Nursery Tale by T. M. Wright Page A

wrong," she said. "We pregnant women just need our private moments."
    "Yes," he said, and paused. "But are you sure . . ."
    "I'm sure." She squeezed his hand to reassure him. "Nothing's wrong."
    "Okay," he said, though he sounded unconvinced. He stood. "I'm going to make myself some cocoa, anyway."
    "Miles?"
    "Yes?" He went to a cupboard, opened it.
    "Who lives next door, Miles?" She nodded out the kitchen window. "Don't the Gellises live there? Isn't that their name? Gellis?"
    Miles found the cocoa and went to the stove with it. "Uh-huh. I've said, let me see—" He feigned remembering. "Exactly eight words to them." He grinned, took a teapot off the stove, filled it at the sink.
    "Is she tall, Miles? Mrs. Gellis, I mean. Is she tall? And does she have long, dark hair—"
    Miles glanced at her incredulously. "Are you kidding, Jan? You've seen her, you were introduced to her, in fact, and she's just the opposite—"
    "Oh. Yes. Well, I was only wondering. I saw this woman out there"—she nodded at the window—"and I thought that at this hour of the morning—"
    Miles cut in, "There's something I need to tell you, Jan."
    "Yes?" she said, annoyed by his interruption.
    He mixed the cocoa and hot water, brought it back to the table. "Mr. Jenner called me at the office, today—"
    "The real estate agent?"
    "Uh-huh. He wanted to talk about that . . . thing—" He paused. "About the child they found here—"
    "I don't want to hear this, Miles. I really do not—"
    "Janice, I think it's way past time that you accepted Jodie's death! Five years, Janice, almost six—" He stopped. A cold, expressionless anger had come into Janice's face, had transformed it.
    "I know he's dead, Miles." She said the words in a strange, quiet monotone, her lips barely moving. "If you'll remember, if you'll take the time to remember, I was the one who found him, and I was the one who tried . . . to breathe life back into him—" She began to weep.
    "Jan, this is pointless. It's not Jodie we're discussing, for Christ's sake. We're discussing some poor, dead child neither of us ever knew. And I wanted to tell you that Jenner said the D.A. in Penn Yann isn't going to involve us in any investigation. He feels . . ." Miles paused; Janice had stopped weeping. The anger remained, but it was slowly dissipating. "The District Attorney seems to feel," Miles repeated, his tone softer, "that the Griffins were somehow responsible. Apparently, when the Griffins lived here, there were lots of rumors—"
    "The Griffins?" Janice cut in.
    "Yes, Jan. I've told you about them. Their house stood almost precisely on the spot where this one stands now."
    "Oh yes," Janice said. She remembered obliquely that it was something he'd told her weeks ago. "Yes," she repeated. The anger had all but vanished, now—only traces remained, as if she had come in from a frigid winter night and hadn't quite finished warming herself.
    "And the D.A. says the child was probably their responsibility—"
    "Miles, you've told me what you wanted to tell me." Her tone was crisp. "So, if you don't mind, can we please just drop it?"
    Miles looked silently at her for a moment; then, "Yes. I'm sorry. Let's go to bed."
    "You've barely touched your cocoa, Miles. Finish it. Then we'll go to bed." She smiled a tentative, apologetic smile. He smiled back immediately.
    She said, "Melissa."
    "'Melissa'?"
    "If it's a girl, Miles, we'll name her Melissa. And Francis if it's a boy. What do you think?"
    "Can we talk about it?" he said, grinning.
    "Sure we can talk about it. Make me a cup of cocoa and we'll talk."

    Fifteen Years Earlier
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    N othing marked the spot—no crudely improvised cross, no stone. All Rachel knew, as she looked out their bedroom window, her hand holding the heavy curtain aside, was that the boy had been buried "north of the house." Although she had—uncertain why—asked Paul to show her the exact spot, he had merely reiterated "north