Their Baby Girl...?: The Baby Mission / Her Baby Secret. Marie Ferrarella
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She turned her focus on Rodriguez. After all, he was the one who was getting married and should be informed about this kind of thing. Her guess was that he was generally ignorant of the little niceties that women craved.
“You know, draw her bath, wash her hair for her in the sink, do her nails.” Nothing. Rodriguez’s face was still blank, and Culpepper was laughing. She threw up her hands. “What am I, speaking in tongues here? Haven’t any of you guys ever heard of pampering a woman?”
Culpepper stopped laughing. “That kind of thing really turns women on?”
She patted his chest. “Try it tonight on Adele and see.”
He snorted, waving away the suggestion. “If I try washing her hair, she’ll probably think I was trying to drown her.”
“You’re not supposed to drag her by her hair to the sink,” C.J. pointed out, then shook her head as she looked at Warrick. “See what I mean? Neanderthal. I rest my case.”
Warrick had the impression she was saying more to him than the actual words conveyed. But then he told himself to knock it off, he was starting to babble in his head.
Wanting to kiss a woman did that to a man.
He shut his mind down.
Culpepper regarded her with blatant curiosity in his eyes. C.J. thought for a second that perhaps she had a convert. “How about you, Jones? Does that kind of thing turn you on?”
She might have known better. This was getting a bit too personal. “Solving murders turns me on.”
“Oh, tough lady,” Culpepper deadpanned.
“Yes, and don’t you forget it,” she cracked, returning to her desk. She wondered if another canvass of the area where the last victim was found would yield anything. Maybe someone remembered some thing they hadn’t mentioned the first time around.
She felt as if they were going in circles.
“Hey, Jones,” Rodriguez called. “I almost forgot. It’s your turn to field the crank calls.”
She groaned, rising again. The more time that passed since the murder, the higher the ratio of crank calls to actual informative ones. “What are they down to? A hundred a day?”
Rodriguez sat down at his own desk. “Give or take.”
She groaned louder as she walked into the adjacent room.
Chapter 7
“How about Hannah? Are you a Hannah?”
C.J. looked down at her daughter, trying out yet another name on her. The christening had been postponed because Father Gannon had suddenly been called away on personal business. His aged mother in Ireland was ill and not expected to recover. She could, of course, go with another priest, but she had her heart set on Father Gannon. She could wait. And while she waited, she continued searching for that elusive middle name.
Wide blue eyes looked back at her. Picking the baby up, C.J. patted the small, dry bottom.
“No, huh? How about Annie? Annie do anything for you?” She held the baby away from her, peering at the almost perfect face, trying to envision her daughter responding to the name. “Nothing.” C.J. tucked her against her left hip. “Okay, Desiree, how about that one? No, you’re right, it’s all wrong. Napoleon’s mistress after Josephine, what are we trying to say here, right?” She sighed. “Let’s forget about this name game for now and get you some breakfast, Joy.”
C.J. hummed softly to herself as she walked back into the kitchen, the baby nestled against her hip. Outside, the world was dressed in dreary shades of gray, a rainstorm threatening to become a reality at any moment. But it was Saturday and she wasn’t going into work today. She intended to make the most of it and spend the day bonding with her daughter.
It amazed her how quickly this little person had become such an integral part of her life. She couldn’t begin to imagine life without her now.
The baby seemed to be growing a little each day right in front of her eyes. Each stage filled C.J. with wonder, but made her feel nostalgic, as well, something she would never have thought she’d experience. Nostalgic for the precious, small person she’d held against her breast, even though it had only been two short months since she was born.
Looking at her daughter, C.J. laughed softly to herself. “I don’t know, Baby, I’ve turned into a real marshmallow when it comes to you.” She opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of milk, then placed it on the counter. Maybe she’d just name her Babe and be done with it. Naw. “If I feel this way now, what am I going to do when you want to start dating? Hanging out to the wee hours of the morning with who knows what kind of characters. And all they’ll want is—”
C.J. stopped abruptly. Something akin to a revelation came to her. What she was feeling had been felt by mothers since the beginning of time. What her own mother must have gone through with her. She’d been more than a handful, determined to stay out as late as her brothers had, eschewing curfews.
Wow. Her poor mother. “Omigod, honey, I think I owe your grandmother a great big apology.”
With the baby still tucked against her hip, C.J. picked up the telephone and dialed her parents’ phone number with the same hand. She’d discovered she had an aptitude for doing a great many things with just one hand if she needed to, the other being recruited for far more precious work. Necessity was truly the mother of invention.
She heard her mother’s voice on the other end of the line. “Hello?”
“I’m sorry.”
There was a slight pause on the other end. “Chris, is that you?” Concern filled her mother’s voice. “Honey, what’s wrong?”
“Yes, it’s me.” She hadn’t meant to scare her mother. “Nothing’s wrong, Mom. I just wanted to call you to say I’m sorry.”
A note of confusion entered Diane’s voice, even as the concern lingered.
“Why, what did you do? Chris, are you sure you’re all right?” Her voice began to escalate as countless scenarios occurred to her. “You’re not in any hostage situation are you? God, I wanted you to go into your father’s firm instead of this cloak-and-dagger business. Why wouldn’t you listen to me for just once in your life? You were always too independent—”
C.J. found her opening as her mother took a breath. “Mom, slow down. I’m not in any hostage situation. I’m standing right here in my kitchen with the baby on my hip and—”
“She’s not a rag doll, C.J.” her mother admonished. “Use both hands.”
C.J. rolled her eyes. “Mom, can I just get this out, please?” She said the words in a rush before the next interruption could occur. “I’m sorry for everything I put you through while I was growing up.”
“You’re forgiven.” Her mother’s concern took another direction. “You’re not ill or anything, are you, Chris? Should I come over?” Not waiting for a response, she obviously made up her mind. “Give me a minute, I’ll just turn off your father’s breakfast and—”
“Mom,” C.J. raised her voice. “Mom, stop letting your imagination run away with you. I’m fine, the baby’s fine, I just suddenly had momlike feelings, and I realized what you must have gone through all these years with all of us. With me,” she added after a beat. “And I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry for the grief I gave you.”
“Well.” She heard her mother sighing a sigh she’d obviously kept in for years. “I’m glad I lived to see the day.” There was no pause whatsoever as she asked, “Now, does she have a middle name yet?”
Time to retreat, C.J. thought. “I’ve got to go, Mom, there’s a call coming in on the other line. Talk to you later, bye.”
She heard her mother sigh, murmur goodbye and then hang up.