Read Online Lullaby and Goodnight by Wendy Corsi Staub - Free Book Online

as self-consciously inferior.
    Shifting her gaze away from the woman’s huge ring, she notices that at least her nails aren’t long and perfectly polished, as one might expect in a city where weekly manicures are requisite. Derry unclenches her own ravaged fingertips a little, no longer quite as desperate to hide them in the folds of her sweater.
    There’s nothing critical in Rose’s mascara-fringed eyes as she says, “I’m sure you have a lot of questions. Why don’t you go ahead and ask them?”
    Linden, who has been skeptical about this process from the start, promptly opens his mouth.
    Before he can throw a wrench—or a dangling participle—into the precarious proceedings, Derry blurts, “Tell us about the mother in Iowa.”
    A shadow crosses Rose’s attractive face.
    Uh-oh. Clearly, Derry said the wrong thing. She should have let Linden do the talking after all.
    Rose seems to be choosing her words with care.
    Finally, she says, “At Cradle to Cradle, we prefer to call expectant clients ‘donors.’ If everything works out the way we expect it to, Mrs. Cordell, you will be the mother. Not her.”
    Derry grins, the last of her reservations melting away like ugly late-winter slush.
     
    Rita’s cell phone rings just as it’s her turn to be waited on.
    “Can I help you?” the deli counterman is asking impatiently.
    She holds up a finger, motioning him to stand by while she answers her phone. “Hello?”
    “Rita. I’ve been trying to reach you all morning. Where have you been?”
    “Delivering twins,” she tells Nancy wearily. “And I worked up one hell of an appetite, so hang on a second.”
    To the impatient counterman, she says, “I’ll have a turkey sandwich on whole grain bread with lettuce and mustard.”
    “Cheese?”
    “ No.”
    “Tomatoes?”
    “No. Just lettuce and mustard,” she repeats with forced politeness, wondering why New York deli men always seem bent on making things more complicated. She orders the same exact sandwich every time she comes in here. Which is at least once or twice a week.
    Rita isn’t crazy about complications these days. Or ever. No, sirree.
    Into the phone, she says, “The second twin was breech. What a nightmare for the mother.”
    “And for you.”
    “She did all the work.”
    “Not all the work. Don’t sell yourself short.”
    Rita smiles, shaking her head.
    Leave it to Nancy to turn her into the hero. The woman’s specialty, aside from gossip and perpetually feeling sorry for herself, is definitely stroking egos. No wonder Bill Lombardo hired her years ago. Nancy always knows just what to say to flatter him.
    It’s a God-given gift, as far as Rita’s concerned.
    “You know how I feel about my work, Nancy. It isn’t brain surgery. I just make sure I’m there, and I let nature take its course.”
    “Most midwives would beg to differ.”
    “Listen, sugar pie, you and I both know that women have been giving birth for quite some time and anyone is capable of doing what I do,” says Rita, who frequently points out that it wasn’t so long ago that most women acted as midwives for their daughters and sisters and friends.
    “You’d better not say that in front of your patients, or they won’t be willing to pay you,” Nancy warns her. “Anyway, listen, I was wondering if we could set up another home-birth seminar here in the office for sometime next month.”
    “You don’t think I’m busy enough?” Rita asks with a laugh, plucking a bottle of sweetened iced tea from the refrigerated case adjacent to the counter. “I’ve already got my hands full with patients and support groups—which reminds me, I’ve got to reschedule that Pregnant and Single meeting. I’ve had to cancel on them twice at the last minute.”
    “Nature of the business,” Nancy says lightly. “And they’ve been meeting anyway. I think they just like bonding with other women who are in the same boat. So can we set something up for the office?”
    “I’ll call you