"Not for a sitter." Especially at forty bucks an hour. She had balked the first time the woman at the agency had mentioned the price on the phone. "We represent licensed nurses with experience caring for infants and children," the woman had told her. "Sometimes you have to pay extra for peace of mind." And after they'd come home from a dinner and found their teenage sitter making out on the couch with a goth boy introduced as "Krispy," Leo had decided they needed to pay for peace of mind.

"The trip is more than a week away," Leo said as he pulled into the driveway. "Your medicine should kick in by then. Maybe you'll feel ready to handle Annie-bananee when the time comes."

Chelsea's hand squeezed the armrest. Better to pinch the h.e.l.l out of the car than lash out at her husband. "We'll see."

Their little house looked quaint, the yellow squares of light from its windows s.h.i.+ning cheerfully against the indigo sky. It was a cute house. So why did dread tug at Chelsea as she plodded up the steps? Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s ached and she suspected that milk had soaked through to her sweater. She had to get inside and pump or feed the baby, but every step was difficult.

Inside, the kitchen smelled of bleach and the fixtures over the sink gleamed.

"I think she scrubbed the floor." Leo nodded, impressed.

Chelsea wanted to point out that the woman was here to watch their baby, but it seemed like a lame argument when she'd left the house sparkling.

The living room smelled of lemon wax. The sofa cus.h.i.+ons were plumped. The magazines were fanned out on the coffee table, like in a doctor's office. Mrs. Rosekind sat in the Scandinavian rocker that Chelsea had restored. The lamplight turned her hair to pale gold. For a woman in her forties, Mrs. Rosekind had young skin, but the washed-out shade of her hair always reminded Chelsea of a schoolmarm. She was a little thick through the middle, but she wore it well, with strong cheekbones and cheerful animal-print scrubs, the kind that pediatric nurses wore. The nurse was reading a copy of Parents Magazine, which Chelsea hadn't been able to focus on since before the baby was born.

She glanced up, the line of her bifocals evident in the light. "How was your dinner?"

"Nice," Chelsea and Leo said in unison.

Chelsea wanted to escape upstairs and pump, but she didn't want to seem rude.

"Did she cry?" Leo asked.

"For a little bit." She rose and smoothed down her smock.

"I was hoping she wouldn't give you a hard time," Leo said.

"All babies cry, Mr. Green. But she took the bottle right away, and after some fussing she went to sleep."

"She really fights sleep at night," Chelsea said.

Mrs. Rosekind nodded sympathetically. "Little Annabelle might have a touch of colic."

"That's what I was thinking," Leo said. "Sometimes when she cries at night, it sounds like she's in dire pain."

"I hope she wasn't that bad for you. I know a baby like Annabelle must be more challenging than a good baby."

The nurse turned a stoic face to Chelsea. "Oh, they're all good babies, Ms. Maynard. Some of them just need more care than others."

"Well, sure." Chelsea fiddled with the b.u.t.ton of her jacket, feeling awkward. Of course Annabelle was a good baby. She was just stuck with a bad mother.

Leo paid the nurse, asking her if she could help out the following week when he would be out of town for business.

"Oh, no. I have a full-time job Monday to Friday, and my weekends get booked up weeks in advance. My husband would divorce me if I start working a second job during the week. But I do enjoy the little ones, and Annabelle is precious. She reminds me of my daughter when she was a baby."

Leo beamed. "Underneath all that fussing, Annie does have a great little personality."

"She's a sweet little thing," Mrs. Rosekind said. "And don't worry. I never mind the crying."

I hate the crying, Chelsea thought as she escaped up the stairs. She wished that she could say that in front of the nurse. I hate it all . . . the whole mother thing. And you're so good at it. You'd be a better mother for my baby. Why don't you take her home for a few days . . . weeks . . . months?

Just take her.

Chapter 8.

"You put dee lime in dee coconut, drink it all up," Leo chanted as Annie looked up at him with those amazing blue eyes that had won his heart from the moment she was born.

The delivery room docs had insisted that she couldn't see him because of those drops they always put into babies' eyes, but from the way she stared up at him, stern as a lawyer cross-examining a suspect on the stand, he knew the doctors were wrong. Annie could see him, and she wanted some answers. She wanted to know who the h.e.l.l he was, what the h.e.l.l she was doing here in this brightly lit room that seriously lacked decor-her mother's daughter-and why was everyone fussing over the lady on the other side of the curtain?

"You got a lot of questions for a little bundle with a b.u.t.ton nose," he'd told her. The surgical nurses had put him in a chair at the side of the room and told him to stay put with her. So, seeing all the questions in those eyes, he'd rattled off the answers.

