The Search Angel Read Online Free PDF

of him pull out a clean shirt. Dress pants. He disappeared into the bathroom. Came back with what sounded like his shaving kit.
    If he wouldn’t speak to her, she certainly wasn’t going to speak to him. “Jonathan. Talk to me.”
    “Not right now.” And he padded out of the bedroom and down the hallway—no tiptoeing this time—and left the apartment they’d shared since college.
    Ginny stares at her as she scrubs at an ink smear on the wooden counter. “Seriously, what happened?”
    “He doesn’t want the adoption. Basically said it’s Sylvie or him.” Actually, that wasn’t true. He said he didn’t know about anything. Including Eleanor.
    A rat-a-tat-tat of increasingly violent no’s from “Bohemian Rhapsody” next door, loud enough that Ginny covers her ears. “Holy … is that guy deaf?”
    The bell tinkles to announce two women who can only be sisters with their red-brown hair, soft jawlines, and heavy eyebrows. Second only to their husbands or partners, the people Pretty Baby customers bring in most often are family members—sisters, mothers, mothers-in-law. Some familial similarities are obvious to everyone: similar coloring or a tendency toward heaviness or leanness. It’s the more subtle likenesses that escape most observers, and every family has them. A squareness at the tip of the nose, a certain boxiness to the chin or marionette lines flanking the mouth. A narrowing at the tips of the fingers, most often with papery, oval-shaped nails. An upward tilt to the head when walking. A slight hesitation before speaking. These are the habits Eleanor has learned to look for.
    In the way a person who has always been overweight might watch the naturally thin, or someone who has never been married might have a fascination with weddings, Eleanor cannot help but stare. She knows of no blood family at all. If there’s a person on earth who shares her features, she has yet to set eyes on them.
    The sisters wander toward the display of wicker bassinets next to the cribs—all of which are marked twenty percent off. The pregnant one, who looks like Ali McGraw, has a hand on her belly, a massive diamond glittering from one finger. Her shoes are black velvet slippers; the kissing Gs of Gucci gleam from the toes.
    “Are the bassinets on sale too?” she calls out to Eleanor from where she examines an oversized round bassinet designed more for style than function in a nursery.
    Eleanor switches to automatic pilot. With a forced smile, she points out the safety features of the cradles and explains that they are not, in fact, discounted, but bassinets are a convenience the customer will appreciate at three in the morning, when baby wakes up for the third time. But when Ali McGraw makes a face, Eleanor adds quickly, “Of course, an infant can feel just as secure in a full-size crib if properly swaddled and that’s a great way to keep nursery costs to a minimum.”
    Ali grins a toothy smile and reaches for her sister’s hand, places it over her stomach. The sister—far less pampered-looking in batik skirt, lined forehead, and worn suede boots—nods. She looks familiar, but Eleanor cannot think where she’s seen her before. “Yup,” she says. “He wants to meet his Auntie Faith. Come for a sleepover.” Faith yawns into her hand. “If Auntie Faith gets a full night’s sleep ever again.”
    “Still?” Ali asks.
    As Freddie Mercury screams an increasingly louder series of
no
’s, Auntie Faith looks at Eleanor. “I live right above that store.”
    “Seriously?” says Eleanor. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you.”
    “I work nights. Cashier at a twenty-four/seven. It’s all very fancy. Anyway, the guy kept me up all day today.”
    Ginny grunts. “I bet he’s ancient. And deaf.”
    “The place is called Death by Vinyl,” says Eleanor. “I doubt the owner is ancient.”
    “If he keeps up with this, I don’t know what I’ll do,” Faith says.
    “I think I’m getting a migraine.” Ginny rubs