“You know him. You’ve seen him. And you don’t know me, but here I am making you tell me . . . considering what you’ve been through—with your wife, I mean. I’m here forcing you to give me the worst possible news, and—”
I shut up but can’t stop shaking my head in disbelief. I open the picture of Natasha that Claudette sent. “Is this Tasha?”
He studies the picture for a second. “Looks like her.”
I dab at budding tears. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what’s up or down anymore.”
“Yeah, I’ve been in touch with that emotion.” Christian massages the back of his neck.
“Was he, you know . . . did he look like he was happy?”
“I don’t want to speculate as to someone else’s happiness. How would I know if someone—”
“No, I need to know.”
“You want to know if he was acting like a father with someone else’s kids.”
“Yes.”
Christian’s nodding. “Yeah, he did. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” I breathe through fresh tears. I wish I could stop the tears from falling. Crying isn’t going to change anything.
Micah’s been physically gone now for fifteen days.
But I wonder when I truly lost him.
Tasha’s daughter is older than Elizabella.
Was Micah ever truly mine?
“You okay?”
“Come to think of it . . . yes. It’s the first definite answer I’ve gotten, and it helps.”
“That’s one way to look at it.”
“It means my life in Chicago was a lie, and I may as well start fresh, and since I don’t have anyplace else to go, I may as well start here. I have a house, and it needs a lot of work, and as soon as I figure out where to buy paint on this island, I’ll get right on it.”
He slides his hands back into his pockets. “This may be an island, but we’re not savages. We have Home Depot.”
I laugh and wipe away the tears I’m still holding at bay. “Obviously.”
“So maybe I can help you get there, if you can help me with something.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s Thanksgiving. I have no idea how to cook a squash.”
Chapter 33
I’ve never had a Thanksgiving alone.
Micah and Natasha stepped in to celebrate with me the very first holiday season after my mother’s passing. Some years, we ate turkey sandwiches from the Second City Deli and canned cranberry sauce. The first year we opted to toss a bird in the oven . . . the memory resurfaces now: Some football game on television, all of us in flannel pajama pants and T-shirts, and taking turns basting. Micah: Christ, it’ll be midnight before we eat. Natasha: Golden Dragon delivers, you know. And so we ordered Chinese food.
Somehow, all the tumultuous holidays of the past, those I’d spent with my mother, seemed to melt into prehistory the moment Micah and I started our own traditions.
Bella laughs. I flinch a little when I look up from my plate and find her offering a spoonful of mashed squash to the purple-haired twin, oblivious to the fact that her father—of his own choosing or not—has landed her mother in an inextricable place, wedged between anger and fear and held captive with the fingers of worry and threat.
I want to walk back through the alley, hole up in Goddess Island Gardens, and have a good cry. I even feel like crying myself to sleep—complete with a face-in-pillow, limbs-flailing tantrum—a la Elizabella at her angriest.
But . . .
She’s not at her angriest right now. In fact, right now, she might be the happiest she’s been in weeks.
Mashed squash, barbecued chicken skewers on the grill, and of course my basic chicken casserole, recipe courtesy of Claudette Winters, litter the table. Remnants of a rock performance happening somewhere on the strip drift on the breeze, settling into our little party, lit with tiki torches and strings of pineapple lights and the last of the day’s rays.
“Nini lives in my hair,” Bella is saying to the twins. “But my brothers look the same. Like you guys.”
My glance darts from my glass of white sangria to my daughter, who tasted the squash because Andrea said Bella could feed her like a baby if she would. Who knew such a silly bribe would work?
With a heaping spoonful ready to go down Andrea’s hatch, she says, “Connor’s silly, but Brendan’s shy. They like airplanes, like Daddy does. Nini likes mermaids and dolphins, like me.”
“I’m with you,” Emily says. “Who doesn’t like mermaids and dolphins?”
“Well”—in goes the squash—“Nini thinks Daddy likes dolphins, too.”
“I want to go swimming with dolphins,” Emily says.
“Me too,” Andrea says. “Would you like to swim with dolphins, Ellie-Belle?”
Bella is nodding enthusiastically. “Nini says yes!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Christian’s smile. He’s leaning back in his chair, swirling the sangria in his glass, obviously proud of his nieces.
And I’m impressed with the way Bella has opened up to them.
She’s heavy in my arms, and half-asleep, but we’ve already stayed too long.
The sun is about to sink over the horizon, and the breeze is bordering on cool now, although even calling attention to that fact seems silly, seeing as it’s probably thirty degrees back home. And it’s not less than sixty here tonight.
“I’m happy to carry her down the alley for you,” Christian says.
“Oh, I’ve got her, but thanks.”
“Sure?”
“I’m used to it.”
But he walks alongside us, even past the gate and onto my property, past the empty pool.
“Thanks again for tonight,” I say.
“Thanks for the casserole.”
“No problem.” A few steps later, when the silence is near deafening, despite that band continuing to play blocks away, I say, “Nice night.”
“Yeah. Pretty typical around these parts.”
“Yeah.” I don’t know why I feel the need to fill the quiet; it’s just as awkward to talk as to walk on in silence.
When we approach the house, I’m zapped into a time warp that brings me back to high school dates and all the drama involved. Is there a certain way I should be acting?
“You have my number,” he says. “I’ll help you get that pool up and running in no time.”
“I do. And thanks . . . for the help with the pool, for everything.” For rolling with the punches with my quirky three-year-old. For not asking me to explain my intermittent tears during dinner and my silence after.
“Well, if there’s anything else I can do . . .”
“You know a lawyer?”
He grins and gives me a wink. “Criminal? Have you done something I don’t know about?”
“No.” I laugh. “Family.” Although to be fair, I’ve been thinking of seeing a lawyer who might cover both bases.
“Yeah, I know a lawyer. I’ll get you his name and number.”
“Thanks.”
I manage to insert the key into the back door, open it, and cross the threshold.
Christian backs his way off the rear porch and, smiling, gives me a silent wave as I close the door.
Papa Hemingway is instantly there to greet us, brushing against my legs, wrapping his serpentine tail around my calves.
And then I catch it: the hint of Dolce & Gabbana The One Sport hanging in the air.
I concentrate, inhale deeply.
The skin on my arms puckers with chill bumps.
I’m not imagining it.
Elizabella sighs in her state of near slumber and murmurs, “Daddy.”
Chapter 34
I don’t know why I’m afraid. If Micah’s here, that’s a good thing.
I wouldn’t have wanted him to hear me ask about a lawyer, and I wouldn’t have wanted him to see Christian walk me home.
Maybe that’s why my heart is thumping like mad.
Even though my arms ache to the point of numbness, I can’t fathom letting go of my daughter.
I carry Bella through the family room, past the kitchen, and into the laundry room. I turn on lights as we go, clearing each nook and cranny.
No one here, no one there.
No one hiding in the alcove beneath the stairs.
My legs tremble as I climb the stairs.