How she'd ever ended up in his gigantic arms—a tiny, pink bundle that was moving just slightly—he'd never know.
And they'd all left him, probably thinking he'd want some time alone with her, the assisting nurse pressing her into hands that she apparently didn't notice were shaking like the leaves of a mighty oak in a hurricane.
But the truth was he had less than no experience with babies—as he'd been telling his wife frequently over the past nine months. And he had absolutely no inkling what to do with her, besides doing his very best not to accidentally hurt her or crush her—or kill her, like he'd…
The thought filled him with dread, the familiar black cloud descending over him, every muscle in his body tightening against it, his mind rioting—
And then the feisty bundle—who was entirely unaware and uncaring as to his inner struggles—began wiggling more frequently—more forcefully—as she chafed against the swaddling—dragging his mind away from his terrifying thoughts. So he forced himself to concentrate on her, putting her down on hard, muscular legs he had clamped tightly together and hesitantly, at first, then with more confidence, unwrapped her like the giant burrito she'd been made into, until she was lying there on her back, wearing nothing but her diaper, those little arms and legs waving furiously, her mother's in miniature rosebud lips open only enough to yawn and whimper before those clear blue eyes found his with the delicate, dedicated force of a sledgehammer to his chest.
Barely able to breath, he was lost; any reservations he might have had, any concerns he might have felt about his ability to be a good father—all of that—utterly destroyed by a five pound, seven-ounce ton of bricks with a look that was all him.
He knew he was just as lost now as he'd been when he'd looked into her mother's soulful blue eyes for the first time—when she had brought him to his senses after they'd been reunited.
He'd known she was his, too, with absolutely no doubt in his mind whatsoever, however reluctant she might have been in the beginning to acknowledge that inevitable, irrefutable fact, to herself or to him.
Placing a hand along either of the baby's sides revealed just how miniscule she was, reinforcing the protective feelings that already swelled painfully within every atom of him, the heels of his too rough hands touching her palms just about at her ankles, the tips of his fingers reaching her ears as he slid them beneath her and scooped her up, neither father nor daughter breaking eye contact as he did so. He lifted her only enough to kiss her wrinkled old woman forehead, consciously refraining from a nearly irresistible impulse to lay his stubble roughened cheek against hers, lest he hurt her in any way, handling her more carefully than he'd ever handled anyone or anything in his life—save her mother—as if she was an I.E.D. that might explode in his hands.
She inspired at least that much fear in him, too, although he knew now—more so than ever before—that there was no hope for it, no escape from it, no solution but to bear it, for her and her mother's sakes, and, if he was honest with himself, his own, too.
When he lay her back down on the cradle of his thighs and tried to withdraw his hands, a randomly waving hand caught the very tip of his pinky finger, which was almost as thick as her entire arm, in a grip that was surprisingly, wonderfully strong for such a fey little thing, bringing it immediately to her mouth to suckle while he watched, enchanted, as—unseen and unheeded—several darkened blotches appeared on the folds of the pink blanket beneath her.

* * *

Ooga-chaka, ooga, ooga, ooga-chaka
Beryl glanced at her phone, and, not recognizing the number of whoever was calling her, she pressed "decline" to send it to voicemail, her eyes slipping unbidden to it curiously back and forth from her lunch while her friend nattered on about something she was only half paying attention to.
Whoever it was didn't deign to leave a message.
It wasn't the first time someone had called from that particular number, but she wasn't in the habit of answering calls from anyone she didn't know. If they didn't choose to leave a voicemail, then it must not have been very important, she tried to convince herself.
Usually, she was able to jettison such incidents from her consciousness quickly and easily with that thought, but the caller's sheer persistence had tickled her mind—it wasn't as if someone could have been constantly fat fingering a number; her greeting mentioned hers quite clearly—which set her overanxious and worry-prone mind a bit on edge.
"Are you listening to me? Have you heard a word I've said in the past twenty minutes?" came the mildly irritated query from across the table.
Coloring slightly, she still managed to frown at her friend as she ticked off potential topics she might have missed her friend inevitably covering. "Let me guess—Larry from work is still ignoring you, your boss is still a misogynistic ass, and Jon Snow has yet to appear in your bedroom with his big, bad sword?"
