Vanished by Danielle Steel

forced herself to stay away from him, or even appear to be a little indifferent. But there were times when she couldn't feign the pose, times when she had to be with him, times when she crept upstairs at night on bare feet, and just looked at him while he was sleeping. He was more beautiful than any child she had ever seen, warmer, rounder, sweeter, lovelier, more perfect … he was the reward for all her pain, the gift from God for all she'd lost. He was everything she lived for.
    Of course Malcolm adored him as well, particularly his bright mind and easy ways. He had none of her tension or fears or anxieties about Teddy's safety. He was just an easy, happy child who brought joy to all who knew him.
    He had made Malcolm greedy for more for a time, and for the first year after Teddy's birth, Malcolm had hoped to get Marielle pregnant. But once again, their efforts had been in vain, and now with Teddy, Malcolm was less anxious to pursue it. His efforts were abandoned before success was gained, and now he and Marielle kept to their own rooms discreetly. She didn't seem to mind and both of them were content with the lives they led. At thirty, Marielle had a child she adored, a husband who treated her well, it was more than most women had these days, and Malcolm had the heir he had longed for. It was enough for both of them.
    And Marielle seemed calmer now in some ways, except on the subject of Teddy's safety. There she was leonine in her defenses. The Lindbergh kidnapper had been put to death more than two years before, but she still acted as though there was a potential kidnapper on every corner.
    Malcolm was grateful to her, she took excellent care of his child, she was a fine mother, a good wife, and she had given him the perfect, beautiful, bright, blond baby of his dreams. It was all he had ever wanted.
    As Marielle walked slowly up the stairs, she debated whether or not to go on, she wasn't really in the mood to endure the nurse, and she didn't want to disturb Teddy with Miss Griffin. But suddenly, she heard him. There was a chortle of laughter far away down an upstairs hall, and as she heard it, she smiled. She had already seen him that morning, and sometimes she tried to ration herself. She had to, or he would become an all-consuming passion. It was a game she constantly played with herself, never al-lowing herself quite enough, never being with him as often as she wanted, because she knew that if she did, she would go mad if anything ever happened. But in truth, the child was already woven into the very fiber of her soul in such a way that she couldn't have torn herself from him. But if she rationed her time with him, she could allow herself to think that she had kept some distance and freedom. Unfortunately, as a result, he spent the rest of the time in the constant care of the indomitable Miss Griffin. Malcolm had insisted she stay with them, and after four years Marielle still disliked her. And Miss Griffin still treated her like a somewhat deficient being. Her migraines, her nerves, her fear of kidnappers, her barely concealed, and obviously unhealthy, passion for the child, alternating with periods of restraint, Miss Griffin felt it was all symptomatic of a truly unworthy person, a view she was not embarrassed to share with any and all who would listen whenever she visited the kitchen. It was Malcolm whom the governess adored, Malcolm she respected, and secretly dreamed of. He was her senior by a mere four years, and had fate been kinder to her, it was Miss Griffin who would have stood in Marielle's shoes, not that pathetic, nervous weakling, as she sometimes called her. She still talked about the Lindbergh child, about how traumatic it had been, and where she'd been when she heard the news. Of course it had been an unpleasant business, but it had happened six years before, and after all, the Lindberghs had had two sons since then.
    Marielle stood for a long moment in the hall, listening to the child, smiling to