"I'm your dad, Leo Green. You're in an operating room. Sorry, kid, but with a C-section you didn't score the birthing suite. And all those people in blue scrubs and hats and booties and masks are working on your mom. You'll get to meet her soon, and I'm pretty sure you're gonna love her. I know I do."

Leo had talked with his daughter from the start. He gave a play-by-play on each diaper change. He asked her what she wanted to wear. Whenever he gave her a bottle, he sang to her. And though she didn't talk back yet, the look in her eyes was enough of an answer. She liked his rap.

This particular Sat.u.r.day morning, it was the coconut song.

"Put a little burp in the coconut, then you'll feel better," he sang as he flipped her little body to burp her on his knee. He'd seen the position in one of Chelsea's baby books and Annie seemed to dig it.

A belch popped out, and he turned her upright in his arms. "That was a good one, Lady Baldy. Care for some more elixir of life?" He turned on the British accent as he offered her the bottle once again.

She started sucking again, less enthusiastically but that was okay, since she was almost done. This time he sang "Born to Run," singing to fill in the guitar licks. Thank G.o.d Annie-bananee was a good eater. With everything that was going on with Chelsea, he didn't know how he'd manage a picky baby.

And to Chelsea's credit, she had stayed on top of the feeding thing. Even though she was exhausted she had kept breast-feeding because she knew it was healthier for Annie and cheaper for them. She pumped milk a few times during the day so that he could do the nighttime feedings by bottle. And weekend feedings like this.

Yeah, Chelsea was trying, but after a week on the medication, he didn't see any signs that she was getting better. Granted, she hadn't had another crisis in the car, but she still wasn't the old Chelsea. She was listless and teary and lacking in energy. And with the Boston convention starting Monday, he worried about leaving Annabee alone with her.

The crisis in the car still worried him. In the past, Chelsea's freak-outs had involved harmless fantasies, like imagining Annie flying into the wall or thinking how her little body would fit into the oven. Sick ideas, yeah, but she had never thought to act on any of those visions.

Until last week in the car.

And the car-that was like a soaring rocket. A serious threat to his wife and daughter.

Annie had dozed off. He took the bottle away, and her lips still smacked at the air. Her eyes were closed, but her pale brows lifted in a hopeful expression, and then relaxed as she settled into a deeper sleep. Nothing else in his day gave him the same contentment as taking care of her. But now he felt like he was letting her down, going off to Boston and leaving her alone with Chelsea. And Chelsea didn't seem to trust herself. Last night she had begged him to bag out of the convention.

He had half a mind to call his boss and cancel the trip, but in the long run it would hurt his commissions and his chance for promotion. Boston was the plum conference. If he bowed out, he'd be cutting into his income. His family's income.

But he couldn't take the chance of Chelsea having another crisis . . . the chance of either his wife or baby being injured or worse.

He wasn't sure what to do.

With Annie napping in her bucket seat on the kitchen counter, he started making breakfast. Most meal preps started with a search for the kitchen knives from wherever Chelsea had hidden them. Today he checked the cabinet where they kept the pots, the high cabinet over the fridge, and the coat closet, where he located the butcher block of knives in the back with a scarf wrapped around the handles. The knife hunt was always a pain in the neck, but he indulged her on it.

He chopped chives and ham to put in the scrambled eggs, and took bagels out of the freezer. His boss, Mark, wouldn't be too happy if he ducked out at the last minute. s.h.i.+t. Well, it was worth a phone call to Mark's cell today, just to see how hard it would be to send someone else. He glanced at the clock and realized the call could wait. n.o.body liked to do business before eight on a Sat.u.r.day morning.

If he had to go, he needed some plan to keep Annie and Chelsea safe. Maybe Chelsea would agree not to drive the car while he was gone. He could hide the keys to her Subaru.

Yeah, but what if there was an emergency? His wife was a grown woman; he had to trust her with the car keys.

He just had to make sure everything was in order for her. He would clean the house today-thoroughly-and get everything under control so that Chelsea could focus on taking care of Annie while he was gone.

He sc.r.a.ped a block of cheddar against the grater. Yeah, take out your frustrations on a brick of cheese.

Major frustrations . . . and a fair share of anger that he kept tamped down way below the surface.

Leo considered himself to be a flexible guy. He could roll with the punches, but never in a million years had he expected this. To see his wife drained of life and enthusiasm. That she could become such a zombie that he wasn't sure if he could trust her with their baby. . . . That was sick.

With everything prepped for the scramble, he decided to flake a while and give Chelsea some more time to sleep. He switched on the television and paced over to the windows. A fine snow was falling, but it didn't look like anything that would stick. Across the fence, Louise Pickler's yard looked pristine-a bed of smooth white snow with a s.h.i.+ny melted glaze. Their neighbor was still at her winter place in South Carolina.

