At the Corner of King Street by Mary Ellen Taylor Page A

along my spine. “That’s what the social worker told me, but I can’t find it. I don’t suppose you have a set of bolt cutters.”
    â€œYou’re gonna need that seat. You can’t go hacking into it.”
    The baby cried louder. My fingers skimmed over the base, searching. “For the love of God, release.”
    Sweat dripped. Finally, I found the button and pushed. The seat loosened and I was able to lift it and Baby Morgan out of the backseat.
    Baby Morgan looked at me. She cried louder.
    â€œShoot me now,” I muttered.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNever mind.” I handed Grace the bag of bottles and formula and diapers. “This should get us through until Thursday.”
    She inspected the bag. “What if we need more?”
    I shook my head. “Grace, the social worker said she’d try to have a home for the baby by tomorrow.”
    There were calls to make for the vineyard, and I needed to touch base with Scott, but none of that was going to happen with a crying baby. The first priority shifted from much-needed work to getting the kid settled.
    â€œI made up a bed for her in your room,” Grace said.
    â€œSo you knew I’d cave.”
    She shrugged. “I hoped.”
    â€œGreat.” Balancing the baby seat, we climbed the front steps to the second floor. I dropped my purse on the couch and settled the baby on the kitchen table as Grace unloaded the supplies on the counter. “Do you know how to make a bottle?”
    Grace held up a jar and, eyes squinting, studied the directions. “No.”
    I unhooked the kid and, supporting the back of her head with my fingers like Ms. Willis showed me, I lifted her out of the seat. Her diaper, tripled in size in the last hour, sagged. “I think she needs a diaper change.”
    â€œI can’t help you with that.”
    â€œHow about you spread a blanket on my bed?”
    Grace hurried to the bathroom and returned with a clean towel, which she spread out on my bed. I laid a wailing Baby Morgan on the towel. “Chill, kid. Chill.”
    She kicked and flailed her arms.
    Grace produced a bag of disposable diapers and wipes. “Here you go.”
    I opened the diaper. “Are there instructions on the bag?”
    She flipped it over and pointed to a small diagram. “It says the wide part goes in the back for girls. Front for boys.”
    I opened Baby Morgan’s old diaper, which was soaked. I tugged it out from under her and accepted a wipe from Grace. I swiped the kid’s bottom with a wipe and waved my hand around her to dry off her wet skin. Grace, her expression as grave as a surgeon’s, handed me the clean diaper.
    I guess this stuff came naturally if you were a real mother, but I didn’t have a clue. Real moms got nine months of prep time.
    I wrangled her little bottom into the diaper and pulled the edges close as I peeled back the adhesive tab. I secured the first tab mid-center of the front and the second too high, creating an awkward fit.
    â€œLooks like a drunken sailor diapered the kid,” Grace said.
    I tried to peel off the adhesive so I could straighten out the tabs, but the diaper’s plastic tore. Cutting my losses, I resnapped her little one-piece outfit. “Now no one will know that Baby Morgan was diapered by a drunken sailor.”
    â€œI suppose as long as it doesn’t leak, it doesn’t matter.”
    The baby’s cries now scraping against the back of my skull, I cradled her in my arms. “The nurse said she eats every three hours, and it’s been . . .” I checked my watch. “Three hours.”
    â€œKid has your sense of time. You liked your meals when you were a kid.”
    â€œYeah. Well, I learned early on with Mom to eat when the food was there. Never knew when the next meal was coming.”
    Grace straightened. “A few of the bottles looked pre-made. Let me open one.”
    â€œThanks.”
    She