Hush, Little Baby

by Judith Arnold

Chapter Two

  D.J. WAS MAKING a burbly sound. Levi recognized the soft, damp vocalizing; it meant the baby was winding down, not yet comforted but too weary to cry.

  It amazed Levi that he’d learned to interpret D.J.’s vocabulary of noises. He actually understood what the kid was trying to tell him, sometimes.

  It amazed him even more, at that particular moment, that long after Corinne Lanier’s departure, he was still thinking about her.

  Before D.J. had entered his life, he used to think about women all the time. He liked women. He admired them. More than once, he’d felt something for a woman deep enough to qualify as love. But ever since that overcast Tuesday in May when he’d stood on a bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean and said good-bye to his sister, he hadn’t thought about women at all.

  Not the way he was thinking about Corinne.

  Since he’d brought D.J. home to Arlington, everything in his life had changed: his sleep patterns, his meal times, the disorder of his house, the smell of it. Brightly colored plastic objects—dolls, blocks, balls, trucks—currently occupied his living room like a conquering army. Sacks of disposable diapers lined a wall of the spare bedroom, and a crib stood next to the oak futon. Kitchen cabinets that used to hold boxes of pasta and jars of jam now held cans of formula and individual-sized portions of strained peas. D.J. was crazy about strained peas.

  Dr. Cole had assured Levi that D.J. couldn’t possibly overdose on all that pureed green glop. And that was another change in Levi’s house: the office number, emergency number and pager number of a pediatrician were on prominent display, fastened to the refrigerator with a magnet.

  In spite of all the changes, Levi was grateful for the tiny child in his arms. Without D.J., Levi would have had too much time to mourn for Ruth, to rage at the senselessness of her death. Twenty-six-year-old women weren’t supposed to die from aneurysms—especially twenty-six-year-old women who had just become mothers, who had so much to live for, so much to give.

  Levi couldn’t afford to lose himself in grief, not with D.J. demanding his attention. Sometimes he wondered whether Ruth had known, when she’d written her simple will, that by naming Levi her son’s guardian she’d be denying him the opportunity to fall apart if she died.

  He hadn’t fallen apart. He couldn’t. He was too busy giving D.J. his baths, leafing through picture books with him, rubbing ointment on his tender gums and trying to calm him down when he wailed.

  But right then, with D.J. losing steam and growing limp against his shoulder, he wasn’t too busy to think about Corinne Lanier. “She’s bad news,” he murmured into D.J.’s cornsilk hair. “She’s asking the impossible. She may not realize it yet, but there’s no way in hell I’m making big changes in the Mosley project.” He sighed. “Even so… A man’s allowed to look, isn’t he?”

  D.J.’s quiet snuffle sounded like agreement to Levi. And why shouldn’t he agree? Corinne was definitely worth looking at. Levi’s eyes, his body, his mind and soul were stirring awake, noticing an attractive woman and relishing the experience as if it were something he’d never done before.

  It felt weird to let someone who wasn’t twenty-eight inches long and incontinent occupy his mind, to think about a woman who wasn’t Ruth, to think about that woman in terms other than sorrow.

  She was tall. Given his own lanky height, he liked tall women. Corinne Lanier was statuesque enough to be a fashion model, but she had too much flesh on her for that, thank God. Levi had noticed the muscular curves of her calves below the hem of her skirt, the feminine swells of her hips and bosom in her tapered jacket. Her hair was chin-length and blunt, styled to proclaim that she wanted to be taken seriously, but its rich brown shade shimmered with playful red highlights.

  He wondered what her official position was. Gerald Mosley’s assistant? His vice-president? His consigliore? Whoever she was, as attractive as her clear hazel eyes, narrow nose and delicate lips were, she was crazy if she thought Levi was going to overhaul a magnificent architectural design just because she’d asked him to.

  Gerald Mosley had fallen in love with Levi’s blueprint for his country house on a pricy swath of land on the west side of town, where all the rich New Yorkers had their weekend retreats. Mosley was a rich New Yorker—very rich, given that he’d been able to afford such a desirable lot and arrange the financing for the house without popping a single bead of sweat. As Levi recalled, he was one of those high-tech geniuses, awash in money and eager to spend it.