A rolled up straw paper smacked her cheek in lackadaisical retaliation. "I wasn't talking about any of those subjects, I'll have you know." Olivia's nose wrinkled. "What's going on with your phone that's got you so out of sorts?"
"Nothing," Beryl answered, surgically stabbing a black olive—in order to avoid the dreaded pepperoncini—out of her salad with much more force than was truly necessary.
"Doesn't seem like nothing to me—I've never seen you so antsy. Tell your best friend now," she cajoled smarmily. "If you can't tell me, who can you tell? I know where all your skeletons are buried, and I still, well, tolerate you, anyway."
Ignoring the faint praise, she answered, "It's nothing…just…"
The other woman's eyebrows rose to her hairline in silent expectation—with not a little snarkiness thrown in for good measure.
"Fine," she sighed in resignation, knowing Liv wasn't going to let it go. "Someone's called me multiple times from a number I don't know."
"What someone?"
Beryl merely rolled her eyes at that inane question.
Aware her question was a bit obtuse, Olivia agreed, "All right, all right. Point taken. How many times have they called?"
"Four or five, I haven't kept track," she lied blithely, even though she knew she wouldn't get away with it.
"Liar."
It didn't pay to try to slip one by Olivia. They'd been friends for entirely too long for her to be able to get away with that.
"Fine. That was the eighth time."
"The eighth?" She sounded genuinely surprised. "Sounds like it might be important."
"But not enough so to leave a message, which has me suspicious."
"Well, your parents are gone, no siblings or husband or kids, so it can't be that someone close to you is in trouble—I'm the closest person to you, and I'm my usual fabulous self, as always."
Beryl snorted into her coffee. "And modest, too, of course."
"True, true. You're self-employed—"
"Read—starving artist," she interjected pertly.
"So it's not an angry boss. Bill collector?"
Frowning, Berri answered, "Not at all out of the realm of possibility, considering the fact that my bank balance hovers between zero and the national debt, but I use a local credit union, not some nameless, faceless big bank. Most collections calls will leave a message in hopes that you're going to call back and pay them something, and the call is coming from a West Virginia area code—I don't know anyone in West Virginia. I googled the number."
"That should have helped. What'd google have to say for itself?"
Shifting uncomfortably in her chair, she pushed her still loaded salad plate away, her appetite having deserted her with the subject matter. "Well, that's another thing. Besides identifying the area code, there was nothing for that number."
"Nothing?" Liv gave her a blank, uncomprehending look.
"Nothing. No misleading links, no suggestions of places to go that will do a reverse lookup, no ads, absolutely nada."
"That's—that's not possible. Surely, there were ads, at least."
"I used Google on Chrome, Safari's search engine, and whatever the latest incarnation of IE's is calling itself today. No help from them, either. Try it yourself," she suggested, giving the number to Liz so she could see for herself on her own phone.
When she received the same results—or lack thereof—she immediately began to hum the theme song from The Twilight Zone.
"Stop that! I'm uneasy enough about this without your so-called help."
At that point, their waitress arrived with their lunches—a piled high, completely homemade Reuben sandwich, big enough that she'd easily be able to stretch it out over three more meals for Olivia, and a pot roast sandwich, also completely homemade, with an inch and a half thick slab of melt in your mouth roast beef, sandwiched between two generous slices of white bread, then drowned in homemade gravy for Beryl, both served with delicately battered, thinly sliced onion rings on the side.
"This is orgasmic!" Liv groaned, sinking her teeth into an onion ring.
Berri agreed wholeheartedly as she followed her friend's lead and popped one into her mouth. "Absolutely—much closer to that state than I've been for quite some time."
Although she continued to mow her way through her meal, her friend gave her a jaundiced look. "You're too picky—you're just not willing to lower your standards to do so. You could get laid any time you want."
"I don't want," Beryl replied, as she always did when they had this discussion.
"You do, but you won't do anything about it, as usual, besides bemoan the fact to me."
In retaliation, she lobbed an onion ring at Liv, but it landed in her coffee, instead of the V of her neckline, which had been what Berri had been aiming at.
Luckily for her, her friend was too enthralled by her dinner to seek revenge.
"So, no suggestions about what to do about my mysterious caller?" Liv shrugged. "Have you tried calling them back?"
"No, but star sixty-nine gets me about as much as the Internet did, and even blocking it doesn't seem to do any good."
