“And the tart,” I say.
“And the milkshake,” he adds. “Just rest now, and I’ll take care of it all.”
I open my mouth to answer, but sleep pulls me under.
Epilogue
Luca
The bar’s all brass and soft lamps, mirrors behind the bottles throwing back a hundred versions of the same dim room. From the corner booth, I can see the elevators and the street door in one line.
It should make me feel in control. It doesn’t. My palms are dry, and I have to remind myself to breathe so I don’t end up holding air in my chest like a fool.
Elena’s hand is on my knee under the table, her thumb tracing a slow line that calms me. She’s dressed simply in a black dress, hair pulled up. Nothing that demands attention, and still shetakes all of mine. She’s not saying much, letting me work things out in my head.
I’m thankful and also annoyed. I need her to speak to me, calm me down. Tell me everything is going to be fine.
Like she heard me, she murmurs, “You’re allowed to be nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” I say automatically, and the lie tastes stupid even as it leaves my mouth.
Her mouth quirks. “Right.”
I focus on the doorway again. A couple in sequins breezes through; a group of men in golf shirts claps each other on the shoulders and heads for the blackjack pit; a woman with a glitter clutch orders a martini and leans on the bar. The piano player hits the same three chords over and over.
I check the time. Early by two minutes. I should be grateful she’s not late; instead, I hate the two minutes for how damn long they feel.
“Luca.”
I don’t hear Elena say it so much as feel the word in her hand as it tightens. I look up.
The elevator doors open, and she steps out withhim,a half step behind.
My daughter. Twelve years older than the last time I saw her, and somehow exactly the same.
Dark curls, longer now and thicker, the kind that have always refused to be told what to do and done what they want. Eyes the deep dark of fresh coffee. She has my cheekbones and her mother’s mouth, and she’s wrapped in a simple camel coat even though the bar is warm. Her hands aren’t empty; she’s holding them together like she’s trying not to fidget.
Nick Dixon, her husband, stands slightly behind and to the side with the stance of a man who is ready to jump into the fray if needed.
I remember the last time I saw him. I was in an orange jumpsuit, in prison and chained to a table, and he was a free man, threatening me, having purchased that prison. The old anger tries to surface, but it peters out before it gets anywhere.
He meets every glance in the room once and then stops looking, all his attention sliding back to the woman beside him.
Lucia’s gaze finds our booth. I’m standing before I know I’ve moved. The ground feels unsteady, even though it’s carpet and not some cliff edge.
She slows at the lip of the bar, the uncertainty I feel in my bones making her unsure. She steps closer. She is twenty-nine, and she is seven, and she is a stranger. And she is my daughter.
“Hi,” she says.
It’s absurd what that does to me.
“Hi,” I answer, because Elena told me to say the simple things and because anything else might shatter me.
Elena stands too. The calming presence, the buffer, and the bridge. “Lucia,” she says, soft and friendly. “Thank you for coming.”
Lucia nods once. Her eyes flick to Elena’s belly, and a complicated handful of feelings passes across her face too fast to name. Nick’s hand touches her elbow; she doesn’t shake him off.
“Nick,” I say, evenly.