  He’d had grandiose ideas for a house when he’d approached Arlington Architectural Associates last winter. Levi had actually toned down Mosley’s initial concepts—and Mosley had been enthusiastic about the ultimate design Levi had presented to him. He’d liked the daring lines of the house, the unique shape of it, the flow of the space, the rivers of sunlight that would spill through different rooms at different times of day. “I want it to be majorly cool,” he’d told Levi, and Levi had designed a majorly cool house.

  Now, according to Mosley’s pretty agent of doom, the boss wanted everything redone. Levi wondered if Corinne was the motivation behind Mosley’s sudden change of heart.

  D.J. had drifted off. He breathed heavily, not quite a snore but a sibilant exhalation through his mouth. “Okay, kid,” Levi whispered. “Are you going to stay quiet long enough for me to do my work today? I’ve got partners here who think I ought to be pulling my weight. How about it, buddy? Are you going to let me do that?”

  D.J. sighed deeply.

  Levi carried him back to his stroller. Next Monday, Martina Lopes would take over as D.J.’s nanny and Levi’s life would be easier. In the last few weeks, though, he’d gotten used to having the baby in his office. He’d grown accustomed to working in spurts, conducting meetings with his colleagues while balancing D.J. on his shoulder, brainstorming while feeding him bottles. What would it be like to work with two hands again?

  Levi had lived thirty two years without D.J. in his life, and only five weeks with D.J. in it. And somehow, he could no longer remember what those first thirty-two years were like.

  D.J. was his life now.

  But for the next ten minutes or so, Levi had both hands free. He used them to pick up the folder Corinne had given him, so he could peruse her requested changes and decide just how ludicrous they were.

  *

  THE ONLY GROUND BROKEN, as far as she could tell, was under a few orange stakes that had been hammered into the dirt to mark the outer edges of the house’s foundation.

  She’d driven across town to Gerald’s lot, a prime piece of real estate nestled among gentleman’s farms and country manors on winding country roads lined with thick shade trees. The predominant color was green: green grass, green foliage, and the lush green of fir trees covering the hills that formed a backdrop to the area. Living in Manhattan, Corinne couldn’t surround herself with so much natural green even if she stood smack in the middle of Central Park.

  Gerald’s four-acre parcel of land seemed a bit excessive. But he could afford it, so why not? Having lived in Manhattan for the past five years, Corinne wouldn’t mind having a weekend retreat in a place like Arlington. She could get used to the peace that settled like a smooth blanket over this corner of Connecticut, the minty tang of the air, the twittering of sparrows, robins and wrens, the tranquility so pervasive that she could hear the leaves rubbing against each other when a breeze wafted through the trees.

  She’d never been a big fan of city living. She’d moved to New York because she’d needed work and because it was two thousand miles away from her parents. Pure luck had enabled her to cross paths with Gerald. He’d needed someone with a level head and business skills, and there she’d been, exactly what he was looking for. She’d soon become his right hand, his advisor, his confidante. When his start-up company had been bought last year, she’d gotten rich—not as rich as he was, not rich enough to feel rich, but rich enough not to have to hesitate before choosing gourmet ice-cream over the store brand.

  The long drivew
ay to what would someday be Gerald’s country home was for now just a packed dirt path that cut neatly through a small grove of trees she’d urged Gerald to preserve. None of the trees had been touched, even though knocking them down would make it easier for the construction trucks to reach the building site. The trees were fenced off by strips of mesh fabric the same glow-in-the-dark orange as the paint on the wooden stakes. Thick tire treads had left imprints in the dirt, but no trucks or workers were present.

  So much for the ground being broken, she thought with a sniff. Levi Holt must have said that only to intimidate her.

  She wasn’t easily intimidated. Just because Levi was tall and had enchanting eyes, just because that sweet little baby fit against his shoulder so well…

  She reminded herself that Levi’s baby wasn’t sweet. He’d wailed and howled and made a general nuisance of himself most of the time she’d been at Levi’s office.

