“But the other families…”
My fists clenched instinctively. Had they been unkind to her?
“They were all so kind and welcoming,” she explained, unknowingly allaying my fear. “Loving and supportive. Perfect, really. We were surrounded by families with two parents and bounce house birthday parties and big yards. We’d stepped into the kind of tranquil childhood my kids deserve but that I can’t provide.” Head lowered, she traced aseam on her steering wheel. “My ex-husband is in jail,” she admitted.
I schooled my features. I had so many questions, but it was none of my business.
“I put him there.”
Eyes closing, I mentally pumped my fist. Fuck yeah, she did. I didn’t know why or how, but I was proud of this strong woman anyway.
Licking my lips, I reined myself in. “You’re very brave.”
She looked at me, tears running down her face. “Thank you. But brave doesn’t give my kids a dad. And it doesn’t erase the abuse they witnessed.”
That admission was like a knife to the heart.
Abuse.
The word I’d assumed but had never outright heard from her lips.
A red curtain shrouded my vision and anger coursed through my veins. Why the hell was this man still alive?
But as a sob escaped her, I came back to my senses. My feelings were irrelevant.
“The kids and their dads,” she hiccuped.
I opened the console and dug out a small stack of napkins.
“At the party.” She blew her nose loudly.
“Celine?” I said softly. “Can I give you a hug? Would that help?” I didn’t dare move a muscle. I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable.
She nodded, blinking at me. “You don’t mind?”
“Not at all.” I leaned over, the console digging into my ribs, and embraced her.
While she buried her head in my chest, softly crying, I closed my eyes and focused on giving her as much comfort as I could. Trying like hell to ignore just how good she felt in my arms. How she smelled and how soft her hair was.
“He was so sad about the pumpkins,” she said, her voice muffled.
“What pumpkins?”
She pulled back and blew her nose again. “At the party.” She ducked, tears once again welling. “Some of the kids were talking about making pumpkin boats with their dads. Some special tradition. And he was so sad. So left out.”
Frowning, I replayed her words. “The gourd race? At the Harvest Festival?”
“I think so.”
I sighed. “It’s not just for dads.”
“I know. I found a blurb about it on the town web page. Then I went on Facebook and watched videos of previous years.”
It was an honored part of the Harvest Festival. Townsfolk hollowed out massive pumpkins and gourds and built wacky boats, then they raced down part of the river. Many of the participants teamed up and wore costumes and did all sorts of fun stuff.
I’d done it many times with my dad, and the memories I had of building the boats were some of my best. For a good week, we’d design our watercraft, then mess around with power tools after dinner. I missed him every day, but moments like this reminded me of how lucky I was. What a gift loving parents could be and how not everyone was as fortunate as I was.
“It’s stuff like this that makes me feel like I’m failing them.” Sadness radiated from her. “That they will suffer forever because I was an idiot and married their shithead father.”
