into a ball, her knees to her chest, her bare feet sticking out
from the bottom of the robe. Her long red hair was knotted at the nape of her neck in a loose and elegant bun. In the
soft light of the room she radiated a delicate beauty. A vision,
freckles and all. How had he not noticed before how lovely
she was? Of course, the one and only occasion they’d been in
each other’s company, he’d been preoccupied, to say the least. “You’re grading papers?” Kingsley asked.
“No, I’m still on maternity leave,” she said. Next to her on
the table sat a baby monitor. “These are proofs of my book.
Nothing exciting. Only poetry.” She held up a printed title
page that read Rooftop Novenas.
“You’re writing again?” Kingsley asked. He remembered
from her file she’d had a few poems published in her early
twenties.
“I am,” she said, smiling shyly. “I don’t know what it is…
As soon as I was pregnant with Fionn I had so much creative
energy. Couldn’t stop writing. Zachary’d thought I’d lost my
mind. He’s an editor, though, not a writer. He thinks all writers are a bit mad.”
“I might have to agree with him,” Kingsley said. “You have
my congratulations on the book.”
She shuff led her pages, capped her pen. “Thank you, Kingsley. But I don’t believe you crossed an ocean simply to talk
about my poetry.”
“Even if it was inspired by a mutual friend of ours?” Kingsley said.
“Even so,” she admitted without shame. Good. Kingsley
might have despised her if she’d had any regrets, any shame for
what had happened. Instead, she’d come with an open heart
to their world, an open mind, and had returned home carrying a blessing inside her. “It’s back to school in a few months,
and I’m trying not to think about having to leave Fionn.” “He taught at our high school after he graduated. Did you
know that?”
She held her glass steady on the coffee table between them
as Kingsley poured the wine.
“He told me he used to teach. Said he liked it. I didn’t expect that from him.”
Kingsley picked up a framed photograph that sat on the
coffee table between them—a black-and-white picture of a
newborn infant boy sleeping on a white pillow.
“That’s one thing you can say for him,” Kingsley said, turning the photograph toward Grace. “He’s full of surprises.” She blushed beautifully and laughed quietly, and Kingsley
couldn’t help but join in her laugh.
“Is he why you’re here? Are you checking on Fionn for
him?”
“No,” Kingsley said. “Although he’ll never forgive me if I
don’t look in on him while I’m here.” Kingsley ached to see
the boy, but he had learned the hard way to never disturb a
sleeping baby.
“I’m only asking why you’re here out of curiosity. You never
need a reason to visit us. I assume everyone is well?” Grace
asked. “Juliette? Your daughter? Nora?”
“Juliette and Céleste are perfect as usual,” he said. “But
Nora, she lost her mother recently. A month ago, I believe.” “I had no idea. Zachary never said a word about it.” “She didn’t tell anyone until afterward. She disappeared on
us for two weeks.”
“Nora.” Grace sighed and shook her head. “Well, if she behaved like a normal person, she wouldn’t be Nora, would she?” “No. No, she wouldn’t be.” Kingsley laughed to himself.
“But she and her mother…they had a difficult relationship.” “Because of him?”
“Her mother hated him. I don’t use the word hate lightly,”
Kingsley said. “I think it was a peace offering to her mother
for Nora to go alone. And she couldn’t tell him. Nora ran
away to her mother’s once before, and he hunted her down
like the hound of hell.”
“I didn’t know that. But I can imagine he’s…persistent where
she’s concerned?”