“I wasn’t thinking of Paris, for Pete’s sakes. Somewhere like . . . Manchester, or Cape Cod. A cozy inn with candlelit dinners, strolls on the beach.”
“In the middle of March,” she said. “A little cold, don’t you think?”
“It’d be plenty warm in our room.”
She pressed down a rising smile. “I’ll think about it.”
“Good. I’ll help pack when I get home,” he said, and with pail in hand he resumed his walk toward the streetcar.
“I didn’t say–,” she started, but finished with a groan. She looked at Judith and laughed to herself. “And here I was thinking you got your stubbornness from me. Good grief. Tell your incorrigible daddy good-bye.”
“Bye-bye, Daddy!” Judith waved her sticky fingers.
He turned to wink and disappeared around the corner.
“All right,” Vivian said, “let’s go finish breakfast.” She adjusted the girl’s weight to prevent her from sliding down, and headed for the apartment. “How about we bake some muffins today? And we could write letters to Grandma and Grandpa. You remember they’re coming to see you in a few weeks.” It could have been Vivian’s imagination, or just hopeful thinking, but the couple actually seemed more compatible than ever.
“I wanna chocolate!”
“Oh, you do, now? That sounded a lot like a royal order. How about we rephrase that into ...”
A man at the end of the block stood beside a parked black Ford, staring in her direction. Something about him withered her words. She used her free hand to shade her eyes from the sun, and her heart stalled mid-beat. The embodiment of her past peered back from the eyes of a suited fellow with a head of blond curls. A face she had once known. Features stored deep in the well of her memory. It was a reflection of the impossible.
“Mommy?” Judith tugged the chest of her apron. But Vivian could not move. Her legs were ancient redwoods rooted to the earth.
A minute passed, maybe an hour, a century. There was no sound, no motion, until the driver stepped out of the car. He tapped a shoulder of the blond man and, after a pause, guided him into the backseat. The door closed and engine revved. And as the car started away, what appeared to be slate-gray eyes gazed out from the rear window.
65
Audra could still see the shocked expression in her mind. The way the girl’s face had hardened when Audra, in a desperate free fall, had denied Isabella affirmation of heaven. More than a month had passed since then, yet the little girl’s reaction neglected to fade from Audra’s memory. In fact, it had gained clarity in the last two days, following Luanne’s confession.
Maybe it was the woman’s talk of “unfinished business” that revived thoughts of Isabella. Maybe the whispers from Audra’s conscience were easier to hear, or harder to silence, when surrounded by the quiet of night.
Either way, she heard them now, sitting on the side of Jack’s bed. Light from the hall slanted a soft beam into the room as she caressed her son’s hair. The air contained a sleepy scent that Audra wished she could bottle.
Jack appeared so serene curled up with his pillow, calm after the fright of his nightmare. His stillness reminded her of a glassy lake at dawn. Its surface offered a different view for each person who stole a peek. She wasn’t necessarily convinced about the link between Jack and Gene, but then, there was no reason she had to agree. As promised, regardless, she would bring her son to visit Luanne before the move to Boston.
Boxes around the bedroom, packed with half of Jack’s belongings, reminded her how soon that would come. Of course they would be back, to visit friends and family. But in a matter of weeks they would call a new place home.
Tomorrow, then. Sunday was as good as any day to reach out to Isabella—if the family would allow it. Audra had no script planned aside from an apology. She imagined Luanne had approached Judith with similar preparation. There were aspects of life, no matter your efforts, that appeared set on a particular course.
That wasn’t to say Audra saw everything as predestined or orchestrated in detail by an almighty power. Upon review of her life, however, neither could she claim that everything happened by chance. That much she knew merely by the sight before her. For as she gazed at Jack’s face while listening to the gentle rhythm of his breaths, her love for him went far beyond science. Or logic. Or provable theories in any book.
Overflowing. That’s what Devon had called the type of love he felt the minute Jack was born. It was the feeling of your heart expanding, brimming to such fullness that the seams could split in your chest.
“You were right,” she whispered, savoring the stretch of that emotion now. “Overflowing is exactly the word.” She spoke this into the darkness, and though she might never know for sure, she sensed that somewhere, somehow, Devon heard her and smiled.