into her pocket, jumped up, and rushed off to the slide, where Morgan had once again begun her slow, deliberate assent. She scooped the little girl off the ladder and, despite Morgan’s howls of protest, hustled her off the playground.
“See you again!” I called after her retreating back.
“Okay. Bye,” Lola said, without stopping or even turning back to look at me.
I’d obviously touched a raw nerve. I believed the nanny when she said that LeCrone didn’t hurt Morgan. Not because I didn’t think him capable of beating his child, but rather because I didn’t think Lola would stand for it. That little Filipina grandmother seemed perfectly capable of protecting her charge. Her reaction, however, made me think that LeCrone’s capacity for violence was not unfamiliar to the members of his household. It seemed pretty likely that he was beating up on someone, and I was willing to bet that it was his wife.
While all this was certainly disturbing, it didn’t get me any closer to proving that the man had killed Abigail Hathaway. All I’d succeeded in doing was ruling out one possible alibi.
I decided to put the LeCrones out of my mind for the time being and went over to Ruby, who was wistfully watching the children on the swings.
“Hey, big girl! You want me to push you?”
“Yes! As high as the sky, Mama! As high as the sun, moon, and stars!”
“Hey, what a coincidence! That’s how much I love my girl! As much as the sun, moon, and stars,” I said, kissing the top of her head. I picked her up and deposited her on the swing.
“I got a coincident, too, Mama. Mines is that I love you as much as there are elephants in the zoo!” Ruby squealed, her legs kicking in the air as the swing rose higher and higher.
“That’s a lot of elephants, Sweetpea.” I pushed her again. For one of the few times in my life I was distracted completely from everything except my daughter, rushingtoward the glare of the sunless sky, her copper curls shining and her mouth open in a yowl of glee. My breath caught as I tried to freeze that moment in my memory. I wanted to be sure I never forgot her that way, full of joy and absolutely certain that the world is a wonderful place, a place where Mama is always there to push, it’s possible to reach the moon on a swing, and the zoos are bursting with elephants.
Six
T HAT night Peter and I had planned one of our infrequent, much-anticipated date nights. I fed Ruby her favorite dinner, macaroni and cheese. I tossed in a couple of microwaved broccoli florets (which would, of course, never actually pass Ruby’s lips), and I had a well-rounded meal sure to satisfy even the most scrupulous of nutrition advocates. Okay, not the
most
scrupulous, but good enough for me.
Once Ruby had finished her macaroni and cheese and pushed her broccoli into a pile at the side of her plate, I rousted Peter from his office, where he was pretending to work but really busily clicking his mouse and slaying Ganon and other cybervillains.
Once I’d convinced him that it was really time to go, I yet again found myself standing naked in my room, idly scratching my itchy belly and studying the contents of my closets, like I expected to find lurking therein a Sasquatch, a paving stone from the lost city of Atlantis,or the propeller of Amelia Earhart’s airplane. Or, at the very least, something to wear. Early in my first pregnancy I had excitedly gone to a maternity store, happily imagining myself in all sorts of elegant ensembles that artfully disguised my girth while showing off my glow. Yeah, right. Elegant is not what the designers of maternity wear have decided is the appropriate look for their corpulent clientele. “Cute” is the adjective of choice. Bows, ribbons, little arrows pointing down at the belly. Prints of smiley faces and happy flowers. Lots of pink.
I don’t know who decided that pregnancy requires the infantilization of a woman’s wardrobe, but I’d like whoever it was to spend a few
“See you again!” I called after her retreating back.
“Okay. Bye,” Lola said, without stopping or even turning back to look at me.
I’d obviously touched a raw nerve. I believed the nanny when she said that LeCrone didn’t hurt Morgan. Not because I didn’t think him capable of beating his child, but rather because I didn’t think Lola would stand for it. That little Filipina grandmother seemed perfectly capable of protecting her charge. Her reaction, however, made me think that LeCrone’s capacity for violence was not unfamiliar to the members of his household. It seemed pretty likely that he was beating up on someone, and I was willing to bet that it was his wife.
While all this was certainly disturbing, it didn’t get me any closer to proving that the man had killed Abigail Hathaway. All I’d succeeded in doing was ruling out one possible alibi.
I decided to put the LeCrones out of my mind for the time being and went over to Ruby, who was wistfully watching the children on the swings.
“Hey, big girl! You want me to push you?”
“Yes! As high as the sky, Mama! As high as the sun, moon, and stars!”
“Hey, what a coincidence! That’s how much I love my girl! As much as the sun, moon, and stars,” I said, kissing the top of her head. I picked her up and deposited her on the swing.
“I got a coincident, too, Mama. Mines is that I love you as much as there are elephants in the zoo!” Ruby squealed, her legs kicking in the air as the swing rose higher and higher.
“That’s a lot of elephants, Sweetpea.” I pushed her again. For one of the few times in my life I was distracted completely from everything except my daughter, rushingtoward the glare of the sunless sky, her copper curls shining and her mouth open in a yowl of glee. My breath caught as I tried to freeze that moment in my memory. I wanted to be sure I never forgot her that way, full of joy and absolutely certain that the world is a wonderful place, a place where Mama is always there to push, it’s possible to reach the moon on a swing, and the zoos are bursting with elephants.
Six
T HAT night Peter and I had planned one of our infrequent, much-anticipated date nights. I fed Ruby her favorite dinner, macaroni and cheese. I tossed in a couple of microwaved broccoli florets (which would, of course, never actually pass Ruby’s lips), and I had a well-rounded meal sure to satisfy even the most scrupulous of nutrition advocates. Okay, not the
most
scrupulous, but good enough for me.
Once Ruby had finished her macaroni and cheese and pushed her broccoli into a pile at the side of her plate, I rousted Peter from his office, where he was pretending to work but really busily clicking his mouse and slaying Ganon and other cybervillains.
Once I’d convinced him that it was really time to go, I yet again found myself standing naked in my room, idly scratching my itchy belly and studying the contents of my closets, like I expected to find lurking therein a Sasquatch, a paving stone from the lost city of Atlantis,or the propeller of Amelia Earhart’s airplane. Or, at the very least, something to wear. Early in my first pregnancy I had excitedly gone to a maternity store, happily imagining myself in all sorts of elegant ensembles that artfully disguised my girth while showing off my glow. Yeah, right. Elegant is not what the designers of maternity wear have decided is the appropriate look for their corpulent clientele. “Cute” is the adjective of choice. Bows, ribbons, little arrows pointing down at the belly. Prints of smiley faces and happy flowers. Lots of pink.
I don’t know who decided that pregnancy requires the infantilization of a woman’s wardrobe, but I’d like whoever it was to spend a few
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