  As she strolled around the perimeter of the foundation—or at least her estimate of the foundation, based on the painted stakes—she rummaged in her tote bag for her cell phone. She punched the button for Gerald’s private line and listened to the phone ring on the other end. After a couple of rings, he answered: “Gerald Mosley.”

  “Gerald? Hi, it’s me.”

  “Hey,” he said, his voice losing its formal chill. “Are you still in Arlington?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any luck with Levi Holt?”

  “We haven’t exactly had our meeting yet,” she said, picking a path around the foundation’s outline, avoiding muddy-looking patches so she wouldn’t ruin her shoes. “He seems to be stuck baby-sitting this morning.”

  “Baby-sitting?”

  “He had his infant son in his office with him. The kid is going through a traumatic teething experience, apparently.”

  “His son?” Gerald said nothing for a minute. “I didn’t know he had a son.”

  “I’m not making this up.”

  Gerald chuckled. “Did I call you a liar? Don’t get defensive on me, Corey.”

  She relented with a smile. “Well, I’m telling you, he’s got a baby. D.J. It stands for Damien Justice.”

  “Damien Justice? What a stupid name!”

  Corinne had thought it was a beautiful name. But she wasn’t going to argue with Gerald about it.

  “He just didn’t seem like the daddy type to me,” Gerald added.

  Of course, the first time Gerald had visited Arlington Architectural Associates, last December, Levi Holt wouldn’t have been a father yet. They’d met a couple of times since then, mostly in New York. No doubt they’d talked about nothing but the house. Levi wouldn’t have had any reason to mention his newborn son. If his child care arrangements hadn’t fallen apart, he wouldn’t have mentioned his son today, either.

  “Be that as it may, I think I’ve developed a certain rapport with him,” Corinne informed Gerald, putting a highly optimistic spin on her brief meeting with Levi. “He’s going to review my notes and get together with me to discuss them once his kid isn’t in the way.”

  “So, his initial reaction was…?”

  Extremely negative. “Not too bad,” she fibbed. “We’ve barely gotten started.”

  “I’m already committed to a huge expenditure on this house,” Gerald reminded her unnecessarily. “I don’t want the price to skyrocket.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “You don’t have to say it,” Gerald assured her. “Doing your best is what you do. I’ve got to go, babe. Keep me posted, okay?”

  “Sure. ’Bye.” She disconnected the call, tucked her phone into her tote and grinned. When Gerald called her “babe,” it meant one of two things: he thought she was wonderful, or he was so distracted her name temporarily slipped his mind.

  She finished her circuit around the painted stakes. It really was going to be an enormous house. Much too big for Gerald to live in alone, even if he used it only on weekends. She was as great a fan of solitude as anyone, but surely he couldn’t have custom-ordered this house just for himself. He must have had in mind that he would be sharing it in some way.

  She wondered whom he’d want to share it with. He had friends, but he didn’t date much. She couldn’t imagine him bringing a blushing bride to this house, sweeping her into his arms and carrying her over the threshold. Corinne was the only woman in his life.

  All she knew was that if she were the woman he swept into his arms and carried over the threshold, she’d want more bathrooms and a sane kitchen. And no silly fireplace in the master bedroom.

  *

  MARY AGREED to watch D.J. for an hour. “Not one minute more,” she warned.

  “I won’t need a minute more,” Levi assured her. What he intended to say to Corinne, after reading everything in her folder, could be said in less than an hour.

  Less than thirty seconds, actually. “No. None of these changes. No way.” Fifteen seconds, max.

  He reminded himself, as he’d told Mary, that a job was on the line. Gerald Mosley’s house was the last original design he’d completed before Ruth died. It was the last project he’d tackled as an childless architect, the only hefty commission he’d brought into the firm in months—and likely the only one he’d bring in for the next few months, too. He wasn’t working at full strength. His partners understood and forgave him, but this commission was vitally important. Not just for the firm but for Levi. It proved he was still a functioning professional, something he’d come to doubt more than once since D.J. had come into his life.

