Our Fragile Hearts. Buffy Andrews

women who volunteer to cuddle the sick babies?”

      I shook my head. I had no idea what he was talking about, but I’d plan to find out.

      I walked down the hall painted a creamy yellow and turned the corner. I wasn’t the only one visiting babies today. There were four others with their noses smashed against the glass wall. I walked over and peeked through the glass. There were seven babies lined up in two straight rows. The boys had blue caps on their heads and the girls wore pink.

      “Aren’t they just darling?” a woman in a wheelchair said.

      “Very.”

      “Is one of them your grandchild?” she asked.

      “No. I just came to visit. How about you?”

      She shook her head. “Our grandson is in the neonatal intensive care unit.”

      “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

      She held up her finger as if she were about to lecture me. “But he’s a fighter. He’s getting stronger every day. He was just born a little too soon.”

      The woman wheeled away and I went back to watching through the window. Their hands were so tiny and they all had such cute little bow lips. It still amazed me that something so beautiful had come out of me but I never got to see her. Oh, how I would’ve loved to hold my daughter’s tiny hand in mine. To cuddle and kiss her to pieces. A tear slid down my cheek. I turned and saw a nurse headed in my direction.

      “Can I ask you something?”

      She stopped.

      “How do you go about volunteering to cuddle the sick babies?”

      She smiled. “Follow me and I’ll get you some information on it.”

      So I did just that.

       Chapter 5

      Rachel

      The next day, I pulled up to the ornate wrought-iron gate, which looked like it belonged around a cemetery instead of a mansion. The huge house sat on top of a hill overlooking the city. I’d wondered about Mary. What was her story? Everyone has one. What was hers? Why did she live alone in a house bigger than a hotel? From the little I’d learned, her husband, who was at least twenty years older, had died long ago. She had no children but was a huge philanthropist in town. I’d googled her name and found a ton of stories about her donating huge sums of money to the library and various cultural arts organizations. But who was she really? I wondered.

      I followed the long private road, which led to a cobblestone circular driveway, and pulled up in front of the massive stone steps leading up to the main entrance. I parked my car, feeling embarrassed my old Honda Civic with rust spots was sitting in front of such a grand house. It looked as out of place as I felt. I glanced left, admiring the beautiful three-tiered stone fountain hugged by pink flowering shrubs in the grassy area, and opened my car door.

      I paused, gazing at the stately columns and imposing brick façade. I felt like I was about to enter a castle. I walked up the stone steps and approached the carved mahogany door. Just as I was about to ring the bell, the door opened.

      “Hi! You must be Rachel.” Mary smiled.

      Mary was elegantly dressed in white slacks and a periwinkle sweater that matched the color of her eyes. She wore her hair in a bob and it was cotton white, sprinkled with strands of gray.

      I held out my hand. “It’s so nice to meet you!”

      She waved me in. “Now, don’t look too closely or you’ll see why taking care of this house has been too much for me.”

      I followed her across the polished marble foyer, crème colored with black diamond shapes sprinkled throughout. We walked past the sweeping staircase, down the hall and into a sitting area. I did see some dust, but it honestly didn’t look too bad for a woman who had apparently been doing all of the work herself.

      Mary sat down on the floral sofa and patted it with her long, slender fingers. “Please, sit.”

      I chewed on my lip, puzzled by Mary’s strange request. She was paying me to clean, not to sit and chat.

      “Are you sure you don’t have a floor that needs washing or a bathroom that needs cleaning?”

      She pursed her lips, the color of a faded red rose. “Rachel, please. Sit. I thought we’d get to know each other first.”

      I walked over and sat beside her. Mary pointed to the antique tea set on the cherry coffee table. “Would you like some tea?”

      I didn’t want to be rude, even though I prefer coffee, and accepted the fine china teacup rimmed in gold and accented with pink roses.

      Mary lifted the sugar bowl. “Would you like a cube or two?”

      I picked up the tiny sugar tongs and dropped a cube into my cup, stirring it with the silver spoon Mary had handed me.

      She sat back and sipped her tea. “Did you hear that storm last night?”

      I nodded. “It woke up my sister. She hates storms. When it storms she usually ends up in my bed.”

      Mary smiled. “I hate storms, too. Tell me about your sister. Does she look like you?”

      I nodded. Despite having different fathers, my sister was a mini me, with her blonde, curly hair that hung in ringlets and framed her heart-shaped faced.

      “A lot of people say we look alike, except her eyes are as bright as bluebells. I’d much rather have her blue eyes than my muddy brown.”

      “Nonsense!” Mary waved her hand, adorned with a diamond the size of the sugar cube I’d just dropped into my tea. It caught the sun’s rays coming through the large window and glistened. “You have beautiful eyes. And they aren’t muddy. They’re chestnut.”

      I sipped my tea. “Thank you.”

      “Now, about your sister. What’s her name?”

      “Piper Rose. She’s five and in kindergarten.”

      Mary’s lips turned up. “Piper Rose. What a pretty name. And did she end up in your bed last night?”

      “Yes. I didn’t sleep very well. She moves around a lot and always seems to end up sideways, her tiny toes digging into my back.”

      The small smile on Mary’s face grew. “Enjoy those moments. They’re fleeting. One day here and gone the next. Just like the fringe tree in front of the carriage house. Yesterday, it was in full bloom. Then we had that terrible storm last night. Pea-sized hail and wicked wind so fierce it rattled my bedroom windows. And when I walked outside this morning, the fringes were gone. Poof! Just like that they were torn from the tree and scattered all over the ground.”

      “I’ll try to keep that in mind,” I said, “when Piper’s tiny toes are scratching my back.”

      Mary laughed. “Were you scared of thunder when you were little?”

      I nodded. “Actually, my friend Claire and I spent some time living with an older woman. Her name was Evelyn. You remind me a lot of her, actually. Anyway, one night not long after Claire came to live with us there was a bad storm. Claire and I practically ran into each other when we’d both jumped out of bed to go to the other’s room. We ended up in my bed and we played a game to take our minds off the storm.”

      Mary smiled. “A game?”

      “Yes, sort of. Claire came up with it. She called it the alphabet game. We’d take turns drawing letters on each other’s backs. The one not drawing had to guess what the letter was. E’s and F’s and J’s and I’s were sometimes hard. You really had to pay attention.”

      “Sounds like fun,” Mary said. “And are you and Claire still friends?”

      “Yes.