When it felt like my brain was starting to bleed from looking at schedules, orders for the restaurant, creating specials, and pretending to go over financials, Calliope essentially took over that section of the restaurant, and I was not too proud to lether. I trusted her implicitly, but it was my business and my responsibility to know what was going on with every single facet of the restaurant.
It was technically my father and brother’s too, but Elliot took charge of the daily catch, my father working with him more often than not. My father had carried the burden of running the restaurant and raising two boys for decades. He and Elliot scrimped, saved, and borrowed every ounce they could to pay for Clara’s care.
Then in came Calliope, our fucking guardian angel dressed in black, wearing heels that no one should be able to walk in, cursing more than any fisherman I’d ever encountered.
This was thefamilybusiness. One we’d built from the ground, that our mother had helped create until the day she died. It was sacred to us. Precious. So I was happy to accept help from Calliope if it meant that Clara grew up in that restaurant and that it would be hers one day if she wanted it.
Thanks to Calliope, the weight of the bills and the debt were no longer bone-breaking. I only had a slight headache by the time I left my office.
I walked toward my guaranteed pain relief—the murmured voices in the living room.
“Banana?” My daughter’s sweet voice addressed Hannah in the name she’d had for her since she moved in.
“Yes, my angel?” The tenderness in Hannah’s reply made my chest pinch.
They were under the same blanket, Hannah stroking Clara’s hair while they watched a musical. Hannah loved them, old musicals. Ones made before her time. Long before. And she was teaching Clara to love them.
I leaned against the doorframe, grateful they hadn’t seen me yet.
“Do you have a mother?”
My breath caught. I knew a time would come when Clara would start asking questions about her mother, especially after seeing all the women and the families at her birthday party. The past couple of years were so focused on keeping her alive that I’d forgotten about all the other things I had to protect her from.
I tried to give her everything I could, all of me, but I knew there was no way I could be everything for her. But Hannah… Hannah gave her everything I couldn’t. And more.
“I do have a mother,” Hannah replied evenly. I knew Hannah, though, so I noted the way her hand paused stroking Clara’s hair, the tightening of her shoulders, the forced casualness of her tone.
My gut clenched. I didn’t know about Hannah’s family, her past. On purpose. I couldn’t know anything more about her or I’d be fucking ruined.
Cole had alluded to pain in her past.
I already knew she barely woke up before stumbling in search of coffee. I knew she liked fresh flowers, that she drank tea every night, she laughed easily, loved reading, and was perfect for my daughter.
Perfect for me.
But I was not perfect for her.
I couldn’t keep collecting facts about her because the more I knew, the harder she was to resist. And she was already pretty fucking hard to resist.
Walk away. That would be the prudent option. Or clearing my throat loudly to interrupt the moment, sending Hannah scurrying to her room with an expression that shredded my insides and would send me to hell for marring that flawless face.
But I waited.
“Where is she? Your mother?” Clara asked. “Do you see her much?”
As Hannah kept stroking, I watched her profile, the purse of her lips. She was chewing the inside of her cheek, debating over what to tell Clara, if I had to guess. She likely understood why she was asking and knew to tread carefully.
Because the last thing in the world Hannah wanted to do was hurt my daughter. She lived for her.
“I don’t see her much, Blueberry,” she murmured.
“Why not?” Clara asked with a frown.
Hannah sucked in a breath. I could feel the pain in the simple exhale, which made me ball my fists at my sides.
“Because she wasn’t a very good mother to me, my darling. She wasn’t … equipped to give me the things a mother should give a little girl.” Hannah didn’t continue right away, gazing down at the hair between her fingers. “She … hurt me. So I had to go away.”
That was a lot to tell a five-year-old. Any other five-year-old. But like me, Hannah didn’t shy away from the truth with Clara. I’d always told her a version of the truth when she asked about her own mother. I’d softened the edges, kept out my fury, but Clara knew her mother was not around because she couldn’t be a mother.
