“What did you say?” Natalie sits beside me and rests a hand on my shoulder.
Focusing on my mother-in-law, I inhale deeply. “It was Claire.”
Her eyes go wide. “Did you know?”
I simply shake my head.
“How do you know it was her?”
“She’s the only one who knew that Daisy and I wanted to name the children’s center The Hive.”
Jack and Natalie sit with me for several minutes, saturated tissues piled high on the side table.
After a while, Jack clears his throat. “You have our blessing, you know.”
Blinking in confusion, I frown.
With a hand clasped tightly on my arm, Natalie says, “Claire may not be our daughter, and you are in no way obligated to ask for our permission, but you have it anyway. We like her, Asher. Wereallylike her. And we see how she’s changed you.”
With my heart still hanging out in my throat, my words are garbled. “What do you mean?”
“You’re lighter, freer, more playful. We’ve watched you two this summer. She’s good for you.” Jack says. “Bea too. That little girl adores her. And you know the feeling is mutual. Why else would she have done what she just did?”
“Honey, you know this is what Daisy would have—” Natalie gulps back a sob.
While she’s too emotional to finish the sentence, I know what she’s trying to say.
And she’s right.
“You don’t think we’re given unlimited chances to go after thethings we want, do you?” Jack asks, his eyes steely. “Because we don’t. So son, if you want her, go get her.”
I stand, and my in-laws follow, sandwiching me in a deep and tearful embrace, one full of immense understanding. Natalie insists on collecting Bea from school, allowing me some time to sort out the events of this afternoon.
At home, I stumble to the fridge for… I don’t know. A beer? Water? As I grasp the handle, the pictures Bea and Claire created earlier this summer—the ones with the bumblebees and daisies—catch my eye. A detail I’ve never noticed before jumps out at me. A tiny symmetrical heart next to Claire’s signature.
I yank both pictures off the fridge, the magnets clattering onto the floor, and stuff them in my pocket.
39
Claire
Asher sendsme a photo of Bea on her first day of school, her hair done up in a messy bun on the top of her head. She swapped her infamous tutu for a simple apple green dress, which paired adorably with her purple cowboy boots.
With tears in my eyes, I respond, texting, “I hope she has the best day ever!”
He “hearts” my reply, but that’s it.
A week later, Natalie FaceTimes. I consider not answering, but the letter she and Jack wrote, where they expressed their deepest gratitude for my donation and dedication to Daisy Lake, was beautiful, and I suppose she may be following up to ensure I received it.
So much for staying anonymous.
Rather than Natalie, when I accept the call, I find the most precious little face on the screen. Bea yaps about her kindergarten adventures, even showing me her latest painting. Just when I think her attention span is dwindling and she’s about to hang up, she breaks my heart by saying, “I miss you. Can you come home?”
Her words throw me for a loop and my own get lodged in my throat, hard and sharp like gravel. Fortunately, Natalie redirects the conversation by asking her to check on Jack in the kitchen, and we quickly end the call.
With no job prospects lined up, my motivation to do more than lie around and wallow in self-pity is nearly nonexistent. I’ve been back in the city for a couple of weeks now, but I’m sending calls to voicemail and only communicating via text so people know I’m alive and well.
“Well” may be an exaggeration. More like “alive and managing okay-ish.”
