This Time For Keeps

She slipped closer, careful not to step on the blocks or squeaky teething toys scattered across the rug. Just the slightest sound, and her morning routine would shatter before she even made it to the shower.

Little Charlotte slept. She lay sprawled on her back, her arms thrown over her head, her soft yellow blankie long since discarded. No matter how many times Meg crept in to cover the baby, Charlotte persevered. In those first few fragile weeks, Meg had even slept on the floor.

The swell of pure, unchained emotion still caught her by surprise. This was her favorite time of day, when it was still and quiet, before the craziness began. Little Char looked so peaceful. Her chubby cheeks were relaxed, her sweet little mouth slightly parted. And the baby-fine hair, as red now as the day she was born. She looked so like—

Meg blocked the thought, didn’t want the memory. She had a day to start and not a second to spare. Resisting the temptation to retrieve the blanket yet again, she slipped back into the hallway, all too aware of the light steadily encroaching upon the moss-green wall.

One of these days, she’d find time to paint.

In the bathroom, the blast of warm water from the shower felt good. She lingered, indulged in a new lavender body wash her cousin had insisted she try. By the time she turned the water off, she was a good ten minutes behind schedule—and Charlotte was crying.

Grabbing a towel, Meg dried off as she ran from the bathroom down the hardwood of the hallway. Charlotte’s screams grew louder, coming in virtual stereo between the now brightly lit nursery and the baby monitor. By the time Meg raced into the room, Charlotte had her chubby little hands wrapped around the crib rail and was working hard to hike her leg over the edge.

“Oh, sweetie,” Meg muttered, securing the towel around her as she hurried across the room. The vivid green of Charlotte’s eyes swam with frustration—tears made her face splotchy.

“Mama-mama-mama.” She sniffed between wails, lifting her little arms toward Meg.

“I’m here,” she cooed, and somewhere deep inside, an echo stirred. “I’m here, baby.” With you. Swooping her from the crib, Meg drew Charlotte close. “I’ve got you now.”

And I’m never going away.

Charlotte burrowed closer, sweet fists closing tight around the flesh of Meg’s arms. “Mama-mama…” With the babbling, she nuzzled toward Meg’s chest. “Babababa…”

Meg’s throat tightened. “Bottle,” she murmured, grabbing at the towel that kept sliding toward her waist. “You’ve been such a good girl,” she said, heading for the kitchen. “Staying in your bed all night.”

About half the time, she ended up cuddled next to Meg.

“You must be hungry,” she continued in a soft, singsong voice. “Let’s get you some formula.”

Charlotte pulled back and gazed at Meg with a longing that threatened to break her heart all over again.

It wasn’t so long ago that Meg had been quite sure there was nothing left to break.

“I know, sweet girl,” she whispered. “I know. I miss her, too.” Closing her eyes, she let the memories form, the tears and laughter, the smiles…the promises.

There’d been a lot of those.

“Let’s get you that bottle,” she said, easing Charlotte to the floor. Sweeping had become part of her nightly routine. “Here are your pots,” she added, scooting the nesting toy closer. “We’ll cook together.”

The eleven-month-old plopped down in front of the dishwasher, her tight little pajamas reminding Meg of a pink floral baby sausage. In fire-resistant fabric—the considerations of parenthood were a whole new world.

But it was a world she’d desperately wanted.

As the baby banged the plastic pots together, Meg turned on the water and got the coffee going, measured out formula and poured Cheerios for both of them.

She was opening the fridge when her cell phone rang. Twisting back toward the table, she grabbed the phone and flipped it open. “I’m up, I’m up,” she said by way of greeting.

Julia’s calls had become an everyday ritual.

“Good,” her cousin, the self-appointed alarm clock, said. “That’s a start.”

Cradling the phone between her ear and shoulder, Meg reached for the milk—and lost her towel. “Oh, crap.”

Julia laughed. “You were saying?”

“I—” Forgot. Somehow in her rush to soothe and feed Charlotte, she’d completely forgotten that she’d yet to get dressed. “My hair is wet.”

“Usually happens when you take a shower,” Julia said. “The key is to dry it before you come to work.”

Lately, that didn’t always happen.

“Or wash it at night,” her cousin went on as Meg rifled through a basket of laundry for clean underwear. “That’s what I started doing after Austin.” Mother of an almost teenager, Julia ran her family like a drill sergeant. If there was a problem, Julia had a solution. She could hold down a job at the paper, she could cook, she could clean, she could keep her son in line, and still have time for a pedicure.

Meg hadn’t quite gotten there yet.

“I know, I know.” She struggled into her panties and fastened her bra. “It’s just…” There’d been so many changes in such a short period of time. And nowhere near enough sleep. “I’ll try.”

Julia didn’t miss a beat. “And you’ll do great. But until then, I’m guessing you need me to cover for you.”

Meg blinked. Cover for her?

“The meeting?” Julia went on, reading Meg’s mind, as always. Only four days separated them in age. Most of their friends referred to them as twins born to different mothers. It was only natural that they worked together at the Gazette. “You know…breakfast? Henry? Veronica?”

Meg’s lawyer—and her accountant. Of course. To discuss the Gazette’s finances—and how long they could continue operating at a loss. Meg herself had scheduled the meeting. Breakfast had been the only time available. The rest of the day was consumed by an editorial meeting then an all-afternoon planning meeting for the Wildflower Festival. It was less than a week away and the silent auction benefiting the March of Dimes was still up in the air. Plus she and Charlotte had a photo shoot scheduled.

“I’ll be there,” she said, tearing at the dry cleaning draped over a chair. The office was only a few miles away. “Give me twenty—”

“Meg.”

She shoved the tangled mess of wet hair back from her face. All she needed was a comb—

“Stop it.”

She stilled, her hands fisted against the linen of her favorite black blouse, not because of her cousin’s words. But because of the gentleness in her voice. The quiet understanding.

“Don’t,” she whispered.

“It’s going to be okay,” Julia said quietly. “I promise.”

Meg squeezed her eyes shut.

“You can do this.”

She swallowed. “I know.”

“We’re here for you…all of us. You’re not alone.”

The smile was automatic. She had the greatest friends in the world. “I know,” she said again, and this time her voice was a little stronger.