The Detective's 8 Lb, 10 Oz Surprise. Meg Maxwell
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lost the restaurant she’d started fifty years ago. Well, Georgia would never, ever let that happen again. A man would never come between her and family again, between her and her own values again. She knew that for sure because she was done with men, done with romance. She had a baby on the way. Nothing would get in the way of Georgia being the best mother she could possibly be.
Given how not interested Nick Slater was in marriage and fatherhood, Georgia knew she didn’t have to worry about falling in love with him. About hoping for something that couldn’t be. Because she wouldn’t go there in the first place.
Had she thought about him last night as she lay in his guest bed, so aware of him in the room next door? Yes. Had she lain awake, tossing and turning as she remembered how he’d held her, how he’d made her feel, how he’d made love to her? Yes. And knowing he was right next door, in bed, brought back every moment of their night together. But Nick certainly had no romantic interest in her anymore, not after everything that had happened, everything that would happen five months from now. And she wouldn’t let herself have any interest in him. They would be coparents. Though Georgia accepted that she’d be doing the lion’s share.
Timmy stirred and Georgia moved on down the hall toward the parlor, finding herself lost in memories of her childhood as she looked at all the family photos on the walls and atop the old piano. “Time to start baking,” she whispered to Timmy, careful not to wake up her grandmother, whose room was on the first floor, or Clementine, who had their childhood room on the third floor. She brought Timmy over to the big window with its view of Blue Gulch Street and some shops and other restaurants. Then she brought him back into the kitchen and settled him into his carrier on the table by the window, ready to get to work.
The scent of chocolate cupcakes baking brought Gram into the kitchen, followed by Clementine a few minutes later. As it had yesterday, her heart practically jumped out of her chest at the sight of her beloved grandmother, so strong and healthy now, her chin-length white-gray hair pulled back with two pretty clips. And Clementine, her youngest sister, in her trademark yoga pants and long T-shirt and brightly colored flip-flops.
I’m home. I’m really home, she thought as her grandmother and Clementine beelined for the baby on the table by the bay window.
They marveled over how sweet and precious Timmy was while Georgia texted Annabel that they were all in the kitchen if she was available to come over. Annabel texted back Yes!!! Be there in a flash, and ten minutes later, Annabel arrived, her long auburn hair in a ponytail with three sparkly scrunchies, the work of her five-year-old stepdaughter, Georgia figured, smiling.
Annabel peeked at Timmy in his carrier and gasped. “He’s so beautiful! Look at those cheeks!”
Georgia laughed. “So pinchable! Not that I would really pinch them. I just love the baby-powder smell of him.”
Clementine put on a pot of coffee and then she, Annabel and Gram sat at the round table after Georgia assured them she didn’t want help baking. “I hope we don’t wake him up with our gabbing.”
“Well, I’ve only been his nanny for about twelve hours,” Georgia said, “but he seems to sleep like a champ in three-hour intervals.”
Annabel added cream to her steaming blue mug. “It’s so good to see you back here. I still can’t wrap my mind around what you went through in Houston.” Annabel’s expression turned grim.
Georgia cracked three eggs into the big silver mixing bowl on the center island. She didn’t want to talk about Houston, but she knew her family might need to. She’d told them everything yesterday after she left the police station, and their reaction, the fear and worry and sadness in their eyes, brought her to tears now. She blinked them away. It was over; she was here and safe. “Sometimes I can’t either. I’m just glad it’s behind me and that I’m home.”
Essie stood up and walked over to Georgia, wrapping her arms around her granddaughter. “I know why you stayed quiet, Georgia. I understand you were worried about us. And for good reason. But if anything ever happens to any of you,” she said, looking at each of her granddaughters, “you speak up. If the police can’t help, you bring in your own cavalry—family, friends, people who love you. I know it’s easy to say in hindsight.”
Each of them promised and Gram sat back down with her coffee, the conversation thankfully turning to Timmy’s cheeks again. For Georgia’s benefit, she understood. Of all the things Georgia knew for sure, it was that her family knew her inside and out. She’d told them she was pregnant and that Nick Slater was the father. They were giving her space on that too, not peppering her with questions. She sure appreciated that.
She added the cocoa to the batter, closing her eyes and breathing in the fragrant scent that never failed to soothe her. Baking had always had that effect on her—since she was a little girl learning at her mother’s hip and then at her grandmother’s after her parents had died in a car accident when Georgia was sixteen. Essie Hurley had taken in the three Hurley girls and given them time and space to mourn. Though there were three small bedrooms on the second floor, the three grieving Hurley girls had wanted to share one room, to be close together in the dark of night after having lost their parents, so they’d taken the big attic bedroom. Their beds had been lined up next to one another, with Clementine, the youngest, in the middle.
Like her sister Annabel, Georgia had found herself gravitating toward the kitchen but not watching step by step as Gram made her famed barbecue or pulled pork for po’boys the way Annabel did. Georgia had instead been glued to Hattie’s side. Hattie was Gram’s longtime assistant who baked for the restaurant. Cakes, pies, tarts, cookies. Back then, though, being a baker or pastry chef wasn’t even on Georgia’s mind. She had been something of a math whiz and knew she wanted to be involved in business, work in a sky-rise glass building and wear fancy suits with high heels to work the way businesswomen did in movies.
And for a while she’d been happy, working her way up the corporate ladder in Houston. Until she started missing home, missing a quieter, slower, easier, nicer lifestyle. When she’d first gotten involved with James, she thought maybe she was just waiting for the right man. Now she shuddered to even remember that she’d thought he was Mr. Right.
Some judgment.
I promise you, little one, she said silently to her belly. You come first. I won’t do anything that will jeopardize your future or happiness.
When Timmy started fussing, Clementine gently picked him up from the carrier. Clementine often babysat for folks around town and she held Timmy like a pro. “Someone left this tiny baby on a detective’s desk in an empty police station,” she muttered. “Who does that? Why not leave him with a relative?”
“Clementine, you really can’t judge when you don’t have all the facts,” Gram said, sipping her coffee. “There has to be a good reason the baby’s mother left him with Detective Slater.”
Georgia adored her grandmother, who always did the right thing or the fair thing, depending on the situation. She was so grateful for Essie Hurley. Last night, when she’d let her grandmother know that she’d be staying at Detective Slater’s house for the week as a live-in sitter, Essie only told her that sounded like a win-win for all parties. If she had anything else to say on the subject, she’d kept silent and would wait until she was asked.
“Left him on his desk,” Clementine reminded them. “And given what Georgia said about the timing—that he’d gone out for fifteen minutes to pick up lunch—obviously the mother waited until he was gone to leave Timmy. She didn’t want to be caught. She wants to be anonymous. Why? Because she’s trouble.”
“Or in trouble,” Annabel said.
“I just hate the way babies and kids are at the mercy of adults who don’t give a fig or put themselves in bad situations,” Clementine said, cradling Timmy close.
Georgia walked over to Clementine and put a hand on her sister’s shoulder. Charlaine and Clinton Hurley had rescued Clementine from a bad foster situation when she was just eight years old and were able to adopt her when her birth mother severed her parental rights. That day had