"So, next time, answer it."
Beryl looked dubious.
"You can hang up whenever you want. You don't have to stay on the line if you don't want to. Maybe it's the Publisher's Clearing House, telling you you've won millions!"
"More likely, with my luck, it'll be the IRS saying I owe millions in back taxes or some such other awful thing."
"Ever the optimist."
But her friend's suggestion must've sunk in, at least somewhat, because, when it happened again, in the early evening, just as she was tucking into some of her leftovers, she picked up the phone, saw the number, contemplated it for a few rings, then hit "accept" somewhat forcefully, as if that would convey to the caller that she was no one to be trifled with.
Her "Hello?" was crisp and businesslike, with no sign of the dry mouth or shaking hands she was experiencing.
There was a bit of a pause on the other end, which led her to believe that this might well be either a marketing call or a collection call, and, in either case, she was halfway to ending it before she heard someone ask, in a tone that was just as no nonsense as hers had been, "Is this Miss Beryl James Potter?"
She had been nervous enough just answering the call—no one, besides a few very close friends—knew—and certainly no one ever called her by—her middle name. She didn't even much acknowledge that she had one, unless pressed.
And was that a British accent she detected? "Yes. And this is?" "You were born in Hampstead, Vermont on August twelfth, nineteen hundred and—"
"Yes, I was. I know you've called me multiple times, although you've never been courteous enough to leave a message, and you seem to know an inordinate amount of information about me, while I have absolutely none about you. Who are you, and what, exactly, is the nature of your call?"
Another short, anxious making pause. "I'm sorry about the calls, but I did feel the need to talk to you, rather than to leave details that might prove confusing on a voicemail."
"What details?" Berri asked suspiciously. "I work for a governmental agency—" "Which one?"
"It's not one you'll have heard of. Frankly, Miss Potter, we—I—am in need of your help. You are—to put a fine point on it—a court of last resort for me and for a mutual friend of ours."
"A mutual friend?" The conversation was so bizarre that she wondered if she was being punked and began to look around the room, as if she was begin watched.
"Yes, I'd very much like to meet with you in order to answer your questions."
"Who is the mutual friend?" She was wracking her brain and couldn't come up with anyone. She didn't really have a lot of close friends, although she had a lot of casual acquaintances—certainly no one who would be in trouble with the government.
"I'd rather not say over the phone," he answered almost primly. "Then I'd rather not meet you," Berri shot back, already removing the phone from her ear. "Have a good eve—"
"Wait!!" There was such desperation in his tone that she brought it back. "I'm listening."
"Look, Miss Potter—" "Ms. Potter, please. And I haven't missed that you still haven't told me your name."
"Ms. Potter," he corrected eagerly, although he didn't volunteer any further information about himself. "The reason I'd rather not say this person's name is because that could put the person in considerable danger."
Berri sighed. "You realize just how ridiculous this conversation sounds from my end, don't you? I'm not the super-secret-spy type. My life couldn't possibly get any more boring. To say nothing of the fact that I have no idea who you're talking about—"
"I know. Believe me, I know. But I must see you. It is my greatest hope that you will want to help this person as much as I do."
"I-I don't think so. This is just too crazy to be real. I'm hanging up now, and I don't want you to call me ever again—" "Him! You'll want to help him, I promise, although I've just compromised him to a certain extent just in revealing his gender."
There hadn't been a lot of hims in Beryl's life. Her father—who had been a wonderful man—was gone. She had no brothers, no close male relatives, and no real lovers, just boyfriends—one of them being someone she misjudged completely who had turned out to be physically abusive, but most of whom were simply nondescript.
And very few of even those, none of whom she'd kept in contact with, none who would inspire her to go out of her way for them.
There was no one left. No one in her recent history, anyway. No one she'd seen since she was barely legal. No one whose memory she hadn't kept locked away from her heart and her mind, for her own self-preservation. The mere thought of him took her breath away, her fingertips finding their way to her now pounding heart. It couldn't possibly be him, could it?
