I want to say it out loud, to vent and have someone hear me, but I refuse to feel bitterness toward this innocent woman.
“No, he doesn’t.”
She smiles at me sadly. “I wish you’d said something.” She looks at London, who is exploring the room, barely paying any attention to our conversation.
“A woman’s heart is full of secrets. I want to think you kept yours for a good reason.” She pats the seat next to her, and London runs over and takes it, swinging her legs happily while telling her grandmother about a cartoon show she’s into.
“This is your other grandma, London.”
Her eyes widened, and she hops up and down on the spot. “Really, Momma? Oh!” she shrieks.
She hops into Katherine’s lap and wraps her arms around her neck.
“Thank you for this,” Katherine mouths as she wraps her arms tightly around London.
“I guess I waited too long. And then I heard he was married. I didn’t want to interfere.”
“The point is that you’re here now.” A tear slips down her cheeks.
“I am so happy to meet you, London . . .”
“Me too, Grandma.” And it’s as if the waterworks open for Katherine. I have to wipe away the tears that threaten to fall.
“Don’t cry. It’s a happy thing, right?” London wipes away the tears off her grandmother's cheeks, and Katherine leans into her small hands.
I honestly didn't realize how much hurt and pain I’ve held toward Wyatt until this moment. He’d robbed these two beautiful souls seven years. He’s a selfish asshole.
“We should go,” I say to Katherine. “Can you not mention . . .?” I look at my daughter.
“Not till you tell him,” she assures me.
* * *
The incessant shouting frustrates me.Whomever, the client was not happy with Carl.
I walk out, and there was a giant of a man shouting at poor Carl, who was close to tears.
London skips out of the back room and stands next to me.
“Who's that meanie, Mommy?” she asks, and I grin down at her.
I walk toward Carl’s workstation. “What seems to be the matter, sir?”
I suck in a breath when he turns to regard me. There stands Wyatt, his arms crossed over his broad chest glaring at me.
“You?” he snarls.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re sending the fucking flowers to me?”
“Language, Mister!” London shouts.
He looks from me to London, and his brow creases.
“I never sent you any flowers.” I am aghast at his accusation. “There has to be a mistake.”
“Oh yeah, then this isn’t your shop card, and this god-awful pot wasn’t done by you?” He points at the arrangement on Carl’s counter.
