“Yes.”
“I love those books. She used to read them to me, too. Lois Lowry, the author, is one of my favorites.”
“Mine too,” Annie said, and Whit bit his lip, positive that Annie had never read another book by Lois Lowry.
The remainder of the drive was filled with the two of them talking books and Merritt generously answering a series of questions about her mother (“Does she knit? I feel like she knits.” “Does she have a TV?” “How many sweaters does she have?”).
Whit felt what he often felt when he saw Annie justbeing okay. Warmth, like a candle in his ribs. Annie was okay. She was smiling. She was laughing. And Merritt was the one making her do it.
She really was a wonder.
Chapter Thirteen
That night Willa dropped off dinner. She had been doing so once a week since Helen died and still managed to be less annoying about it than Whit’s sister had been, with her equally sympathy-driven phone calls. Actually, Willa’s gesture was not annoying at all, owing to her frank, no-nonsense way and the fact that she removed all opportunities for resistance from Whit. She informed him that a weekly dinner was just something he would to have to get used to until she stopped enjoying cooking or the two of them had a dramatic falling-out.
Now her drop-offs served as weekly check-ins, away from Carafe and the threat of Ian Hoult bursting through the door, looking bedraggled and put upon by all his literary and commercial success.
“Hi,” she said now as she walked into the kitchen where Whit was washing dishes. She never knocked. “Ramen tonight—homemade and, it must be said, very good.”
She placed a large Dutch oven on the counter, then dug through the tote on her shoulder to retrieve four brown orbs.
“Soft-boiled eggs. Just made, still warm, I don’t know how she does it. Peel them, cut them in half, and place them elegantly in each bowl of soup. Perfect for posting photos of your meals online, if you’re into that sort of thing.”
Whit must have made a face because she laughed and held up a hand.
“Which, I know you’re not. I’m just saying, it’s going to be a picture-perfect meal, and you’re welcome.”
Whit finished drying his hands and felt his face fall into a look of genuine gratitude.
“Thank you, Willa, as always.”
She held up her hand again. “Tsh.”
“Willa!” Annie said from the doorway.
Willa turned and lowered herself so the eight-year-old could embrace her.
“You act like you’re surprised to see me.”
“No,” Annie said, giving her another squeeze, “just happy.”
Willa stood up, keeping a hand on Annie’s shoulder.
“Stay close,” she said, “because your dad still has not RSVPed to our Halloween party this weekend, and I need you to help me guilt him into going.”
Annie looked horrified. “We’renotgoing?”
Whit laughed, rubbing his forehead with a sink-warm hand. “Who said that?”
Annie looked at Willa, then back to Whit and waited. “Wearegoing?”
He shrugged. Parties had always exhausted him. Now there was an added layer of discomfort from being out of practice, thanks to a year of social avoidance. But Willa’s plan was working, of course. He wouldn’t say no to Annie, not on Halloween.
“Sure,” he said. “But I am not wearing a costume.”
“I’m afraid costumes are required for entry when it comes to adults,” Willa said. She turned to Annie. “Youwear whatever you want. And there will be kids from school there, so bring a friend if you like.”
She looked pointedly at Whit. “Same goes for you. I heard you had a friend with you at pickup recently.”
