Lullaby and Goodnight by Wendy Corsi Staub Page B

Derry could conceivably be wearing shorts instead of corduroy and this polyester-blend sweater she bought to go with the pants. She bought a couple of new blouses that would have been better. A ruffled blue one, and a peach one with a broad collar.
    But she chose the sweater because she was going for an upscale, suburban housewife look. Very classic, very together. Hopefully, Rose Calabrone won’t notice that her hair-spray-tamed bangs are dampened with sweat.
    â€œCome on in,” Linden says cordially, stepping back and holding the door open. He looks awkward in the suit and tie Derry insisted he wear. Maybe his regular clothes would have been better, she thinks, noting that the suit doesn’t fit right and the tie’s shape is outdated. The powder blue dress shirt beneath the jacket has short sleeves. Like the suit, it’s the only one he owns. Linden is under strict orders not to remove the coat, no matter how hot it is.
    â€œWhy not?” he asked sourly just before the buzzer rang.
    â€œBecause nobody wears short sleeves with a suit. And because sweaty armpits will show up on that light blue.”
    As the visitor steps into their home at last, Derry sweeps the freshly scrubbed living room with the same critical eye that found grievous fault in her husband.
    Is it obvious that the “coffee table” is really a piano bench long ago scavenged from the curb? Or that the peach-colored drapes in the room’s lone window are homemade? Or that the throw pillows are as frayed as her nerves?
    At least the throw rug is new, and you can’t see the worn spots on the couch slipcover. Thank God for Odd Lot, and for the dimmer switch on the overhead light.
    â€œCan I get you some coffee, Ms. Calabrone?” Derry asks, wishing she had thought of making a pot in advance. The scent of brewing coffee would make any house more homey.
    â€œIt’s Mrs. Calabrone, actually, but you can call me Rose.”
    Derry can’t help thinking that bodes well for a long-term relationship. You don’t encourage a first-name basis with people you don’t expect to see again.
    Or maybe Derry’s just grasping at straws, looking for signs that this, at last, is the answer to their prayers for a child.
    â€œCoffee, Rose?” she asks again, and the woman hesitates, then politely declines.
    Perhaps she would have accepted a cup if she thought it were no trouble. If she had stepped in and the apartment smelled like fresh coffee.
    Yes, and Derry should have baked cookies, too, rather than buying those Easter-themed Oreos with the pastel-tinted cream. Now they’re sitting on a plastic-wrapped plate in front of the couch, ready to serve. What was she thinking?
    You were thinking that fancy-colored Oreos were a step up from the generic-brand sandwich cookies you and Linden usually buy. You were thinking that a child should grow up in a home with plenty of Oreos on hand.
    Meanwhile, Mrs. Calabrone—Rose—probably thinks that a child should grow up some place where homemade treats are the norm.
    Well, it’s too late for cookie-baking and coffee-brewing now. It’s sink or swim time for the Cordells.
    At least I’m not working anymore, Derry tells herself optimistically. They probably don’t like working mothers.
    Linden has led Rose to the couch, having completely forgotten—or ignored—Derry’s adamant previsit instructions.
    She hastily sidesteps the makeshift coffee table and says, with a pointed glare at her husband, “I think you’ll be more comfortable in this chair, Rose.”
    Yes, because the chair, though threadbare, doesn’t squeak or sag or smell like cat pee.
    Hopefully the lilac-scented candle flickering beside the plate of cookies masks the odor, because the woman has already seated herself on the couch, saying, “This is fine, thanks.”
    There’s nothing for Derry to do but sit in the chair herself, with Linden perched on the