Dina Santorelli Read online

  Advance praise for Baby Grand:

  "Dina Santorelli has a natural talent for weaving together characters and scenes, creating a plot that grips tighter with every page. If you value your sleep, do not read before bed!"

  — Torre DeRoche, author of Love with a Chance of Drowning

  "What an enjoyable read! It pulled me in at the beginning and didn't let go until the last page. Very difficult to put down! I'm already looking forward to the author's next book."

  — Joseph Mugnai, publisher, Family magazine

  "A superb debut for Dina Santorelli. A well-crafted novel that's also a page-turner. Baby Grand's a winner; you won't want to put it down."

  — Julia Markus, critically acclaimed biographer and winner of the Houghton Mifflin Literary Award for her novel Uncle

  "Dina Santorelli has the gift of a natural storyteller, and Baby Grand sweeps along at a frantic pace, plunging the reader into a tale with wonderfully real characters you care about. It's very human, very exciting, and absolutely engrossing."

  — Chris Nickson, author of the Richard Nottingham series of historical mysteries

  Baby Grand

  By Dina Santorelli

  © 2012 Dina Santorelli

  Contents

  Advance praise for Baby Grand

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Baby Charlotte clung to the skirt of the sofa. She yanked the dense pleats this way and that with her tiny fist as if testing their construction, their ability to withstand duress. Satisfied, she extended her left hand up to the top of the seat cushion, her fat fingers clawing at the white piping along the perimeter, but after several attempts, including a last-ditch swat, she relented and laid down her arm. Quickly, as if not to lose momentum, she reached up with her right hand and grabbed a good chunk of upholstered fabric in the middle of the seat, and, while working her other hand up to steady herself, planted her feet and pulled on the material so hard that she let out a little grunt.

  Stunned, Charlotte stood against the sofa front, her arms stiff and locked into place, her hold so tight that the pink skin around her knuckles had become blotchy. She peered at the tops of the cushions, the silk decorative pillows, the things she rarely saw from her usual ground-level vantage point. Then she let go, holding her hands in the air dramatically, as if she were performing a death-defying circus act, and stood on her own, wobbling, for a full second before toppling back down onto her diapered bottom, a puff of baby powder released upon impact. She giggled.

  From a few yards away, Rosalia giggled too. She had been watching the determined ten-month-old for days as she attempted to stand on her own. It seemed like only yesterday that those blonde curls were zigzagging their way across the floor in a hurry. The only crawling Charlotte did now was straight toward the walls or sofas or coffee tables—any vertical surface, really—so that she could begin her climbing regimen. That morning at breakfast, Rosalia caught Charlotte, who was eating Cheerios in her high chair, studying the back-and-forth of her legs as she wandered about the kitchen. Rosalia tried to move a little slower for her rapt spectator, conscious of every step and muscle flex. It took her twice as long to unload the dishwasher and clean the countertop, but she enjoyed the attention—it had been a long time since anyone took such interest in her legs.

  Now Charlotte had decided to try a new tack: she placed her palms on the floor under her shoulders as if she were going to do a push-up and straightened her legs. With this approach, her butt arched up into the air and wiggled, but her little knees gave out, and she tumbled to the hardwood floor again.

  "Hmpf," Rosalia groaned, eyeing the unforgiving surface of the strip flooring.

  As beautiful as genuine hardwood was, Rosalia always had been fearful that the baby would hurt herself with every move across the floorboards. She had been only too happy to see several area rugs being brought into the house, which not only warmed up the worn, aged look of the historically decorated living and dining rooms but offered Charlotte more comfortable spots to crawl and play.

  Charlotte had found something interesting in the far corner of the room—the latest issue of Time magazine—and, taking a break from standing, crawled her way over to it. Rosalia left the kitchen to be sure that Charlotte would not be getting into any trouble, that there were no electrical wires or loose, small objects lying around, and took the opportunity to walk upon the sumptuous threading of the Persian area rug in the living room with her bare feet. Mrs. Grand frowned upon the staff taking their shoes off when indoors, even late at night or on the weekends, but neither the governor nor his wife were home, so Rosalia took the opportunity to stretch her tired arches. The hand-sewn rug felt good on her soles, and she bunched the pile fibers between her crooked toes. Rosalia smiled as Charlotte leaned backward and kicked her feet toward the ceiling and appeared to be reading the magazine, which was upside-down, over her head.

  The arrival of little Charlotte to the Grand household had been a blessing to Rosalia and had reignited a fire in her belly. Her own two children, who were grown and living downstate in Queens while attending college, didn't seem much interested in babies—having them or acting like them, not even for the sake of their aging and lonely mother—so Rosalia was more than thrilled when Mrs. Grand told her that she was with child, as she put it; she'd said it as an afterthought during Rosalia's year-end evaluation two Christmases ago. Rosalia suspected that Mrs. Grand had become pregnant mostly to please the press and her husband's constituents, and after the baby was born, the governor's wife seemed to want nothing more than to get back to her social calendar, which was a dream come true for the lonely housekeeper, who would become Charlotte's primary caretaker.

