“Thanks,” I say, playing through the elegant chain with my fingertips. “It definitely goes well with the dress.”
“Not the necklace,” he clarifies. “You.”
I can’t help but blush.
“Thank you...”
“It was the right choice, the necklace with the dress.” His eyes hold mine. “But it won’t go with every outfit we bought. So, I made sure to buy out the jeweler’s entire stock.”
I gulp. “How many necklaces did you buy?”
“All of them.”
“Why?”
A slight grin. “For other occasions.”
My mind almost doesn’t want to grasp what he’s saying, but my heart can’t help it.
Therewillbe other occasions.
A girl could get used to this.
The fettuccine arrives on a wide ceramic plate, the pasta glistening under a delicate cream sauce dotted with herbs. I twirl the first forkful with as much composure as the setting demands, bring it to my mouth, and immediately press my fingers against my lips to trap the moan that nearly escapes.
The flavor is extraordinary.
Rolan watches me from across the table, a quiet laugh escaping him. He picks up his knife and cuts into his lasagna.
“How is Anya doing with the lessons?” he asks eventually.
“She solved a three-digit multiplication problem in her head on Tuesday,” I tell him proudly. “I gave her eighty-four times thirty-seven as a floor exercise. I expected her to work through it on paper. She looked at the ceiling for about four seconds and gave me the answer.”
Rolan’s holding back the biggest grin. “And what’s the answer?”
“Three thousand one hundred and eight. She was correct.” I pause. “Rolan, for a six-year-old, that’s unusual. I’ve been looking at the literature on mathematical giftedness, and she fits the criteria.”
The grin is barely contained now. He’s bursting at the seams to brag about his daughter but isn’t used to being so expressive.
It’s utterly endearing.
“That’s my girl,” he mumbles, low enough that it might just be to himself.
“Her reading comprehension is also exceptional,” I continue. “She’s processingCharlotte’s Webat a level that’s closer to nine or ten than six. The emotional content, especially. She asks questions that require me to actually think before I answer. Last week she asked why Charlotte didn’t tell Wilbur she was dying, and we had a forty-minute conversation about the difference between protecting someone and deceiving them.”
The prospective grin falters. Rolan is quiet for a moment. “What did you tell her?”
“That sometimes the most honest thing is to let someone feel safe for as long as possible. And that knowing when to tell the truth and when to protect is the hardest question people ever have to answer.” I pause. “She thought about it for a while and then said,But doesn’t Wilbur feel more sad at the end because he didn’t know?And I said, Yes, probably. And she said,Then maybe Charlotte should have told him.And I said, I think you might be right.”
I try not to notice how still his expression has become. The giddiness has faded. The old Rolan is slowly returning.
“She’s extraordinary,” I say, and I mean it without complication. “She’s the most intelligent child I’ve ever worked with.”
“I know,” he says. And the way he says it, quiet, not casual, the same words he used about the food but carrying an entirely different weight, makes me look at my plate for a moment.
The implication of our conversation stirs and settles in a contemplative silence until he finally breaks it.
We talk about the book I’ve been reading. He asks questions that suggest he’s actually listening, which is the most disarmingthing about him, the way he applies the full weight of his attention to whatever I’m saying, as if what I’m saying is the most relevant information currently available to him.
