CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-SIX

SPENCER POV

Violet tries to smile as though everything is A-ok as I prepare dinner, but she’s thinking about West.

      It’s a phenomenon I’m familiar with, once people find out about such a loss. One that has long since found me avoiding almost all mentions of my little girl’s name. It makes people feel awkward. Pity, sympathy… It's a fine line between the two.

      I don’t want either.

      “It’s ok. You can talk about her,” I say as I peel the carrots.

      She spins her empty juice glass on the table top. “I just… I can’t imagine the pain…”

      “Hopefully you won’t ever have to.” The peeler works so methodically. I lift my eyes from the growing pile of carrot sticks. “It was a long time ago.”

      “Still,” she says. “It’s so horrible… it must’ve been…”

      “Bad,” I say. “It was bad.”

      I hope that will suffice. I have no desire to dredge up the long nights of misery, or the countless hours of therapy, or the emptiness West and Clara passing left in my life.

      “I’m so sorry,” she tells me, and I believe her. Those blue eyes glassy and melancholic, the sadness written all over her pretty face. “Is that why you rescued me? Because of Clara?”

      “No,” I say. “I rescued you because of you.”

      She nods. “I’m so glad you did.”

      “So am I.”

      She smiles and it’s both sad and breath-taking. “What did she look like?” she asks. “West, I mean.”

      I hesitate for just a moment, long enough to finish up a carrot and dig my wallet from my suit jacket. I flip it open and pull out the little picture. West’s sweet little grin, her blonde pigtails. She looks happy. She looks so blissfully happy in that photo.

 Violet takes it from me with dainty fingers.

“She was so pretty. Such a beautiful little girl.”

      “Yes, she was,” I say. “A tiny blonde angel.” I pause, staring at Violet staring at West. “Like you.” She hands me the photo and I slip it back inside my wallet. “Clara was blonde, too.”

      “Am I much like her?”

      There’s something in her tone — a hint of breathlessness, and that awkwardness she conveys so well. Her sweet self-consciousness is addictive.

      I know she must be as confused as I am, spiralling around the same dilemma, just trying to ride the currents.

      Lover or little girl.

      Clara or West.

      I feel her brain ticking. I see it in her eyes, just as I feel it behind mine.

      “You remind me of her sometimes. Just a fleeting memory here and there.” I resume my peeling. “But you have an innocence, Clara didn’t.”

 “Maggie Connor says I’m a prude, she says I’m a big baby. Innocence is dumb stupid, she says.”

      “It’s a beautiful thing,” I tell her. “Very endearing.”

      She smiles. “It is?”

“Very.” And then I know it’s time to lay it on the line. “Clara wouldn’t let me take care of her, not in the way she needed. Not in the way I should’ve.”

  Violet stares at me. “She wouldn’t?”

      I shake my head. “I should’ve set the ground rules earlier. It would’ve kept her safe.” I laugh a sad laugh. “Should’ve, could’ve. Didn’t.”

      “She didn’t let you?”

      “Clara was reckless, right from the beginning. Rebellious. Addicted to the highs of her earlier life, even if she despised the lows. She’d say not, but it was in her soul, that sense of devilment.”

      “Rebellious,” she repeats, then lets out a little laugh. “Then we’re really not so similar at all. I barely even cross the road without a green light. Not unless Maggie Connor is involved.”

“Maggie Connor needs someone to show her a firm hand, Violet. Teach the girl to be a lot more considerate of others. She’ll get herself into trouble one day.” I pause. “Only now she won’t be dragging you into trouble’s path along with her. I won’t allow it.”

 I wait for a reaction, for any sign of backlash, but none comes.

      “Thanks,” she says. “For caring. It’s nice.”     

  I smile. “See if you still think that when you break one of the ground rules.”

      Her expression doesn’t change, and I’m sure the implication has sailed over her head. “I won’t break them.” She grins. “I’ll be good.”

      “That’s my girl.” I finish peeling the carrots. “You may well find me a little overprotective in time, Violet, but it’ll be for your own good.”

      “I know,” she says. “I trust you.”

      At least one of us does.

      I start on the parsnips.   

•

•

•

VIOLET POV

Spencer can cook. But that had been  figured out.

      Spencer can do everything.