  Those first few weeks after Charlotte had been brought home, Rosalia had begun spending some nights at the mansion, rocking the baby to sleep and singing her the songs that Rosalia's own mother used to sing to give her good dreams. Rosalia had met every feeding and diaper change with enthusiasm and would sometimes just let Charlotte sleep in her arms during the day so that she could feel the warmth of her body against her breast.
In the past ten months, Baby Charlotte had grown into a beautiful, inquisitive, and headstrong child.

  Having spotted Rosalia, Charlotte scooted across the wood floor toward her, but made a pit stop at the center of the area rug in the main dining room, where her favorite doll, Miss Beatrice, whom Charlotte called MaBa, had been abandoned earlier.

  Rosalia returned to the kitchen to continue unpacking groceries. She sensed that she was running late, and she was right. It was nearly ten o'clock, time for Charlotte's morning nap. Rosalia tried to keep Charlotte on a strict schedule, so that she could do most of her chores in the morning and leave the afternoon free for playtime.

  There was a tug on her polyester skirt. Charlotte was trying to pull herself up, but she was slipping on the marble floor.

  "Ay, Carlota!" Rosalia said, bending down to scoop up the child. She ran her hand through Charlotte's tiny blond curls, and the child mimicked her motions by wrapping her little hand around Rosalia's long gray hair.

  "Time for a nap, my angel," Rosalia said, kissing Charlotte's forehead. "We play later."

  The nursery, tucked away on the top floor of the mansion away from the publicly viewed rooms, was a pale shade of yellow, and the furnishings were made of delicately hand-carved brazilwood, which also complemented a small bookshelf and an old-fashioned rocker. It was a pretty little space, decorated by some local designers who got their pictures in the area newspapers for their handiwork. The afternoon sun shone through the large window on the southern wall, and a cool, gentle breeze caused the sheer drapes to billow, giving the room a fresh scent.

  Rosalia placed Charlotte on her back in the crib, covered her with the checkered blanket that she had knitted, wound the mobile above her head, and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. "Te amo, Cara," she whispered.

  As Rosalia was leaving, she heard tiny protests from Charlotte, who remained lying on her back and peering at her through the crib bars, the blanket still neatly placed up to her neck. The child hadn't moved, but her eyes had followed Rosalia across the room, and her usually happy face had turned into a slight pout. Rosalia blew a kiss toward the crib as Charlotte's eyes blinked with drowsiness, and she turned and left.

  Downstairs, Rosalia entered the kitchen and turned on the baby monitor. She could hear Charlotte still making some weak sounds of disapproval. Rosalia took some boxes of crackers off the table to put into the pantry, which was well stocked with foods of all ethnicities and types, including a variety of cookies, the governor's not-so-secret guilty pleasure. Sometimes Rosalia would come to work in the morning and find cookie crumbs hastily brushed into the corners of the pantry floor and brand-new boxes of candy-topped chocolate-chip cookies, purchased the day before, half-eaten and stowed under full boxes. More than once, the governor had chastised Rosalia in front of Mrs. Grand for buying the bargain brand cookies, but when she wasn't looking someone inevitably would scribble things like Mini Oreos and Chewy Chips Ahoy at the bottom of her shopping lists. Rosalia never tattled, and she suspected that was one of the reasons she managed to stick around for six years, well into the governor's second term, while her coworkers seemed to come and go.

  Rosalia glanced at the baby monitor, which was now silent, the red indicator light showing an uninterrupted glow. She smiled and grabbed some more groceries to put away.

  After the kitchen counter was cleared, Rosalia ran her palm over the smooth granite, feeling for crumbs, and spotted Miss Beatrice lying face down near the dishwasher. She picked up the doll and examined it. The threading was beginning to unravel under the left arm; she'd have to fix that. Rosalia brought the doll to her face and brushed it against her cheek. She could smell Charlotte's shampoo on the fabric, and there were traces of baby powder in the seams. She tucked the doll under her arm and walked back up the staircase.

  The nursery was quiet. She tiptoed over to the far wall and placed Miss Beatrice on the top bookshelf with all of Charlotte's other doll friends who leaned lazily on one another with the familiarity of old pals. Then Rosalia had a thought: She picked Miss Beatrice up again, brushed her off, and matted down her hair as she walked toward Charlotte's crib. She smiled as she brought Miss Beatrice up over the bars to place next to the sleeping child.

  But the crib was empty.

  Chapter 2

  Jamie wiped the sweat from her palms onto the sides of her skirt, pushing down so hard that the linen hem moved forward and covered her knees. She had done it so many times that she imagined making grooves on her thighs in the way pacers wore holes in carpeting.

