Despite reassurances from Mrs. Houlihan that she was still taking my dry cleaning to the same cleaners we’d always used, I’d been forced to wear yet another maternity dress, but had broken down the day before and bought several new pairs of heels at Bob Ellis. I’d called Sophie about the possibility of the newly renovated closet giving off fumes that might shrink leather, but there had only been a long silence on the other end of the phone as if she didn’t understand my question. Regardless, my new shoes were a full size larger, and I was pleasantly surprised when my toes were able to spread out when I walked.
Still, I had only made it to Broad Street when my feet required me to hail a pedicab to take me to Glazed, the gourmet doughnut shop on Upper King Street. I was meeting Detective Thomas Riley there to discuss the background check on Jayne Smith. Since he was a cop, I thought it appropriate to have our meeting in a doughnut shop. Plus, it would help me avoid the look of disapproval on Ruth’s face as she handed over my bag of doughnuts—which she’d only reluctantly done when I brought in the twins the previous day so she could see them and remind me again how much they looked like Jack. When I’d finally opened the bag back at my desk, I realized there was only one doughnut inside, along with one of those horrible healthy wraps, and the doughnut looked as if it might have been made with wheat flour and baked. It was like eating white chocolate or a vanilla Oreo—completely pointless—and I’d thrown it away after only two bites.
Thomas was already sitting at one of the small tables across from the counter, two coffees and a pink-and-white-striped bag already waiting on the table. He stood as I entered, and gave me a warm hug in greeting. “It’s been too long,” he said as he helped me out of my coat and pulled out my chair for me, making me appreciate Charleston-bred men all over again.
He slid the coffee toward me. “Lots of cream and sugar—and since I got here early, I took the liberty of ordering our doughnuts. There’s not a bad doughnut on the menu, so I got two purple goats—berry and goat cheese filling with lavender icing—a tiramisu doughnut, and a maple bacon. I’m rather partial to the maple bacon, but if you want it, it’s yours.”
I nearly wept with joy as I opened the bag and smelled the lovely aroma of handmade doughnuts and all that wonderful sugar. He started to speak, but I held up my hand and then took a sip of coffee before pulling out a purple doughnut. We both waited in reverent silence for a moment while I took my first bite.
“Thank you. That is simply amazing,” I finally managed to say after thoroughly savoring the fluffy pastry, followed by the strangest urge to smoke a cigarette. I met his eyes. “The maple bacon doughnut is yours,” I said. “But you’re going to have to fight me for the second purple goat.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I need all my fingers for my job, so you just take whatever you want.”
I took another bite, then settled back into my chair, cradling my coffee and feeling absurdly content.
“You look beautiful,” he said. “Motherhood definitely agrees with you.”
Coming from any other man besides my husband, I might have felt uncomfortable. Even though I knew Thomas had been interested in me before Jack staked his claim, our relationship was now firmly in the friend zone. He’d even attended our wedding, and I’d promised—with Jack’s blessing—to use my sixth sense to help him with any of his cold cases. He’d called a few times in the past year, but I’d been reluctant to disturb the domestic peace I’d fought so hard for, telling him I just wasn’t ready. I wondered if this favor from him meant I’d have to reciprocate whether I was ready to or not.
My cheeks flushed. “Thank you. I feel good now that the twins are sleeping through the night and I can get a full night’s sleep. I just wish all my clothes hadn’t shrunk—I’m a little tired of wearing my maternity clothes.”
He choked on his bite of doughnut and I slid a glass of water in his direction. After waiting a full minute before speaking, he said, “I have that information you asked me for about Jayne Smith. I must admit that when you first told me her name I thought it must be some kind of alias, but that seems to be her real name—although she added the Y in her early twenties. There is no birth certificate on file owing to the fact that she was deposited on the steps of a church in Birmingham and turned over to foster care shortly afterward. The creative minds in the child welfare system must have given her the name.”
He grimaced and I felt like crying. It seemed the motherhood hormones that had started in the first month of pregnancy liked to linger much longer than nine months. I supposed they were responsible for my desire now to cry during Humane Society commercials or after seeing Facebook posts showing baby animals that Nola liked to show me. I thought of the woman I’d met in my office and couldn’t reconcile what I knew about her with the heartbreaking image of a baby being left on church steps.