 I eat up my chicken and vegetables, and it’s all just perfect, just the way I like it. I never want to go back to microwave meals and pasta again.

      I never want to go back to any of it.

      My heart feels tender at the thought of poor little West. A horrible sickness, as though it’s too big a pain to understand. And I suppose it is.

They say it’s the worst pain on earth, losing a child, and my heart wants to reach out and hold Spencer tight and never let him go.

 I just don’t understand why Clara wouldn’t want Spencer to keep her safe. It’s all I want.

      That’s a lie.

      I want much more than that.

 I want everything. Just like she had. Only more. I want all of it, every bit of his love, and his care, and his ground rules.

      I’ll give him all of my heart right back.

I eat up every bit of food on my plate and thank him for my meal. He tells me it’s nice to have someone to cook for.

      I tell him I’ll cook for him one day. I tell him I can make a mean macaroni cheese. He tells me that’ll be nice.

Somehow I don’t think I’ll be cooking for Spencer anytime soon, but that’s ok.

      It’s so easy to float around in my happy little bubble around him. So easy to be cared for. So easy to feel young and silly and small.

      It's so easy to feel loved.

      “Are you ok?” he asks. “You seem someplace else.”

“Just thinking.”

      “Penny for them?”

      I want to tell him that I love the salt and pepper at his temples, the strength in his jawline. I want to tell him that I love his gentle smile and the way he felt in bed last night.

      I don’t.

      “I feel floaty. Like this is a dream.”

“Me too,” he says. “It’s such a pleasure to find that life still has magic in it. It’s been awhile.”

      “It feels like fate, doesn’t it?”

He laughs. “Yes, Violet. It does. Maybe you’ll have to read those horoscopes.”

 I clear up the dinner plates before he can stop me, and load them into the dishwasher as he watches. I’m putting the cutlery into the tray as he steps up behind me, and his arms snake around my waist as he talks me through the washer settings.

      Full cycle, half cycle, quick rinse.

      I tell him I’ve got it, and press it to start.

      I feel a pang of loss as he steps away.

      He grabs his briefcase and sets out his laptop on the table. “Do you have homework? I’ve some reports to finish up if you want to work alongside me.”

I don’t have anything outstanding, but tell him I do. I gather up my text books and set myself up opposite him, then read over my notes from class, making myself out to be the diligent little student. It’s not that far out. A swat, Maggie Connor calls me.

 I listen to his fingers on the keyboard, taking care only to risk fleeting glances in his direction as he concentrates. His brow is firm. Seriously. This must be work, Spencer. Professional Spencer.

      I scribble down notes alongside my notes, and it takes me a moment to realise he’s staring at me.

“You have lovely handwriting,” he comments. “Very neat.”

 My cheeks burn with a lovely warm feeling. “Thanks.”

 He reaches into his inside pocket and pulls out a pen. “Try this one. I find it writes well.”

 He’s right, as always. The pen glides across the paper like a dream, glinting in the light like a silver bullet. I swirl my letters, making them just so, hoping he’ll comment again when he surprises me with a curveball.

      “I’m too old for you,” he says quietly.

My heart pounds. My throat is dry and crackly. “Or I’m too young for you. That’s what you really mean, isn’t it?” 

  “No,” he says. “It isn’t. I’m thinking of you, not me.” He sighs, and I hate the sound. “I said we needed to talk about how things are going to be, and I’ve been thinking, Violet, I’ve been thinking a lot. I’ve been thinking here, looking at you right now, looking at the sweet girl with the pretty handwriting and the beautiful smile and wondering whether I can make her mine. Wondering whether I could be so selfish.”

I can’t bring myself to look at him, so I turn the pen over and over in my hands. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You’re the only one I want. How can that be selfish?”

      “You’re young,” he says, and his voice is so calm. “You’re beautiful, Violet. Kind and charming and gracious. You’ll meet someone your own age, someone exciting, someone who’ll knock you off your feet.” His pause seems to take forever. “I’ll still be here. Still be taking care of you, for as long as you need it, and even when you don’t.”

      I have to summon up the courage to speak, forcing my crackled words out through my dry throat. “You excite me. You knock me off my feet. I can’t even breathe sometimes… because I want… I want…”

      “Violet…” he begins, but I shake my head.

      “I watched you in the shower and I liked it. And last night, on the landing… when you…”