Christina leaned over and pulled her sister into a hug. Ally’s arms came around her, mindful of the belly between them, and for a moment she let herself lean into the comfort of it.
“Thank you,” she whispered against Ally’s shoulder.
“You’re going to be a great mom,” Ally whispered back. “Violet is lucky to have you.”
Christina pulled away, blinking rapidly. “I need the bathroom. Sorry.”
She didn’t wait for a response, just waddled toward the hallway as fast as her body would allow. Behind her, she heard Tara saying something about pregnancy bladders, the other women laughing in easy understanding.
The bathroom door closed behind her with a soft click. Christina locked it, pressed her back against the wood, and let the tears come.
Outside, rain began to patter against the window, light at first, then harder. The storm had arrived. Thunder cracked, closer now, and the lights flickered once before steadying.
She sank onto the closed toilet lid, hands cradling her belly. Violet stirred, responding to the change in position or maybe to the emotion flooding Christina’s body. The baby had been more active lately, her movements stronger and more deliberate, as if she was getting ready to meet the world.
A world without a father. All she’d ever wanted was to get married, have babies, and be a mom. Guess she was starting at the end.
“I’m sorry,” Christina whispered, her voice cracking. “I’m so sorry, baby girl. You deserve better than this. You deserve?—”
What? A father who didn’t know she existed? A man whose family would probably try to take her away, wrap her in lawyers and money until Christina had no rights left at all?
She thought about Marco’s face in the tabloids—those green eyes that would probably show up in her daughter someday, that smile she still saw in her dreams. He’d been so different that night in Miami. Real. Human. He’d made her laugh until her stomach hurt, had listened to her like her words actually mattered, had touched her like she was something precious. They’d clicked in a way she’d never connected with anyone else.
But that wasn’t the real Marco Castellano. That was one night, a fantasy, a beautiful lie they’d both agreed to tell.
The real Marco dated models and actresses. He was a model, came from a family worth billions. The real Marco would never choose a girl like her—and even if he did, even if some miracle occurred and he wanted to be part of Violet’s life, his family would destroy her.
“I’ll be enough,” she told Violet, pressing her palm flat against the spot where the baby was kicking. “I’ll love you enough for two parents. I promise.”
A soft knock on the door made her jump.
“Christina?” Sam’s voice, quiet and hesitant. “Are you okay? Mrs. Bedford sent me to check.”
Christina grabbed a tissue from the box on the counter, dabbing at her eyes. “I’m fine. Just—give me a minute.”
“I left my present on the chair by the window. You don’t have to open it with everyone watching if you don’t want to. But I wanted you to know it’s there.”
The sound of her footsteps retreated down the hall. Sam was blooming since she’d found out she had a grandmother. She’d been going to counseling to deal with the anger over her parents’ abandonment, their drug addiction, overdoses, and their deaths, but the kid was doing great. She hoped Violet would be a strong young woman, resilient and kind as she grew up.
Christina finished cleaning up her face as best she could, splashing cold water on her cheeks and taking several deep breaths. When she finally opened the door, the party had continued without her—women chatting and laughing, eating cake and drinking lemonade and tea, the storm raging outside but everyone cozy and warm inside.
She spotted Sam’s present immediately. A flat, rectangular package wrapped in brown paper, leaning against the chair by the window. Christina crossed to it, ignoring the curious looks, and carefully peeled back the paper.
The painting was small—maybe twelve inches square—but the colors stopped her cold. The lake at sunset, with the water reflecting golds and pinks and purples, the mountains rising soft and blue in the background. A single rowboat floated near the shore, empty but waiting.
“It’s how I see Blueberry Hill and especially the lake,” Sam said, appearing at her elbow. The teenager twisted her hands together nervously. “That feeling of... I don’t know. Like home is waiting for you. Like no matter what happens, this place will always be here.”
Christina stared at the painting, at the soft, hopeful colors, at the peace Sam had somehow captured in oil and canvas.
“It’s for Violet’s nursery,” Sam added. “So she’ll always know where she belongs.”
The tears were back, but this time Christina didn’t try to hide them. She pulled Sam into a one-armed hug, the painting held carefully in her other hand.
“It’s absolutely perfect,” she managed. “Thank you.”
Over Sam’s shoulder, she caught Tara watching them, her mother’s eyes bright with unshed tears. The storm was still pounding against the windows, rain streaking down the glass in silver sheets.
Tara appeared with a slice of cake, pressing it into Christina’s free hand. “Eat. You’re growing a human.”
