“Next spring,” I explain awkwardly.
“I’m going to be the flower girl,” Andrea pipes up with an angelic smile. “I get to pick my dress too.”
Ellen breaks away from a group of women nearby to join us. “I see you found Michael.” Ellen reaches up and pats my cheek, bestowing a radiant smile on me. “I’m very proud of my adopted son.” Then, she turns to Rebecca, extending her arm around her inclusively. “And of my daughter-to-be. Isn’t she beautiful, Father?” she asks, reaching to brush a long strand of blonde hair away from Rebecca’s cheek. It’s her scarred one, and for a moment I wonder why Ellen would be so thoughtless, but as she stares at sweet Rebecca admiringly, I get it. She’s just working her Richardson magic on my chosen one. And while Becca blushes a little, and seems embarrassed at the compliment, I also see how pleased she is at the way Ellen dotes on her in front of all her friends.
On the outside steps, I turn back to look at the church. I wonder why I always fought passing through these doors for such a long time. The Lion of Judah, I’ve heard God called, and growing up I always thought that lion wanted to devour all of me. Before I could crawl he took my mother, and then when I found sweet Allie—my first true love, my soul mate—that lion and my father turned both their backs right on me.
But lately, you know, with all the good in my life—all the perfect gifts I have—I’m starting to think the one who did that turning away was actually me.
***
Back at the house, we wind our way up a curving staircase to the third floor, an area I haven’t seen since my earliest days with Alex, not since a building inspector told Ellen that it wasn’t safe to climb up to the cupola anymore without serious renovation. Now, with the recent restoration work she’s had done, that majestic perch is finally open again so Andie can see it for the very first time, something she’s always wanted to do.
Laurel leads the way, her clogs echoing like thunderclaps on the antique hardwood steps with Andrea following close behind. The stairs are steep, creaky, and my daughter measures out each one, taking giant steps behind her birthmother. For a moment she nearly stumbles and I place a steadying palm on her back.
“Thanks, Daddy,” she says, and as usual I grin just to hear her call me that again.
Rebecca is our rearguard: solid, strong, confidently taking each unknown step as if they’ve always been a part of her. It’s eerie how much she belongs in this house, and not for the first time I think of how much Alex would have loved her. And she would have definitely loved him—not like I did, no, but there would have been a soul connection, I’m certain of it.
“Oh, wow!” Andrea proclaims before we even reach the top of the stairs that end in one windowed circular room overlooking the Pacific. Clear blue sky rushes out to a horizon line of dark, mysterious ocean.
“It’s something, isn’t it?” Laurel halts at the top, stepping sideways so we can all fit along the railing. She stands, hand on her hip, admiring the towering view of the rocks and ocean down below.
I remember the first time Alex unveiled this secret room to me, his favorite in the whole house. Right at sunset he snagged two glasses of wine for both of us, and led me up the narrow, spiraling staircase, whispering like it was a conspiracy. We slid down to the floor together, hidden from his family, and nestled right up against the windows until the burning daylight melted into night. Like a pair of renegade pirates sequestered away together.
Laurel glances around the area, her eyes taking in all the timeless relics, the driftwood and paperbacks. A few of her oil paintings lie propped against the windows, early crude works from when she was just a girl.
“When Alex and I were little,” she says, “we used to come up here and play for hours.” Although she smiles, I glimpse sadness in her expression. “We’d pretend we were sea captains or royalty.”
“It’s amazing!” Andrea agrees, slipping past Laurel to the cushioned window seat that offers the best view through the huge pane of windows. Across the road and far below us, foamy waves break on the rocks. Rebecca steps onto the landing beside me, and I reach for her, needing to feel her. Cupping her shoulder, I draw her close, and we stand together beside Laurel that way, staring out the window. For long moments, none of us speaks because we’re awestruck by the mysticism of the view, the memories, of the knowledge that Alex Richardson left some part of himself here years ago. And of the knowledge that in a very elemental way he lives because he lives between us.
“I want to show you something, Andrea,” Laurel says, dropping to her knees. “It’s in the window seat.” Lifting the cushion up, then tugging on a rope handle, the bottom gives way to reveal a cubbyhole. “It’s something your daddy and I put in here, a long, long time ago. Come look.”