LITMIR.BIZ

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months, at least until recently, he’d been living in the same city as this Mystery Mom and his own son. He could have passed them on the street, sidestepping the baby’s stroller. Now that he’d known they existed, they were in the middle of nowhere. Where in the world was Blue Lake? He’d dug out a road atlas and could barely find it, a tiny dot in the midst of the Berkshires.

      Barely twenty-four hours after receiving the investigator’s report, Jack was on his way, and the same map sat crumpled on the passenger’s seat beside him. Against all the good advice he’d been given, Jack refused to send a professional investigator. He knew had to follow this trail himself, wherever it might lead. He had to see his son and this mystery mother firsthand, not the blurry image taken through a telephoto lense.

      He’d been driving for hours and had turned off the highway some time ago, traveling now on narrow two-lane roads that wound through the mountains and valleys of southern Vermont. It was late September and cooler than it had been down in New York City, the hillsides looking as if they’d been lightly touched with a paint brush.

      He drove through wooded stretches and small towns and through valleys where the view opened up to green pastures dotted with big red barns and lazy-looking cows. Lush green trees arched over head and handmade signs on the roadside advertised Pick your own apples and Fresh Eggs, Milk & Cheese, reminding Jack he hadn’t eaten anything since he’d left the city early that morning. But he didn’t want to stop, too intent on reaching his destination.

      He knew he had to be close to Blue Lake by now. Close to seeing his son.

      Charlie. He liked the name. He said it out loud to himself in the car, over and over again.

      Jack couldn’t wait to see the little guy with his own eyes. To touch him, or hold him. To hear the sounds he made, even the crying. He didn’t have any trouble picturing the boy. It was simple. Jack envisioned a miniature version of himself. Logically he knew it may not have turned out that way, but he couldn’t help it.

      He did have trouble picturing Rachel Reilly. What did she look like? Was she tall or short? Dark or fair? Slim or curvy?

      More importantly, what kind of woman was she? What kind of woman opts to get pregnant through a sperm bank, anyway? Some homely, lonely, forever single type, without any hope of having kids the usual way? Some radical Amazon who holds a grudge against men on principle? Some uptight prude who just hates sex, period?

      He didn’t want his son to be raised by any of the above. He wasn’t sure what his rights were in the situation, but he had money. Plenty of money. For better or worse, it’s not the best man who wins, Jack had learned, but usually the guy who can afford the best lawyers.

      Even if she wasn’t some nut case or recluse, what kind of mother was she? Jack had barely known his own mother before being dumped into the social service system. He couldn’t stand the idea of his boy being raised by any woman who was less than ideal—who wasn’t warm, nurturing, loving. All the things a mother should be.

      If Rachel Reilly wasn’t a good mother—wasn’t a great mother—he’d get his son away from her before you could say X chromosome.

      No matter what it took.

      Finally, a sign for Blue Lake appeared on the roadside. Jack turned and found himself driving down the town’s Main Street. He cruised down the avenue slowly, surprised to see the quaint, old-fashioned architecture—well-kept shops and restaurants on a busy main thoroughfare. There were awnings and flower boxes, wrought-iron street lamps and a town square with a big white gazebo in the middle.

      If Rachel Reilly had to stick herself in the middle of nowhere, at least she picked a pleasant middle of nowhere. He scanned the numbers on the doorways, trying to find her address. Finally at the end of the thoroughfare, he came to number 533, a Queen Anne style Victorian with a wraparound porch and a turret on the third floor.

      Freshly painted, the house was an eye-popping combination of pale pink with magenta shutters and a yellow door with touches of violet blue and bright white trim. Just this side of overdone, but the English style garden in front and white picket fence lent an overall effect that was fanciful and stunning.

      A hand painted wooden sign hung from a post in the middle of the garden:

      Pretty Baby—Unique treasures for babies & toddlers ~ Clothing, Toys, Furniture and More! ~ Made with a loving touch.

      A loving touch. He liked that phrase. So far, so good.

      But Rachel Reilly might not have anything to do with this store. He couldn’t jump to conclusions.

      There was plenty of space to park in front, but Jack drove down the street and chose a spot out of sight. His car—which cost more than most people made in a year—seemed as conspicuous as a rocket ship. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself if he could help it.

      The information from the investigators hadn’t included anything about a baby store. He studied the house some more, deciding there must be an apartment on the second and third floor. Maybe she lived up there. Maybe he should just sit and wait for her to come in or out of the building, like a real PI would do.

      But Jack had never been big on patience. He’d driven all day and was dying to catch even a glimpse of his son. Maybe someone working in there could give him some information.

      He checked his image in the rearview mirror. Chocolate brown eyes stared back at him. He never had trouble attracting women and more than a few had told him he was handsome. But Jack didn’t see it. Especially not today.

      He’d started the drive early and now looked worn out and even needed a shave. Well, there was no help for it. The grubby look was sort of country-like, wasn’t it? Helped him blend in with the scenery?

      Pocketing his car keys, he and climbed out. At the last minute, he pulled off his leather jacket, trading it for a gray sweatshirt he spotted behind the driver’s seat. He tugged it on and pulled up the zipper. There, instant “working man,” he thought. His black T-shirt was expensive but nondescript. His jeans had cost a small fortune, but had the fashionable worn out look that wouldn’t give him away.

      He didn’t like the feeling of going “undercover” like this. Deception wasn’t part of his character. But under the circumstances, it was probably wiser. He didn’t know anything about this woman beyond the bare essentials. He had to find out more about her before he could decide what to do.

      She held all the cards in her hand.

      She had his son.

      * * *

      The sound of the bell on the shop door made Charlie stir in her arms. He’d just about dropped off but the noise disturbed him. Now she’d have to pace a few more moments—while singing a few more verses of “Rockin’Robin”—before he would conk out and she could set him down in his portacrib.

      This mother-shopskeeper juggling act was tricky. Some days it seemed like a complete disaster. But she had made the right choice, Rachel kept reminding herself. Things would work out. Eventually.

      Having Charlie with her in the store hadn’t seemed to hurt sales any. Most people enjoyed seeing a real live baby amidst the baby paradise she’d created in Pretty Baby.

      If some customers got impatient or even walked out, what could she do? Charlie was her priority. She’d purposely designed the shop—designed her entire life—so that her son came first. He was with her all day and had his own daycare room where he could sleep, eat, play and do everything a ten-month-old needed to do.

      Besides, it was best to let them browse a while before she pounced. There was so much to look at, most people forgot what they’d come in for.

      Rachel hummed and paced and soon felt Charlie’s body heavy and slack, his breathing deep. She set him down gently and tiptoed to the doorway.

      “I’ll be right with you. Just one more second,” she called out softly to her customer.

      “No problem” a deep male voice called

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