Lullaby and Goodnight by Wendy Corsi Staub

small hand reaches up to touch the tears trickling down her cheeks.
    She brushes them away with the sleeve of her nightgown, clasps her son’s fingers in her own trembling hand. How long can she go on like this? How long can she continue to live one life by day, another beneath the shroud of night?
    â€œYou’re crying, Mommy. What’s wrong?”
    â€œMommy is fine, sweetheart. Everything is fine. Hush.”
    Hush.
    Slowly, Anne Marie sets the chair in motion again, rocking and singing once more, cradling her precious child against her breast.
    â€œHush, little baby, don’t say a word. . . .”
    Â 
    â€œHey, miss, you forgot this,” says the man from the store. The one who stole her melon.
    Relief courses through Peyton. When somebody came up behind her, she was certain she was about to be mugged, or worse.
    He smiles and thrusts a white plastic bag into her hands. “Here. I bought it for you.”
    Speechless, her heart still racing, she accepts it mutely, too shaken to offer her thanks.
    â€œYou okay?” the stranger asks, peering at her, and she nods.
    She reaches into her pocket and pulls out the five-dollar bill, holding it out to him.
    â€œNah, keep it. My treat. You know, it’s not a great night to be out buying fruit,” he points out conversationally.
    Finding her voice, Peyton says only, “No.”
    â€œDo you have far to walk?”
    She shakes her head, still holding the fruit in one hand and the money in the other.
    â€œGoing that way?” He gestures straight ahead.
    She can hardly about-face. There’s nothing to do but nod.
    â€œSo am I. I’ll walk with you.”
    Peyton hesitates. He doesn’t look like a crazed killer. But then, Ted Bundy didn’t, either.
    She should tell him to get lost. New Yorkers don’t trust strangers.
    But the latent naive, mannerly midwesterner in her stirs to protest that this nice man just spent seven dollars and sixty-three cents on her. The least she can do is allow him to fall into step beside her as she heads home.
    She glances around, hoping to see that a crowd has materialized on the sidewalk and traffic in the streets.
    In the distance, she can see cars flying along up Eighth Avenue on one end of the block and down Ninth on the other end, but the cross street is quiet.
    Still, there are well-lit apartment buildings and brownstones all around them. If this guy tried anything, all she’d have to do is scream and someone would help her.
    Then again, maybe not. This is Manhattan, not Talbot Corners.
    Peyton glances again at the man by her side.
    He seems safe. And he’s incredibly handsome. Even more handsome than Dr. Lombardo, with the same brand of dark good looks. She can see that he’s wearing a suit and tie beneath the collar of his black overcoat.
    She decides that he’s an exceptionally gallant man, and nothing more.
    Besides, what is she supposed to do? Tell him he can’t walk down this public street in the same direction?
    Reluctantly, she starts walking again. So does he, saying, “I’m Tom.”
    Peyton says nothing, her thoughts racing.
    â€œI know what you’re thinking,” he says after a moment, and she glances up at him in surprise. “You’re thinking that I’m some kind of lunatic prowling the streets for innocent women. Right?”
    She can’t help but laugh at his expression. “Actually, I . . . Right.”
    â€œI don’t blame you. But I’m really a nice, normal guy.”
    â€œI’m sure you are,” she says, though she’s anything but.
    â€œNo, you aren’t.” He reaches into his pocket for . . .
    A gun? A knife? A . . .
    Business card.
    According to it, Thomas M. Reilly is a biomedical science research technologist at a major pharmaceutical company.
    His safety level rises a notch.
    But what if this card isn’t really his? Short of asking him for photo ID, there’s no way Peyton