Cynthia telephoned her son and apparently made temporary peace, although Dean wasn't privy to the details. He tactfully withdrew to the kitchen to give her privacy, expecting a summary of the conversation when she finished, but none was forthcoming. Instead, she slipped into bed, and in spite of the early hour, doused the lights and asked that any talk wait until morning. It was only a week past the longest day of the year and still light outside but Dean joined her, in case she changed her mind and needed him. She didn't-at least for further consultation. Both lay awake, trying not to disturb the other while neither slept until hours after the sun finally slipped around the corner to the other side of the world. He dreamed of bones and babies and lost little girls.
The next morning-Sunday-Cynthia's mood climbed to somewhere between a blue funk and resigned neutrality. She was up and around far in advance of her usual hour and baked like a demon-half a freezer full of pies, muffins, and pastries of every description. When she finished, still attired in bathrobe and floppy slippers, and leaving a cloud of flour behind her, she crept upstairs to talk to Fred; a conversation that lasted thirty minutes. Whatever the old man said, it elevated Cynthia's mood a few notches on the normalcy meter. As for Fred, he was downright ecstatic about a baby in his adopted family-hang the underlying circumstances of the blessed event. When he joined the Deans in the bakery-smelling kitchen, any apparent distress over his pending jury duty had vanished like a last piece of pie, replaced with jokes about grand-fatherhood and changing diapers. Even his customary perusal of the newspaper garage sale listings were peppered with comments about keeping his eyes peeled for baby clothes. Dean continued to exhibit restrain with his comebacks in deference to the improved moods around Bird Song. It was Cynthia who questioned Fred's exuberance over hand-me-downs, if only with a cautious look.
"Not that the little tyke doesn't deserve the best," Fred added. "I'm just talking about cribs and baby carriages and stuff like that. The expensive things, for when he comes here and visits."
"He?" Cynthia raised her eyebrows, but Fred ignored the query. He tapped his finger on the paper.
"Now this here is a sure bet," Fred continued. "There's an auction on Wednesday right here in town at one of them storage places. They're getting rid of stuff from people who didn't pay their bills. Everybody stores old baby things. It could be a gold mine." He circled the wall calendar and began to make a list.