By contrast their backyard was a haphazard pattern of snow mounds and trampled areas where he had walked Annie around in the snow last weekend. A happy mess, framed by the fence that he and Chelsea had put in themselves. The memory of her boundless energy for the project made him smile. His beautiful wife had gotten right in there, mixing cement and fixing posts. In her baseball cap and overalls, she was a holy terror with a nail gun.

That was the sort of enthusiasm she brought to everything, before the baby.

He missed his wife.

His breath clouded the window and he turned away, looking at the clock and the foods chopped and ready to go. Suddenly, he didn't have the energy to pull it all together.

Besides, the whole world looked better after a nap. He'd crack this nut later.

He placed a receiving blanket over the sleeping Annabee. Stretching out on the couch, he pulled a fleece throw to his chin and closed his eyes.

Chapter 9.

Leo's voice, so animated and full of love, pulled her from sleep. It wasn't a bad way to wake up. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were thick and sore as she stretched toward the clock.

After ten thirty?

Leo must have given Annie a bottle so that Chelsea could sleep in.

"Don't be a wiggle worm." Leo's voice came from the nursery next door. "If we get this diaper on, you get to eat." Leo actually seemed to enjoy changing Annie's diaper.

The floor was cold on her bare feet, prompting Chelsea to move faster. She put on a robe and fished through the cluttered closet floor for her slippers as her husband cajoled the baby. He was pleased that her diaper rash was better, and he touted the fact that they'd been using "good old-fas.h.i.+oned Vaseline."

With all the books she had studied before the baby was born, all the tips on baby care, she had never thought she'd be too alienated to use the information. But whenever he was here, Leo was the one caring for Annie. Leo did the shopping. Leo did the cooking. If Chelsea didn't produce milk, she could physically bow out of the family triangle. She could be free.

Well, almost. Guilt would follow her like a gray shadow.

Her lips puckered as she struggled to hold back a crying jag. She took a deep breath and pulled the brush through her dark hair. Despite last night's sleep, there were violet circles under her eyes and her face was puffy. This was not a good look for her; depression was sucking her soul away.

Brus.h.i.+ng her hair back, Chelsea wondered if her mother had gone through this. If only she could ask her.

"Let's go wake up the mamasita," Leo told Annie.

"She's up," Chelsea called.

"Hey, sleepyhead. I'm getting Annie changed so that I can take her for a walk in the park when she finishes eating. I figure you could use some downtime."

"Sounds good."

"Don't worry," he told the baby. "We'll bundle you up. I'll zip you into that little pink puffy thing that makes you look like a Christmas goose."

She envied the easy conversation Leo had with the baby. He connected with her. He loved her.

"Don't you worry about Mommy," he said. "She gets to see you all the time, but I only get Annabee weekends and nights."

You would think he was talking to a real person.

Well, Annabelle was real. Just not close to possessing conversation skills yet.

She met them in the hall, where Leo held Annabelle so that she faced out, her little eyes s.h.i.+ning as she stared at Chelsea. In Leo's arms, she looked cute and innocent.

"The milk truck has arrived," Chelsea said, reaching for her.

"I'll carry her down," Leo offered, turning toward the stairs. "If you want, I can scramble some eggs while you're feeding her. I've got it all ready to go. You hungry?"

"Famished."

In her usual spot on the couch, Chelsea pulled the baby to her breast. Annie latched on and seemed to snuggle against her.

The emotion that tugged at Chelsea was bittersweet. She didn't mind feeding the baby knowing she'd be taken away for the rest of the morning. Was that normal? Staring down into Annabelle's serious blue eyes, Chelsea knew she had strayed from normal three months ago.

Leo chatted as he cooked. The weather. Annabelle's new Yoda smile. His upcoming trip. He was so darned happy; Chelsea hated to be the spoiler in his day.

"Hey, it's day eight, right?" He had been keeping track of her time on the Nebula. "How are you feeling? Notice any changes?"

"I do. They're not the happy pills I'd like them to be, but I'm thinking more clearly, and things don't seem to be as dark and overwhelming as they were a week ago."

"That's great!" Leo stabbed the spatula in the air as if it were a trophy. "You're doing great, Chels, and I know it will keep getting better and better."

Chelsea hoped he was right. She was worried about being on her own with Annie this coming week-a first for them.

When Annabelle finished nursing, Leo produced a plate of steaming eggs, a b.u.t.tered English m.u.f.fin, and orange wedges.

"Thanks." Chelsea didn't know what she would do without him. Leo was the only thing that kept her going.

"You're welcome." He checked the kitchen drawers, the hook by the stove . . . the drawers of the rolltop desk.