissed. See you later, honey. I love you.”

  Conroy was an assistant D.A. Tory rarely knew what went on at Brett’s work, but she recognized most of the names of the people with whom he worked.

  “I love you, too,” she said softly, then headed to the kitchen.

  Now she had all the time she needed to fix that special meal she’d been planning, but it was a toss-up as to when Brett would be home to eat it. She began to put up the groceries, her thoughts still lingering on a little girl named Clydene and the drunk who called himself a father. Then she frowned, giving herself a mental kick in the
pants. She couldn’t save the world, but she’d saved a child from a beating. At least for one night. And with that, she had to be satisfied.

  Refusing to dwell any longer on whether she’d done right or wrong, she focused on the meal she was about to prepare.

  “Okay, Hooker, you can be late, but you better be hungry when you get here.” She opened a cabinet and took down a bowl. “First the cake, then the steak.”

  ***

  It was a couple of minutes shy of ten o’clock when Brett stuck his key in the lock. His steps were dragging, and the knuckles on his right hand were skinned and swollen, but he’d gotten his man. The fact that he’d had to go through a bouncer at a club on the south side to do it was just part of the job. And while he knew Conroy would be happy, he wondered how Tory’s mood was going to be.

  When he walked in the apartment, the scent of food beckoned, reminding him that the only thing he’d eaten all day had been that piece of Tory’s pizza he’d confiscated as he was leaving. He glanced at his watch, then looked around for Tory. Food was still secondary to the need that had carried him through the day. It had been nine hours since he’d kissed his woman, and the urge to do it again was overwhelming. He shut and locked the door behind him, then started through the apartment, calling out her name as he went.

  “Tory, I’m home.”

  When she didn’t answer, his heart skipped a beat. The darkroom door was ajar. That meant she wasn’t working. He glanced into the living room. Pictures were scattered on top of the coffee table, and her camera bag was in the corner of the room near the sofa. He began to relax. Even if she was gone, she hadn’t gone far.

  “Tory… sweetheart, I’m sorry I’m late. I got—”

  When he walked into the bedroom, the words stuck in his throat. She was sound asleep on the bed and hugging his pillow. There was a smudge of flour on her shoulder and a Band-Aid on her right index finger. A surge of emotion hit him belly high, and his legs went weak.

  Ah, God, Victoria, you take my breath away.

  He took off his gun, putting it in the top dresser drawer as he passed, then kicked off his shoes. When he got to the bed, he crawled in beside her, gently scooting his arm beneath her neck, then cradling the back of her head against his chest and cuddling her body into the curve of his own.

  “I’m sorry I’m late.”

  She mumbled something beneath her breath, then reached for his hand and pulled, covering herself with his arm instead of a sheet.

  Another wave of emotion hit him, bringing tears to his eyes.

  “I love you, Victoria,” he whispered. “I love you so damned much I hurt.”

  Tory sighed and turned, rolling until she was facing him. He watched her eyes begin to open, and when she saw him, she smiled a slow, sleepy smile.

  “I baked you a cake.”

  His throat tightened with another wave of emotion. “I know, baby. I could smell it when I walked in.” He cupped her cheeks and leaned forward, pressing a kiss in the center of her forehead.

  Tory sighed with satisfaction. Brett was home, just as he’d promised. But he winced when she touched his hand, and she sat up with a jerk.

  “What’s wrong with your hand?”

  He rolled over and then sat on the edge of the bed, slightly away from her gaze.

  “Nothing. Just lost a little skin on my knuckles bringing in a reluctant witness.”

  Tory crawled toward him. “Let me see.” She yanked at his shirtsleeve until he was forced to face her.

  He held out his hand. “See, it’s no big deal.”

  She winced. The knuckles were raw and bloody, and his hand was obviously swollen.

  “Did you see a doctor? It could be broken.”

  In spite of the pain, the curve of her neck and the touch of her lips to the middle of his palm did things to him that a roomful of strippers couldn’t have matched.

  “It’s not broken, it’s fine. Come here, you.”

  He would have pulled her back down on the bed, but Tory would have none of it. Instead, she got up and headed for the kitchen, giving orders as she left.

  “Get out of those clothes and get showered. I’ll have your food warmed up and some ice for your hand when you’ve finished.”

  Brett rolled his eyes. “How am I going to eat if I’ve got my hand in ice?”

  She didn’t bother to answer.

  A few minutes later he emerged from the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel and noticed that she’d laid out clean underwear and a pair of gym shorts. Her thoughtfulness touched him. No snaps, no zippers, nothing to fasten, thereby making them easy to pull on. And then the familiar odor of grilled steak drifted into the room, and his stomach growled in protest. He dropped the towel and began to dress.

