You Were Meant For Me by Yona Zeldis McDonough Read Free Book Online

about the fact that she kept postponing their meeting.
    â€œI’m so sorry I haven’t gotten back to you,” she said.
    â€œNo worries,” he told her. “I wanted to wish you luck. Tomorrow’s the day that your place is being inspected, right?”
    â€œRight,” she said. How had he even remembered that?
    â€œAre you nervous?”
    â€œVery,” she admitted.
    â€œI would be too. If I were in your shoes, that is.”
    She was tempted to ask if he wanted kids, but since they hadn’t even met yet, the question seemed presumptuous. “As soon as I get this over with, we’ll make a date,” she said.
    â€œI’m looking forward to that,” he said.
    After they said good-bye, Miranda sat with the phone in hand. Luke had never been so up front or so open—not when they’d first met, not after they’d become lovers, not when they’d parted. She had liked that elusive quality of his—at first, anyway. But maybe it would be nice to date someone who just put himself out there and didn’t feel the need to hide.
    The next morning, Miranda woke at six o’clock even though the inspection was not scheduled until nine. She had taken a personal day, though she had not told Sallie Scott, the editor of
Domestic Goddess
, why. What if she was turned down? No point in bringing Sallie and possibly the rest of the staff in on her private life—at least not yet.
    Miranda used the time to luxuriate in both her shower and her immaculate apartment. She knew that the brownstone itself would present well; her landlady, Mrs. Castiglione, spent an hour every morning polishing the banister and vacuuming and mopping the hallway and stairs. She even swept the stoop and the sidewalk out front; not a leaf or piece of trash escaped her vigilant broom.
    Miranda changed three times before settling on something to wear. She wanted to seem grown-up but approachable, professional yet relaxed. Finally, she decided on black jeans—they were new and were especially well fitting—and a soft black sweater. Around her neck she wore a necklace ofamber beads. She wanted something to liven up all that black, and she imagined the warm, golden color would be perceived as baby friendly.
    Then she baked an apple cake from the
Domestic Goddess
archives. It was a dense, moist cake with chunks of fruit and a glaze made from reduced apple cider. Carefully, she dripped the warm liquid over the cake until it pooled in perfect puddles around the perimeter, and then she wiped away the excess with a moistened paper towel. This cake was ready for its close-up; even Marvin, as picky as they came, would have approved.
    She had just set the cake on the table, next to the vase of purple tulips, when the bell rang. Showtime: the inspector was here. Instead of just buzzing her in, Miranda went downstairs to usher her up; she saw Mrs. Castiglione’s head retreat back behind the double doors to her parlor floor. The landlady was well aware of Miranda’s schedule and probably thought it odd that she would be at home and having visitors on a Monday morning. If the inspection went well and the baby actually came to live here, she would tell Mrs. Castiglione everything.
    â€œMs. Berenzweig?” A young black woman in a trim gray suit extended her hand. “I’m Joy Watkins.” Miranda was disappointed; maybe Joy Watkins would not want to place the nonwhite baby in a white woman’s care. Then she was ashamed of the racist thought; why should she have made any assumptions about how Joy Watkins would perceive or judge her?
    â€œPlease come upstairs,” Miranda said, and together, they climbed to the third floor.
    â€œNo elevator,” said Joy, who took out a notebook as soon as they got to the apartment.
    â€œThese old row houses don’t have elevators. I’m used to it.” Did she sound defensive? Hostile? Both?
    â€œIt might be hard for a child to climb