Beach House Reunion (Beach House #5)(5)
“She must’ve had a field day fixing up your room,” she told Hope as she laid her on the changing table. She chatted with the baby to distract her from getting her diaper changed. “You’re going to love your aunt Emmi. I’ve known her since I was just a bit older than you. No one has a smile like Aunt Emmi.” Cara envisioned her friend’s wide, Carly Simon smile. “She’s going to make you laugh. Oh yes she will,” she added, tickling Hope’s belly and eliciting a giggle. “And smother you with kisses.” She nuzzled Hope’s cheeks. Cara had never known what joy a baby’s laughter could bring.
“And your Aunt Flo,” she continued, reaching into her baby bag and pulling out footie pajamas. Cara still felt clumsy in her newfound motherhood and secretly feared she was doing something wrong. For her, it was all trial and error. “Aunt Flo will tell you the best stories,” she said as she lifted Hope into her arms. “Most of them about turtles. She used to take care of me when I was your age.”
Cara set Hope inside the crib, noting the quick frown of disapproval that flashed across the baby’s face. “It’s okay,” she crooned. “Just stay here and play with this turtle.” She placed a stuffed toy in Hope’s lap. “I’ll be right back.”
Hope immediately began to protest, lifting her arms and crying to be picked up. Cara’s heart pinged. She couldn’t bear to hear Hope cry. “I just have to get the suitcases,” she explained with a hint of panic. “I’ll only be a minute.”
Hope was having none of it. Her cries followed Cara down the hall and out to the car. They spurred her on like stings from a whip. She dragged suitcases, bags of baby supplies, and personal belongings out of the rear of the car and up the gravel drive and front stairs, not pausing for a breath and working up a sweat. She dragged in the last bag and plopped it on the kitchen counter, winded.
“No wonder only young women have babies,” she muttered. She cast a weary glance at the pile of brown bags littering the kitchen, but a boisterous cry from Hope focused her anew. “A bottle,” she muttered, and rushed to the kitchen sink to fill the teakettle. “Mama’s coming!” she called out as she set it on the stove.
As the water heated, Cara put her fingertips to her temples to calm herself. She had adopted Hope in February, and with that single decision she’d once again changed her life. The past four months had been a steep learning curve for a woman in her fifties who had never had much to do with children. A single woman at that. Cara was never one to let the moss grow under her feet, however. Once a decision was made, action followed.
She’d given notice to the Tennessee Aquarium that she was resigning her position as the PR director—a job she’d loved—and made plans to move home to Isle of Palms to raise her child. Despite her seeming confidence, there were times, such as now, when the professional businesswoman was a complete and utter klutz.
The baby began howling. From the box on the dining room table she heard the worried peeps from her bird. With mounting hysteria Cara ripped through her carefully packed bags in search of bottles and formula. She tossed bottles, nipples, and tops onto the counter and finally found a matched set. But her success was short-lived. Opening the formula tin was like breaking into Fort Knox. Especially with her shaky fingers. Just as she pried off the stubborn lid at last, the kettle whistled, and jolting forward to grab it, she bumped the open jar of formula powder. She watched in horror as it plummeted in slow motion to the floor, exploding white, powdery milk all over the clean hardwood.
Cara gasped and stared disbelievingly at the mess. “No, no, no,” she cried, dropping to all fours and scooping what she could back into the container. As soft and fine as talcum powder, the disrupted formula created milky clouds in the air.
In that ignominious moment, all the stress of the baby’s incessant crying mixed with the strain of quitting her job in Tennessee, packing up their things to move to South Carolina, and the long, exhausting drive came crashing down on her. She slid her long legs across the floor, leaned against the counter, and brought her powdery hands to her face as her cries blended with the baby’s.
Who did she think she was fooling? She was hopeless when it came to mothering. An utter and complete failure. She was a fifty-three-year-old career woman. Her résumé was great for a PR executive, but she’d never bag a job as a mother. She couldn’t even make a bottle without screwing up.
At moments like this, her greatest fear would surface. Was it a mistake to adopt Hope?
Help me, Mama, she cried into her hands.
The baby’s cries pierced through her desolation. Cara was never one to wallow in doubt and self-pity. Her nature was to get things done. And that bottle wasn’t going to make itself. She finished scooping up as much formula as she could and dragged herself to her feet. She washed the powder from her hands and face, and with a determined swipe of her nose on her sleeve, she started anew to prepare the bottle. She worked quickly, with steady hands, but as she shook the bottle, she suddenly noticed the house had gone quiet. She froze. Hope had stopped crying.
Cara turned on her heel and rushed to the bedroom. She screeched to a halt at the door and sucked in her breath. Fear fluttered in her heart. But as she slowly exhaled, the fear dissipated and wonder took its place. It was as if time were standing still. A hazy white light shimmered near the crib. Hope was standing, clutching the railing. No longer crying, her face bore the sweetest grin of pleasure as she cooed and babbled at the glowing light beside her.