BLURB
Anabel Leigh has spent years pouring herself into her career, polishing her image, and protecting her fragile heart after too many losses. But everything changes when a stranger presses a baby into her arms in a crowded New York park and vanishes. The child’s golden hair and trusting eyes stir a deeply personal longing Anabel thought she’d buried forever.
What begins as a surreal moment unravels into a storm of headlines and police questions.
Savannah Maas knows the truth. She’s hiding on a farm in Georgia, living by a different code—one forged from secrets, desperation, and choices that blur the line between compassion and crime.
As the world closes in, each woman struggles to keep her dreams from crumbling. For one, receiving the baby is a miracle. For the other, the handoff is a devastating mistake.
Heart-stirring and suspenseful, Secrets of the Midwife is a story of hope, resilience, and the unexpected ways love finds us.
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EXCERPT
I am sitting in the little park situated between the town clerk’s office where happy couples come rushing down the steps, laughing and kissing after tying the knot, and the family court where some of them will end up, when things go badly. As I eat my lunch, I chuckle to myself at the irony of these two tall, brick buildings facing each other like powerful gods who already know our fate, providing what we need when we need it.
The thick scent of the candied hazelnuts cooking in a nearby vendor cart wafts over me in the cool April breeze. I pull the collar of my trench coat up around my neck and tighten the knot in my silk scarf. Collecting the wrapper from my sandwich, I put it back in the brown paper bag as my eyes catch a stooped old woman pushing a double stroller with two girls in it.
The one closest to me is a baby with golden blonde hair. Maybe a little more than a year old. I can’t take my eyes off her. The other girl has thick brown hair and looks to be about four years old. They make their way down the path to me, and then, without warning, the older girl unbuckles herself, jumps out of the stroller, and runs into the crowd.
The woman yells at her to stop, but the girl keeps running, weaving between the people walking through the park. After unbuckling the smaller child, the woman picks her up and thrusts her into my lap.
“Hold her,” is all she says before she runs after the other girl, leaving the stroller behind.
I look down at the small face staring up at me. The child does not seem afraid, relaxed even. She explores my face as a growing tension rises in my chest. Groaning in frustration, I stand up, holding the baby in my arms, shifting her weight to my hip, and desperately search the crowd for the woman or the other little girl. They’re gone. My first inclination is to go after them, but after a few steps I stop. What am I doing? I’m holding a child who isn’t mine in the middle of a public New York City park. My armpits grow wet with sweat, and I loosen the scarf around my neck.
Wondering what to do, I go back to the bench and sit down. Without thinking, I smooth the girl’s wavy blonde hair, tucking a piece behind her tiny ear. Time passes and the woman does not return. Panicking, I’m afraid to leave the bench because I want the woman to know where to find me. Assuming she’s coming back. The baby rests her head on my shoulder, and her beautiful blue eyes study me. Without disturbing her, I raise my arm, pull up the sleeve of my coat, and look at my watch. It’s getting late. I have to go back to work.
Twenty minutes pass. Without hope, I stand up again and look for the woman. The lunchtime crowd is starting to grow thin, and I am beginning to feel desperate. After pulling my cell phone out of my bag, I call 911 and the operator says she will send a patrol car.
The minutes tick by slowly. The wait is agonizing. Finally, a squad car pulls up, and I watch as two officers get out, walk to the gate, and scour the park. A man and a woman. They look so young, fresh-faced with heavy equipment hanging off their belts. They see me, and I stand up with the girl who is starting to feel heavy in my arms.
When they reach me, the male officer asks, “Did you call 911?”
“Yes. I was just sitting here, and a woman wearing a scarf and a long skirt gave me this baby.” I stammer knowing how incredulous it sounds.
The officers stare at me, then at the baby.
Finally, the female officer takes a pad out of a box on her belt. “What’s your name?”
“Anabel Leigh.”
“Where do you work?”
I tip my chin in the direction of my building. “Right there.”
“No. What’s the name of your employer?” she asks with annoyance.
“Oh, sorry. C&W Communications.”
“Okay. So, what did the woman look like? Where did she go?” She continues to question me.
“Yes, I need to go back to work. Will you take her?” I try to peel the baby away from my shoulder.
Author Info
"Ormsby has a wonderful eye for character and detail, as she fleshes out a keenly observed portrayal of small-town life." ~ Kirkus Review
"The Recovery Room" was a winner at the 2014 Paris Book Festival.
Ann Ormsby is a freelance writer with a master's degree in journalism from New York University. Her writings on reproductive freedom and other public policy issues have appeared in The Newark Star-Ledger, The Huffington Post, njspotlight.com The Westfield Leader and The Alternative Press. Her short stories have appeared in The Greenwich Village Literary Review, Every Day Fiction and hackwriters.com.
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