unyielding strength.
“Justus.” Sobs overtook her, nearly choking the words off in her throat. “What are we going to do ?”
His hands gentled, soothing her. “Shhh. It’ll be okay,” he said hoarsely. “Everything’ll be okay.”
Still holding her, he backed her inside the door and shut it behind them.
“Where is she?” he whispered.
“Asleep. In the guest bedroom.”
“Show me.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to say he’d have to see Maya tomorrow because Angela didn’t want to risk waking her up, but one look at his determined face told her that would be a waste of time. So she led him down the dark hall—she’d have to remember to get a night-light in case Maya had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night—and cracked open the door.
Justus hovered on the threshold, then sat on the enormous bed, which seemed like a soccer field compared to Maya’s tiny form. At first he just stroked her little cheek, but then he made a strangled sound from deep in his throat and picked her up, pulling her out from under the blankets and into his lap. The white T-shirt Angela had given Maya to sleep in rode up over her short, sturdy legs, and her head fell limply back over his arm, but she didn’t wake. Justus kissed her forehead and rocked back and forth, murmuring unintelligibly.
Angela wondered if she should give him a little privacy, but her feet were suddenly rooted to the floor and she couldn’t look away as he kissed Maya one last time.
“I’ll take care of you, baby girl.” He gently laid her back down and arranged the blankets and the dog around her. “Don’t you worry. I’ll take care of you.”
He got up. Swiping his hand under his eyes and nose, he brushed past Angela again and went back to the foyer.
Angela trailed after him, too moved to speak. At the front door he paused, and when he took her hands it felt natural and right.
It killed her to admit to a weakness, even tonight, but she couldn’t stand the thought of being alone with Maya.
“Don’t go,” she said, squeezing his hands. “You can sleep on the couch. And Maya will want to see you when she wakes up.”
Regret filled his dark eyes. “I have to go tell my father. I didn’t want to do it over the phone.”
She didn’t envy him that awful task, but he had to do it, so she let go of his strong hands.
“Okay.”
“I’ll be back first thing in the morning. We’ve got a lot of arrangements to make.”
She nodded.
He hesitated, then pressed a warm, hard kiss to her forehead. “We’ll get through this, Angela.”
She nodded again even though she didn’t believe him for a second.
* * *
A t eleven o’clock that night , Justus pulled past the tall English-ivy-covered brick wall and into the driveway of his father’s house, turned off the engine and headlights, and stared at the place.
Home again.
Not.
He’d never thought of the structure as home any more than a person could consider the Louvre home. Brian’s childhood house, half as big as this one and nowhere near as grand, with its slightly rumpled great room, where hockey sticks leaned in the corners, floor pillows invited people to settle in and stay for a while, and children could accidentally leave smudges on the walls without threat of immediate and severe sanctions, now that was home.
This was just a building—a locale he avoided like a Congolese village during an Ebola outbreak.
When was he last here? Was it Christmas two years ago? He couldn’t remember. He’d pretty much kept his promise to himself not to return once he went to college, and he could count on one hand the number of times he had. Why bother visiting, anyway? He’d disliked the ostentatious shrine to his father’s ego, so unlike all the other kids’ houses, even when Mama was alive.
After she died when he was fifteen, he’d hated it.
It was pretty, though. He supposed.
Massive English Tudor with turret. Immaculate landscaping and rolling emerald grounds. A
“Justus.” Sobs overtook her, nearly choking the words off in her throat. “What are we going to do ?”
His hands gentled, soothing her. “Shhh. It’ll be okay,” he said hoarsely. “Everything’ll be okay.”
Still holding her, he backed her inside the door and shut it behind them.
“Where is she?” he whispered.
“Asleep. In the guest bedroom.”
“Show me.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to say he’d have to see Maya tomorrow because Angela didn’t want to risk waking her up, but one look at his determined face told her that would be a waste of time. So she led him down the dark hall—she’d have to remember to get a night-light in case Maya had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night—and cracked open the door.
Justus hovered on the threshold, then sat on the enormous bed, which seemed like a soccer field compared to Maya’s tiny form. At first he just stroked her little cheek, but then he made a strangled sound from deep in his throat and picked her up, pulling her out from under the blankets and into his lap. The white T-shirt Angela had given Maya to sleep in rode up over her short, sturdy legs, and her head fell limply back over his arm, but she didn’t wake. Justus kissed her forehead and rocked back and forth, murmuring unintelligibly.
Angela wondered if she should give him a little privacy, but her feet were suddenly rooted to the floor and she couldn’t look away as he kissed Maya one last time.
“I’ll take care of you, baby girl.” He gently laid her back down and arranged the blankets and the dog around her. “Don’t you worry. I’ll take care of you.”
He got up. Swiping his hand under his eyes and nose, he brushed past Angela again and went back to the foyer.
Angela trailed after him, too moved to speak. At the front door he paused, and when he took her hands it felt natural and right.
It killed her to admit to a weakness, even tonight, but she couldn’t stand the thought of being alone with Maya.
“Don’t go,” she said, squeezing his hands. “You can sleep on the couch. And Maya will want to see you when she wakes up.”
Regret filled his dark eyes. “I have to go tell my father. I didn’t want to do it over the phone.”
She didn’t envy him that awful task, but he had to do it, so she let go of his strong hands.
“Okay.”
“I’ll be back first thing in the morning. We’ve got a lot of arrangements to make.”
She nodded.
He hesitated, then pressed a warm, hard kiss to her forehead. “We’ll get through this, Angela.”
She nodded again even though she didn’t believe him for a second.
* * *
A t eleven o’clock that night , Justus pulled past the tall English-ivy-covered brick wall and into the driveway of his father’s house, turned off the engine and headlights, and stared at the place.
Home again.
Not.
He’d never thought of the structure as home any more than a person could consider the Louvre home. Brian’s childhood house, half as big as this one and nowhere near as grand, with its slightly rumpled great room, where hockey sticks leaned in the corners, floor pillows invited people to settle in and stay for a while, and children could accidentally leave smudges on the walls without threat of immediate and severe sanctions, now that was home.
This was just a building—a locale he avoided like a Congolese village during an Ebola outbreak.
When was he last here? Was it Christmas two years ago? He couldn’t remember. He’d pretty much kept his promise to himself not to return once he went to college, and he could count on one hand the number of times he had. Why bother visiting, anyway? He’d disliked the ostentatious shrine to his father’s ego, so unlike all the other kids’ houses, even when Mama was alive.
After she died when he was fifteen, he’d hated it.
It was pretty, though. He supposed.
Massive English Tudor with turret. Immaculate landscaping and rolling emerald grounds. A
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