She knew he'd gone into the military—he'd left her to do so, taking her virginity with him as he literally backed away from her while trotting out all of the familiar old tropes that he was too old for her and she was too young for him, for them to have any kind of real relationship, that she'd find someone else as he deposited her on her doorstep and drove away, leaving her with her tender heart shattered beyond repair and a bottom—as well as other intimate parts—that would remind her of him every time she sat down for the next week. And for a long time after that. So much so that she finally had to banish him from her thoughts altogether, in order to get on with her life as he had wanted her to do in the first place.
But just the possibility of seeing him again—she was ashamed to admit—even after all of these years—was more than enough to pique her interest. If that was what one called suddenly sopping wet panties.
Biting her lip, Beryl thought quickly. "I, uh, I will only meet with you at high noon, at a crowded place I'm familiar with." "Pelly's at noon tomorrow?" he came back with much too quickly.
Pelly's was the incredibly popular place she and Liv had been having lunch at when she'd told her about the calls. Beryl stood and immediately began to pull down the shades and pull the curtains closed on all of her windows as she circulated through her small, dingy apartment, checking that all of her doors and windows were locked.
"Tomorrow?" That was awfully soon, but she guessed it wasn't like a date, where she wouldn't want him to think she didn't have a life, despite the fact that she really didn't. "Yes. I'm sorry if that seems hurried, but time is of the essence."
Beryl sighed. "I'm not really sure why I'm agreeing, but, all right. I'll meet you there. I make no promises about helping, however."
He sounded more relieved at her acquiescence than she was really comfortable with. "Thank you. I'm well aware of just how…unusual this must all seem to you. Thank you, just thank you."
The phone went dead, and Beryl found herself staring at it for a while, as if it held the answers she sought.
The first thing she did once she came around, though, was call Olivia.


* * *

She knew who he was as soon as she saw him, standing there looking like a government hack in his dark suit and tie, when everyone around him in the tiny seacoast town was in beachwear or shorts or jeans.
"Ms. Potter?" He approached her as soon as he saw her. "Yes," Beryl agreed, putting her hand out. "And you are?" "Noah Cranford." She gazed at him suspiciously as they shook hands. "No badge or ID?"
He looked a bit embarrassed, as if he'd been caught with his pants down. "No, we, uh, don't go in for that kind of stuff."
Beryl simply continued to stare at him, not saying anything. She felt no compunction at all to ease his discomfiture.
Then he opened the door for her and all was forgiven. She was nothing if not a sucker for a man with old fashioned manners.
There was a line to get in, of course. Pelly's was always mobbed at lunch and today was no different—and that was exactly what she'd wanted. It took them twenty minutes to be seated, though, but they actually got one of the few coveted booths, which provided a little more privacy than the tables that surrounded them.
Noah pushed the menu away from him as if he'd been here a million times—like she had—and already knew what he wanted.
Contrarily, Berri opened the menu, then squinted a bit to see the specials that were conveniently written on the chalkboard behind him, which gave her a reason to look him over surreptitiously.
He was just about as nondescript as whatever hush-hush governmental agency he worked for could possibly want. Five-ten or so, short sandy hair, glasses, slim but not muscular.
"Hey, Berri—how ya doin'?" She knew their waitress, of course. She'd been working there since Beryl was a kid and had to be pushing the century mark, not that it had slowed her down any.
"Fine, thanks, Hilda. And you?"
"Same as always, dead and don't know enough to lie down. You want the usual?"
"It's not on the list of specials," she protested.
"When has that ever made a difference? You know we'll make you whatever you want."
"Well, then, how could I possibly turn you down?" she chuckled.
"And what'll your friend here have?" she asked while scratching down Berri's order for turkey casserole exactly as she would want it.
Noah barely looked up and answered, "Just coffee, please."
"Just coffee?" the two women said in unison, as if he had committed sacrilege.
"At least have a cinnamon roll. You'll hate yourself if you don't," Berri suggested.
Noah looked reluctant, but yielded to their greater wisdom, although she knew he was doing so in order to avoid a fight rather than because he wanted it.
When Hilda had made herself scarce, he got right down to business, hunching over the table as if he was going to reveal state secrets.
"Look, I am fully aware of just how weird this must seem to you, but I wasn't kidding when I said that you're my last resort."
Berri said nothing, sipping on her coffee and waiting for him to continue.
"In case you haven't worked it out, the person I want you to help is—"He literally looked around him before he finished his sentence by mere mouthing rather than saying the man's name, "Rade Buchanan."