  Tory was at the sink when he entered the kitchen.

  “Something sure smells good.”

  She dried her hands, then took a bowl of ice from the freezer and set it in front of Brett as he slid onto one of the bar stools at the counter.

  She eased his hand into the ice cubes. “Maybe this will help the swelling.”

  The cubes gave way, shifting to make room for his hand, and he winced. “Ooh, damn!”

  Tory frowned. The fact that Brett’s job often put him in danger was something she had yet to accept.

  “Sometimes I absolutely hate your job,” she muttered, and turned back to the stove to finish dishing up his food.

  “Yeah, and I’m not real crazy about yours, either, but I’m willing to accept the choices you’ve made.”

  The unexpected shift of anger into their conversation startled her, but she knew he was right. She took a deep breath and then turned.

  “I’m sorry. I spoke without thinking. I would never ask you to give it up. I only meant—”

  Brett sighed. He hadn’t intended to start this all over again.

  “Let it go, honey. I’m just glad to be here with you, okay?”

  She began to relax. “Okay.” She took a plate of steak out of the microwave and added a serving of asparagus and another of carrots. “It might be a little dry,” she said, apologizing ahead of time before he’d had a chance to taste the steak.

  “Then that would be my fault and not yours,” he said. “Besides, I’m so hungry even oatmeal would taste good.”

  Tory grinned as she set the plate before him. Brett hated oatmeal.

  “I cut your steak for you.”

  “Thanks.” He reached for his fork with his left hand.

  “Are you going to be all right?” Tory asked.

  Brett stuffed a piece of steak in his mouth and rolled his eyes in appreciation.

  “I am now,” he said, talking around the steak he was eating.

  “Then I think I’ll take my shower while you eat.”

  “Afterward, you can show me your pictures, okay?”

  She beamed. There was nothing she liked better than to share that part of her life with Brett. In fact, it was the only thing she shared without thought.

  “Okay,” she said, but she remained, watching as Brett tried a left-handed attack on an asparagus spear. When it kept sliding off his fork, she picked it up with her fingers and aimed it toward his mouth.

  “Here. Pretend it’s a French fry.”

  He grinned, then opened his mouth as she popped it inside.

  “Be back in a little while,” she said, and headed for the bedroom.

  He looked at the food on his plate and then shifted his hand to a different position inside the bowl of ice. “Don’t hurry on my account. This could take a while.”

  A few bites later, he began to relax. By the time he had finished his food, his hand was numb and his belly was no longer grumbling.

  “Hey, Tory, where’s that cake you baked?”

  “Just a minute,” she called. “I’ll be right there.”

  He got up from the bar stool and carried his plate to the sink, then rinsed it before putting it in the dishwasher. After giving his hand the once-over, he dumped the bowl of ice in the
sink. Although his fingers were stiff and colorless from the cold, the swelling was noticeably less than it had been before he’d started his meal.

  “Brett?”

  He turned. Tory was standing in the doorway. A sideways grin tilted the corner of his mouth. She looked about thirteen years old. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup, and her hair was still damp and hanging about her face in loose ringlets. Her long legs were bare, as were her feet, and from what he could see, the only thing she was wearing was another one of his shirts.

  “You look a hell of a lot better in that than I do,” he drawled.

  Tory arched an eyebrow and blew him a kiss. “That’s a matter of perspective. Now, save that thought for later while I get your cake.” She opened the refrigerator, taking out a covered container. When she lifted the lid, he inhaled deeply. She’d made his favorite, carrot cake with lots of cream cheese icing.

  She paused in the act of cutting. “How much do you want?”

  “What do you think?”

  She thrust downward with force. “Your usual slab, right?”

  He laughed. “For starters.”

  A few moments later, she slid the plate in front of him and started to hand him a clean fork when she realized the bowl of ice was missing.

  “Let me see your hand,” she ordered.

  He held it out, palm down, then reached for the fork she was holding.

  “Have mercy, Tory. It wasn’t amputated, just banged up a bit. Now, may I please have my cake?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Thank goodness for small favors,” he muttered, as she relinquished the fork. The first bite was every bit as good as he’d expected. When he picked up the second bite, he offered it to her.

  “Open wide.”

  Tory accepted the piece with delight. This was the Brett she loved. This calm, easygoing man who shared everything with her, including his food.

  “Want to see my pictures now?”

  He nodded. “I’d love to, honey. Lead the way.”

  He followed her into the living room and then sat down on the sofa beside her, finishing off his cake while she began sorting through the photos.

  “These are my favorites,” she said, pointing to the ones she’d spread out. “But there are some good ones in that stack, as well. Tell me what you think. Maybe it will help me decide.”