  His design for Mosley’s house was brilliant. To save the contract and all the income it would bring, Levi could force himself to make a few minor adjustments. Clients always wanted minor adjustments. But the big stuff—removing the glass wall in the kitchen, leveling the first floor, adding bathrooms and subtracting that gorgeous brick fireplace in the bedroom—

  No. None of those changes. No way.

  His partners would encourage him to be flexible and open-minded. Levi could be flexible and open-minded about a lot of things, but not a project as daring and inspired as this one.

  Mosley had loved the house Levi had designed for him. He wondered what had changed, what had made his client abruptly think a traditional mudroom with a laundry area made more sense than a small solarium connecting the garage to the kitchen. What had made him decide in the past few weeks that he wouldn’t be able to fit his furniture into the master suite? Hell, he could work with an interior decorator on that. The basic design—that romantic fireplace—had to stay.

  This meeting with Corinne Lanier wasn’t going to take long at all.

  Still, he didn’t have time to waste. He cruised across town to the Arlington Inn, enjoying the rare minutes of privacy the trip afforded him. He’d gotten so used to strapping D.J. into his car seat in back, listening to him fuss and jabber and being unable to make eye contact with him as he drove, unable to help him or touch him if he started crying. The silence of his ten-minute solo drive to Corinne Lanier’s hotel was a treat.

  The Arlington Inn was a hundred eighty years old and overflowing with atmosphere. Its main building epitomized New England architecture—white clapboard, black shutters, a solid symmetry beneath the slate-tiled roof. In a nod to modern times and competition, the owners had added two new wings and a pavilion that housed a pool and health club; one of Levi’s partners had designed the updates ten years ago, before Levi had joined Arlington Architectural Associates. Bill had done a fine job on them. Unlike Levi, his talent lay in contemporizing historical buildings without destroying their essence.

  Levi specialized in modern design. He’d grown up stifled by tradition, and just as his sister had rebelled by running off to California and becoming a weaver, he rebelled by creating stark, disconcerting buildings of glass, stone and raw wood. Residential sculptures, he called them. Gerald Mosley had grasped the spirit of Levi’s style; it was why he’d hired Levi to design his dream house.

  Levi pulled into a parking space, grabbed his leather
portfolio and entered the inn. The colonial flavor of the lobby was so strong he could practically taste it: patterned rugs over wide-pine floors, ladder back chairs, stodgy paintings hanging on walls papered in a floral pattern. He strode to the massive oak reception counter and said, “Can you ring Corinne Lanier, please?”

  The clerk turned to an anachronistically up-to-date console and hooked up to Corinne’s room. He listened on his headset for a minute, then shook his head. “She’s not in. Would you care to leave a message?”

  Damn. “No, thanks,” Levi said, turning from the counter. He fumbled in his jacket pockets, realized he’d left her business card with her cell number on his desk, and cursed again.

  Unsure how to make the best use of his hour without D.J., he wandered toward the French doors overlooking the pool patio behind the lobby. Although it was only early June, a few hearty souls were lounging in the chairs around the pool, which glittered bright blue beneath the midday sun.

  Levi wondered what Corinne would look like in a swimsuit. A bikini cut high on the sides to show off her long legs, her skin golden and glistening with water from the pool. He grinned. It felt good to be thinking about something other than whether D.J. needed a bottle or a bath. It felt very good.

  Turning from the glass doors, he surveyed the lobby once more. She’d said she would be at the inn by eleven, and it was now eleven-fifteen. His smile faded as he considered his shrinking baby-sitter time.

  The front door swung open and in she walked, the answer to a prayer. How pathetic that his prayer was about maximizing his child-free time rather than enjoying the company of a strikingly attractive woman.

  Her gaze intersected with his and she halted, apparently startled. He noticed the flicker of caution in her eyes. It vanished almost instantly, replaced by a cordial smile that struck him as less than genuine.

  He reminded himself that he couldn’t jeopardize the project by being intransigent. For the firm, for his own sanity, for the proof it offered that his identity hadn’t been entirely swallowed by D.J., he had to make this house happen.