Pale, weak, covered in sweat, smiling at me.
I remembered those green eyes.
At the nursery door, looking at me, the light dying bit by bit.
I remembered her saying, "I just want to see my child."
Remembered her saying, "Scheduled visits."
Remembered her saying, "Get out."
Remembered last night.
Her tears, her struggle, all those things she cursed at me.
"I know," I said, throat tight. "I know you're looking for her. I'm sorry, Juliet. I'm sorry."
Juliet's crying slowly quieted.
She was still hiccupping, little body still shaking, but stopped crying. Those green eyes just like hers, wet, looked at me.
Then she reached out her little hand.
Touched my chin.
The gesture was soft, careful, like confirming something.
I froze.
Looked down at this little thing in my arms.
She was still looking at me, tears not yet dry in her eyes, but no longer crying. Just looking at me like that, looking at the stubble on my chin, looking at my eyes.
I held her tight.
"Daddy," I said, voice hoarse. "I'm Daddy."
Outside the window, the night was thick and impenetrable.
She touched my chin again, then finally settled down, buried her face in my shoulder, innocently fell asleep.
I held her, held her tight.
Chapter Eleven
Olivia
A small town in the south of France—I still can't pronounce its name right.
But I remember its sunlight. Every afternoon at three, it would slant through the flower shop's glass windows, hitting the floor in front of the register, warm and hazy with dust motes.
"You can't hide here forever."
Ella sat in the wicker chair by the shop entrance, coffee in hand, watching me.
Five years.
Five years ago, she found me in the hospital, took me away from New York, and brought me to this little town in southern France. Five years of quarterly visits, sitting in that same wicker chair, saying the same thing.
