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Authors: Dennis Lehane
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minor chord, another, anoth--
What? Was that...Was that a baby's cry?
He put the guitar on its case, walked to the dry, shallow fountain at the foot of the statue, and, oh my God, there was a baby. The missing baby. Baby Alice.
He scooped her up, nestled her in his arms, and dashed to Beacon Street. There wasn't a car in sight. Damn. Plan B. He raced to their building and rang every bell. Someone answered, a man with a high, flowery voice.
"I found the baby," Jeff said hurriedly into the speaker. "The missing baby. I found it. Call the police."
McDermott, in plaid pajama bottoms and a Big Papi T-shirt, reached him first, and by the time Maya rushed downstairs in her robe and slippers, most of the building was in the lobby, waving at the baby, patting Jeff on the back.
"Look, Maya," he said breathlessly. "She was in the park. Under the statue."
"It's a miracle," she muttered.
"She doesn't look hurt," McDermott said, peering over Maya's shoulder.
Jeff nodded. He was crisp in new green khakis, a striped shirt from Brooks Brothers, and boating shoes, his hair combed, the part where it should be. For a moment, he drifted deep into the story McDermott had concocted. He felt like a man who'd done something worthwhile.
Wanting no part of the charade, Maya left to retrieve his guitar.
The police came. Two squad cars, burly guys in uniforms. The Herald beat the Globe there, and its photographer got him cradling the baby, cops surrounding them as they came down the brownstone steps. "Sox Sweep Yanks--Again!" read the Herald headline that ran alongside a vertical photo of Jeff and Baby Alice. "Our Angel Safe and Sound" was the caption. The story on page three identified him as a famous Hollywood songwriter. They got his first name right, all four letters, and found an old photo of him sandwiched between Linda Ronstadt and Bonnie Raitt taken at some benefit show long ago.
"That was an awful thing to do, Jeffrey," Maya said, turning away whenever he approached. "You need help."
Citizens Bank tried to give him the $5,000 reward they'd put up, but, as McDermott instructed, he insisted it go to Baby Alice. Her parents, cordial young lawyers who were saving to buy their first home, thanked Jeff by inviting him and Maya to brunch on Rowes Wharf. Over the meal, he learned the nanny was back in Nicaragua, courtesy of immigration services.
"Glad you got that poor woman deported?" Maya asked as they walked back to their apartment.
He was glad about a lot of things, if not that. The day after the baby was recovered, Jeff was flown to New York to appear on The Early Show , where he was interviewed about the Miracle of the Angel.
"Yes, I have some new songs," he said as the interview wound down.
"Will you be writing one about Baby Alice?"
"I like that idea," he replied, as McDermott had instructed when she media-trained him.
Some big country music star he'd never heard of asked to hear his new material. A publisher with offices in New York, Nashville, Los Angeles, and London offered to rep him. And a hip-hop mega-producer secured the rights to his old song from the movie, pledging to turn it into a hit again, "as soon as I find the look for the product."
When he finally returned to Beacon Hill, he hardly recognized the woman who greeted him. Despite the turmoil, Maya seemed content, energized yet at ease, all the sharp angles gone. The pace of the old town suited her, she said. She'd moved on. "Go back to New York, Jeff," she said, and he did.
DARK WATERS
BY P ATRICIA P OWELL
Watertown
P romptly at 7:19, right in the middle of Jeopardy! , the entire house went black; no electricity! and she'd had to rustle through her drawers to find candles to light up the kitchen so she could see to eat a tin of sardines with crackers and slog through half a bottle of Chardonnay. Later she had crept upstairs, weary and slightly depressed, to read peacefully a book on uncertainty she'd been trying to sink her teeth into for some time. She had
What? Was that...Was that a baby's cry?
He put the guitar on its case, walked to the dry, shallow fountain at the foot of the statue, and, oh my God, there was a baby. The missing baby. Baby Alice.
He scooped her up, nestled her in his arms, and dashed to Beacon Street. There wasn't a car in sight. Damn. Plan B. He raced to their building and rang every bell. Someone answered, a man with a high, flowery voice.
"I found the baby," Jeff said hurriedly into the speaker. "The missing baby. I found it. Call the police."
McDermott, in plaid pajama bottoms and a Big Papi T-shirt, reached him first, and by the time Maya rushed downstairs in her robe and slippers, most of the building was in the lobby, waving at the baby, patting Jeff on the back.
"Look, Maya," he said breathlessly. "She was in the park. Under the statue."
"It's a miracle," she muttered.
"She doesn't look hurt," McDermott said, peering over Maya's shoulder.
Jeff nodded. He was crisp in new green khakis, a striped shirt from Brooks Brothers, and boating shoes, his hair combed, the part where it should be. For a moment, he drifted deep into the story McDermott had concocted. He felt like a man who'd done something worthwhile.
Wanting no part of the charade, Maya left to retrieve his guitar.
The police came. Two squad cars, burly guys in uniforms. The Herald beat the Globe there, and its photographer got him cradling the baby, cops surrounding them as they came down the brownstone steps. "Sox Sweep Yanks--Again!" read the Herald headline that ran alongside a vertical photo of Jeff and Baby Alice. "Our Angel Safe and Sound" was the caption. The story on page three identified him as a famous Hollywood songwriter. They got his first name right, all four letters, and found an old photo of him sandwiched between Linda Ronstadt and Bonnie Raitt taken at some benefit show long ago.
"That was an awful thing to do, Jeffrey," Maya said, turning away whenever he approached. "You need help."
Citizens Bank tried to give him the $5,000 reward they'd put up, but, as McDermott instructed, he insisted it go to Baby Alice. Her parents, cordial young lawyers who were saving to buy their first home, thanked Jeff by inviting him and Maya to brunch on Rowes Wharf. Over the meal, he learned the nanny was back in Nicaragua, courtesy of immigration services.
"Glad you got that poor woman deported?" Maya asked as they walked back to their apartment.
He was glad about a lot of things, if not that. The day after the baby was recovered, Jeff was flown to New York to appear on The Early Show , where he was interviewed about the Miracle of the Angel.
"Yes, I have some new songs," he said as the interview wound down.
"Will you be writing one about Baby Alice?"
"I like that idea," he replied, as McDermott had instructed when she media-trained him.
Some big country music star he'd never heard of asked to hear his new material. A publisher with offices in New York, Nashville, Los Angeles, and London offered to rep him. And a hip-hop mega-producer secured the rights to his old song from the movie, pledging to turn it into a hit again, "as soon as I find the look for the product."
When he finally returned to Beacon Hill, he hardly recognized the woman who greeted him. Despite the turmoil, Maya seemed content, energized yet at ease, all the sharp angles gone. The pace of the old town suited her, she said. She'd moved on. "Go back to New York, Jeff," she said, and he did.
DARK WATERS
BY P ATRICIA P OWELL
Watertown
P romptly at 7:19, right in the middle of Jeopardy! , the entire house went black; no electricity! and she'd had to rustle through her drawers to find candles to light up the kitchen so she could see to eat a tin of sardines with crackers and slog through half a bottle of Chardonnay. Later she had crept upstairs, weary and slightly depressed, to read peacefully a book on uncertainty she'd been trying to sink her teeth into for some time. She had
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