I drop his hand and gently shove his good arm. “Shut up.”
Sarah comes back in with a cup of ice water and a straw, so I help Theo sit up enough to take a drink while she holds the straw to his mouth.
“Thanks, Sarah,” Theo says. “Now, will you please take your husband home and put him to bed? You both look like you need to sleep.”
“We’ll be back tomorrow, all right? And Mom’s flying in first thing. She should be here around nine.”
Theo nods, his eyes already closed. “I love you, brother,” he says. “Thanks for being here.”
“I love you too,” I say, then I make my way to the door where Sarah is already waiting.
She slips an arm around my waist. “You okay?” she asks, and I nod, wiping my eyes.
“Yeah. Just tired. Ready to go home.”
Home.The word has had a different meaning lately. The new house helps, but it only feels like a home because Sarah is there. She’s what I crave, and I’m suddenly intensely aware of how lucky I am thatgoing homemeans having her with me.
29
CARTER
At the house,there’s a package on the front porch, along with a stack of our mail. Sarah scoops it up and carries it inside where Gordie very enthusiastically lets us know how happy he is that we’re home.
I take him into the kitchen to feed him while Sarah opens the package.
“Who is it from?” I ask, honestly a little curious why she’s opening it now when it’s the middle of the night and we should both be crashing into bed.
“It doesn’t say,” she says. “It’s postmarked from New York.”
Sothat’swhy she’s opening it. I probably would too if I were her.
Once Gordie is eating, I move to the counter where she’s standing and look over her shoulder. “What is it?”
“A book, I think,” she says pulling it out of the box. It’s wrapped in brown paper, and she makes quick work of removing it, then she lets out a gasp. “Oh my gosh! It’s Adrienne Vale’s monograph.”
“In non-art-speak, please.”
“A monograph—it’s a book of an artist’s work,” she says. “It’s a big deal to have one made because you have to have created a body of work impressive enough to justify it.” She flips through the book’s pages. “Adrienne Vale is a personal favorite of mine. Her work is incredible.”
“You still don’t know who sent it?”
“I don’t. There’s no card.”
“Is there an inscription?”
She flips back to the front of the book. “Oh, there is one,” she says. Then she reads, “‘Sarah, it was wonderful seeing your work at the Second Light. Let’s talk about the Rooke. Congratulations on the new addition to your extended family. Calista.’” She looks up at me. “Let’s talk about the Rooke,” she repeats, a slight tremor in her voice. “Does that mean what I think it means?”
I lift my hands to her shoulders. “I think it means she wants your art in her gallery.”
“She wants my art,” Sarah says. “Calista Reinhardt wantsme.”
“She wants you,” I echo. “And I’m not even a little surprised.”
Sarah puts down the book, then she turns and throws herself into my arms.
I lift her up, loving that I get to be here for this moment. That I’m the one who gets to celebrate with her first. “I wish it wasn’t so late,” I say, as I lower her back to the ground. “We need to celebrate.”
“Tomorrow,” she says. “After we sleep.”
