Lullaby and Goodnight Read Free Page A

newborn with her auburn hair and green eyes, or Linden’s blond hair and blue eyes, or perhaps a striking combination.
    That’s all she wants. A child all their own, a biological child with Cavanaugh and Cordell blood running through its veins. Is that too much to ask?
    â€œRight this way,” says a familiar, perpetually smiling nurse who greets them at the door with a clipboard and a manila folder in her hand. “How are you today, Mrs. Cordell?”
    â€œFine,” Derry murmurs.
    In the corridor, an attractive woman with shoulder-length light brown hair slips past them on her way out of the dressing room adjacent to the examining room.
    She’s wearing an expensive-looking suit the same chestnut shade as her hair, and has a camel dress coat draped over the crook of one arm and a chic leather shoulder bag over the other.
    She’s the kind of woman Derry has always envied: tall, sleek, slender. Her shiny hair is tucked behind her ears in an effortless yet elegant style. She probably has a perfect manicure, and pedicure, too. Derry, whose nails are ragged from incessant biting and whose wavy tresses are caught back in a plastic banana clip, is just over five feet tall and perpetually carrying an extra twenty-five pounds.
    As the other woman passes, Derry does her best not to stare. Or glare.
    â€œThanks again, Nancy,” the woman says over her shoulder to the nurse.
    â€œCongratulations again, Peyton,” the nurse replies, beaming.
    Congratulations? In this office, that can only mean one thing. The woman is pregnant.
    Derry is momentarily stilled by a fierce stab of jealousy as she stares after the retreating stranger in dismay.
    You should feel hopeful, not resentful, she chides herself. If she’s pregnant, you can get pregnant, too.
    But what if the woman paid a fortune for infertility treatments? She looks as though she can afford it. Derry, in five-dollar Kmart clearance sneakers and too-snug ten-year-old jeans, cannot.
    She shouldn’t even be here, really. Her regular ob-gyn is up in the Bronx, where she lives. But one of her neighbors recommended this fancy Manhattan doctor, saying that if it weren’t for him, her daughter couldn’t have given her three grandchildren.
    Derry would like nothing more than to give her aging mother three grandchildren. Then perhaps they could find the common ground that has eluded their relationship, particularly since Derry moved across the country against her parents’ wishes.
    â€œRight in here,” the nurse says pleasantly, indicating an empty examination room.
    â€œThanks, Nancy.” Derry nods, as though she and Dr. Lombardo’s nurse have always been on a first-name basis when in reality, she never even paid attention to the woman’s name tag in the past.
    You should be more aware of things like that from now on, she tells herself.
    Not that being casually friendly with the fertility specialist’s staff has any bearing on whether or not she’ll eventually find herself on the receiving end of pregnancy congratulations. But it can’t hurt, right?
    Linden steps back to allow Derry to step over the threshold ahead of him.
    She’s careful to do it with her right foot.
    Yes, if she steps over the threshold with her right foot, everything will be all right.
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    Out on the street, Peyton is greeted by a burst of icy air. Overhead, the midtown skyscrapers are outlined against a pastel blue backdrop, milky February sunshine cascading down between them to cast her lanky shadow on the dry concrete sidewalk.
    She smiles at the notion of how drastically that silhouette is going to change in the coming months. Glancing down at her stomach as she buttons her long cashmere coat over it, she imagines that it’s the tiniest bit swollen. She knows it isn’t, not yet. But soon enough, it will be.
    A man in a trench coat brushes by her, jostling her slightly with his briefcase. Peyton’s arms