In an Oscar-worthy performance, Harmony Stoddard put all the enthusiasm she could muster into her voice. “I just know you’re going to love spending time with your grandma, Lottie.”

In reality she wasn’t sure that her nine-month-old daughter, happily exercising her chubby little legs in her bouncy chair, was going to love the upcoming visit one bit, but she continued the charade.

“And your daddy will be there. You remember Davis, right? You’ve seen him twice. He even held you once.”

Of course, not with any enthusiasm, but Harmony’s job was to ready Lottie to be carried off by strangers and to make her baby girl think this was going to be a terrific afternoon. By her own critical standards, she was doing an admirable job, even if she was developing a roaring headache from the effort.

She wasn’t surprised at the good face she was able to put on upcoming events. After all, she had been raised by a mother able to turn a day rimmed with fear and foreboding into an adventure. So many afternoons she and Janine had baked cakes and cookies, or set the dinner table with their best china and carefully folded napkins, pretending they were a normal mother and daughter brightening their happy little home.

In reality, of course, their preparations had only been a pantomime. Pretending all was normal had helped them get through the hours until Rex Stoddard walked through the door to lavishly compliment them or—more memorably—knock Janine to the floor.

Sadly, Janine Stoddard wasn’t the grandmother on her way to see Lottie. That grandmother, Grace Austin, was Davis’s mother. Lottie’s father had only recently gotten around to telling his family about his nine-month-old blessed event. Harmony didn’t know if her ex-boyfriend had been too embarrassed, or if the baby’s arrival had simply slipped his mind.

Whatever the reason, Davis’s father had no interest in meeting Lottie, but his mother was curious and expected Davis to produce her new granddaughter. So producing Lottie was the activity of the day.

“Let’s make sure we have everything you need,” Harmony continued in her own mother’s chirpy counterfeit voice. “Diapers, just in case one of them is willing to change you. Your sippy cup. Spring water. Snacks you can feed yourself.”

She paused a moment, wondering how that would work. Would Davis and Grace let messy little Lottie experiment with the lightly steamed vegetables Harmony had prepared, the little squares of whole wheat toast? Or would they lose patience and feed her French fries or crumbled-up hamburger from whatever restaurant they took her to?

The mystery was about to be solved. The bell at the bottom of the stairs pealed, and Velvet, Harmony’s golden retriever, who had been sleeping on the sofa, gave one sleepy bark before closing her eyes to finish her nap.

Harmony took a deep breath. For better or worse, Lottie was Davis’s daughter. Harmony had no right to dictate everything he did with her. After all, he did send regular support checks. Of course, if he didn’t, he would have to explain his reasons to his stodgy employer when the state of North Carolina garnished his paycheck.

“Okay, off we go.” She lifted the baby into her arms and settled her into the car seat to carry her downstairs. Harmony had insisted that Davis check the manuals for his car and the car seat to be sure he could use it safely. Luckily his Acura was new enough that she didn’t really have to worry, which was a good thing, since she doubted he had bothered with his homework.

The doorbell rang again, longer this time, followed by a third blast. She smoothed the wisps of pale brown hair off Lottie’s forehead, then hoisted the car seat and the diaper bag and carried both to the door, nudged it open with her hip and peered down at him.

“It takes a minute to get her into the seat, so next time you can ring once, Davis. If you’d like to take the diaper bag, that would help.”

Davis, good-looking in a brooding sort of way, deepened his perpetual frown, but he came up the steps, stopped just below her and held out a hand. She swung the diaper bag in his direction, and he caught it. She followed him down, taking her time so she could grasp the rail. The stairway up to her garage apartment was wide and as safe as any outside stairway could be, but she always took her time, even when she wasn’t carrying precious cargo.

The woman waiting at the bottom of the stairs was obviously Grace. She had the same vaguely dissatisfied expression as her son, the same dark hair, the same impatient, almost jerky, movements. Although she smiled politely, her eyes didn’t change. She was examining Lottie, and not with grandmotherly affection.

“She seems small for nine months,” Grace said. She

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