The daily jaunt had become precious to Tessa and, she suspected, to Olive, who thrived on routine. So Tessa had happily arranged to do the same thing at the same time every day.
That kind of structure wasn’t Tessa’s style—but then, she’d never had a child. Every day with sweet little Olive Oyl, she learned to give up a bit more of herself for this child. And she loved it.
The pain of separation from her mother—who Tessa had made an effort to talk about with love—had completely subsided. Since her breakthrough, Olive talked like any other two-year-old, in single words, with R’s sounding like W’s, and exuberance for anything that delighted her.
Tessa had even taken her to the Summer House to meet all her friends, who’d been enchanted and politely asked fewquestions about her mother, all honoring Dusty’s professional code of ethics.
Olive hadn’t been silent there, either. In fact, she’d squealed at the sight of Jonah’s baby, Atlas, begging to “hold, hold” and Jonah let her, with great supervision.
But most days, after breakfast and “clean-up” time—there was a song for that, Tessa discovered from watching Olive’s favorite show—they put on beach clothes, sunhats, and flipflops, then slathered on sunscreen with much giggling.
Then Tessa threw a few sand toys, towels, and water in a small backpack, took Olive’s little hand, and crossed the street to the beach.
Sometimes on very sunny days, she’d bring an umbrella, but today there were some clouds, so they dropped their things, kicked off their shoes, and walked hand in hand, looking for shells.
The sand under her feet was warm and smooth. Too smooth for great shelling.
“No jewel-wy,” Olive muttered as they looked around.
“The tide is rising, though,” Tessa told her. “It’ll leave a treasure trove, but probably not until later. We can come back after naptime, okay?”
“’kay.” Then she gasped and let go of Tessa’s hand, running ahead and collapsing on the sand dramatically.
“What did you find, Olive Oyl?”
“Jewels!” She flattened her hand to the sand, then started digging. A moment later, she held up a shell, pale pink with a chipped edge. She turned it over in her small palm, considering it the way grown women examined diamonds.
“That isexcellentjewelry,” Tessa said. “Very rare.”
Olive dropped the shell into the little crab-covered canvas bag she wore like a cross-body purse, then reached for Tessa’s hand again.
Her fingers were warm and a little damp, her grip confident and tight, a constant reminder of a connection that grew stronger every day.
Maybe too strong, considering she had only eight days, counting today, left with Olive.
Tessa grunted at the thought, but they walked on, the surf frothing around their ankles when they got close to the water. Along the way, Olive pointed at birds and Tessa made up names for them—Isabella the Ibis and Samuel the seagull—making Olive giggle and say their names, waving as they flew away.
Olive set the pace—exceedingly slow—pausing frequently to study the bubbles in the surf or some rocks. Today, a dried palm frond was apparently important enough to warrant a full stop and inspection.
Every now and then, Olive let go of her hand to get a few steps ahead, then turned back, checking to make sure Tessa was there.
“I got you, girl,” Tessa called, getting a slow and genuine smile in response.
How was she going to let this darling child go? Tessa swallowed the thought and concentrated on the precious time she had left. She bent down when Olive stopped again and crouched beside her, both of them studying a cluster of shells half-buried in the sand.
“More jewelwy!” Olive exclaimed.
“So much jewelry,” Tessa agreed. “You’re going to need a vault.”
Olive looked up, a question in her eyes at the word.
Tessa smiled. “It’s a secret place where you keep all your most precious things,” she explained, having decided long ago that every question would be answered, no matter how big or small or if she’d even asked it out loud. Tessa knew—she spoke fluent Olive now.
At the thought, Tessa’s chest felt full, as if something inside her was expanding faster than it could be contained.
They passed an older couple, who grinned at Olive and gave a friendly nod to Tessa. Their gazes lingered and she presumed they were trying to figure out if Tessa was an older fifty-year-old mother or a young fifty-year-old grandmother.
But she was neither. Just a happy babysitter who already loved her little charge. But, oh, she wished she could claim mother or grandmother status. She wished in a way that made her ache.