  She had been sitting in the lobby for nearly fifteen minutes, watching flamboyantly dressed men and very skinny women in short skirts hurry in and out of elevators chatting amicably; some held breakfast or stacks of papers in their hands, others zipped through with cell phones pasted to their ears, and, as if by consensus, all passed by with nary a glance at her. She sat a little straighter, imagining that invisible string pulling her up toward the ceiling, like her yoga instructor once had suggested, and tried to look calm and bored like when she rode the subways and wanted to thwart the would-be pickpockets hunting tourists. To pass the time, she tried to guess which of the four elevator doors would open next.

  A repairman was fixing a burnt-out recessed lightbulb high above Jamie's head, causing threadlike dust to hang and tumble in the air. She swished herself to the left on the long, leather bench to avoid being hit, but it was too late. Using her suit sleeve, she brushed off the top of her black binder, in which her entire professional career was neatly presented on 8½" x 11" paper—her hot-off-the-printer resume, letters of recommendation, names and addresses in case she needed references, and clips of freelance articles she'd written, in reverse chronological order. And tucked under the front inside flap was a disk, carefully labeled with a Sharpie and containing digital files of everything she had on paper. She reached in to make sure it was still there and hadn't fallen out in transit. It was. Relax, you're ready, she told herself.

  The receptionist, a pretty, young blonde, was deftly handling the phones, signing for packages, and greeting workers. She glanced at Jamie and said, "Ms. Wiles knows you're here and will be right with you."

  "Thanks," Jamie smiled as a rolling rack jam-packed with clothing came speeding through the reception area led by two harried young women.

  "Ms. Carter?"

  Jamie looked up to see a tall, slender woman wearing a suit with a very short skirt. Her hair was auburn and tied back in a neat bun, and her eyeglasses were small and stylish.

  "Yes." Jamie stood up and shook the editor's hand.

  "I'm sorry to keep you waiting. A morning meeting ran long. Would you like some coffee?"

  "No, thank you," Jamie said.

  She followed Ms. Wiles through the glass doors and was struck by the expanse of the publishing company's editorial offices. There must have been two hundred cubicles all lined in a neat, little maze, with heads bobbing in and out of view and voices that were loud but not understandable.

  A petite girl with a ring where her left eyebrow was supposed to be ran up to Ms. Wiles as soon as they turned the first corner. "Lauren, we just got the photos for the taffeta story, and I think you need to take a look at them."

  "I'll be there in a few minutes," Ms. Wiles said and continued walking.

  "Lauren!" a man yelled, sticking his head out of a cubicle about ten feet away. "We need you!"

  "Five minutes!" Ms. Wiles thundered, holding up the five fingers of her right hand for emphasis. She turned to Jamie and rolled her eyes as she guided her to a room on the left, where there was a conference table and two people sitting at the far end.

  "I need this office," Ms. Wiles said to the man and woman, who scrambled to get their things and leave. Once they did, Ms. Wiles closed the door.

  "Are Tuesdays always this crazy?" Jamie asked.

  "Every day is this crazy," Ms. Wiles said, taking a seat at the head of the table.

  The door opened, and before a young man in a Led Zeppelin T-shirt c
ould say anything, Ms. Wiles said, "Five minutes, please."

  The door closed again.

  "So," Ms. Wiles said, "what brings you to Gerbury Communications?"

  "Well," Jamie said, her stomach twinging, "I'm looking for full-time work. Freelancing's great, but it's not reliable."

  "Hmmm," Ms. Wiles nodded. Jamie could feel the editor studying her, trying to make quick judgments about her work ethic, about her ability to fit into the magazine's hectic setting, all in the ten seconds she'd known her. "Is that your portfolio?"

  "Yes." Jamie pushed her black binder across the table.

  "Let's see what you got..." Ms. Wiles looked over Jamie's resume. "Hmmm, you worked at USA Baby?"

  "Yes, I was an associate editor for about a year."

  "Do you know Karen Jennings?"

  Jamie shook her head. "No, I don't think so."

  "Oh, I think she left before you got there. Why did you leave?"

  "I was laid off."

  "Hmmm..." Ms. Wiles continued flipping through the pages of Jamie's portfolio. "Have you ever written about fashion before?"

  "Well, yes, I did, but for children."

  "No, I mean, ready-to-wear, couture, that kind of thing."

  "No, not really,"—c'mon, Jamie, sell yourself—"but as you'll see from my clips, I have a very diverse portfolio as a freelance writer. I've covered everything from swimming to nursing to—"

  "Yes, I see, you've been keeping busy."

  Keeping busy. Like she had been knitting a sweater.

  "Well, I tried to..."

  "The thing is, though, Jenny..."

  "Jamie."

  "Oh, I'm sorry, Jamie... The thing is that we really need someone who knows the markets. We don't have the time to train anyone."

  "I'm a fast learner," Jamie said, trying not to sound—although she knew she did—too eager.

  "I'm sure you are, honey, and these pieces look wonderful, but I'm afraid we're looking for someone already familiar with this territory. Fashion can be murder."