the sidewalk, into a courtyard between the
buildings, out of the wind. He let go of her fingers to brush snow off one of
the benches there. They sat down, side-by-side but not touching.
He asked, “What did she say, when you asked her about Ben’s
dad?”
“That it was a one-night thing. That she hardly knew the man.
And that she kept meaning to get in touch with him. That she would get in touch with him—with you, as it turned out. But she did nothing to make that happen
through her final month of life. When she gave me that letter I showed you last
night, I was reasonably certain of what would be in it. By then, I had a good
idea of what she intended. I understood that she wasn’t planning to be the one
to get in touch with the father of her child. I accepted that. I couldn’t do
otherwise. She was so sick. She was in no condition to reach out to you, to tell
you what you needed to know.”
“But there was plenty of time
before she got sick for her to have done the right thing. Why didn’t she?”
“You would have to ask her that question.”
“That would be a little difficult at this point.”
She folded her hands and lowered her head. “Yes, it would.”
He was silent for a moment. He stared at the brick wall
opposite the bench where they sat. Then he asked, “Before that letter, she never
told you my name or anything about me?”
Belle shivered, folded her arms around herself and shook her
head. “No. Didn’t I already say that?”
“I just want to get real clear on all this.”
“She asked me not to read the letter until after she was gone.
I did what she asked. I did it her way. It wasn’t an easy time. My main concern
was for my friend, to help her get through the final days of her life. The only
other thing that mattered then was Ben—to make that horrible time as bearable
for him as I possibly could, to make certain he knew that he was loved and safe
and would always be cared for.”
There was a moment. He stared straight ahead. She feared he
would say something angry and hurtful. But he surprised her. In the end, he
leaned toward her, bumping his shoulder against hers in way that struck her as
reluctantly companionable. “Okay,” he said. “I’m sorry. I am. I know this isn’t
your fault, that you’re doing the best you can here. I’m sorry you lost your
friend. I’m furious at Anne, but I still can’t believe that she’s...no longer on
this earth. It’s awful that she died. But the hard truth is that I’ve been a
father for a year and a half and I just found out yesterday that I have a son. I
want someone to blame for that and you’re way too damn convenient.”
“Yes,” she said softly. “I can see that.”
He stared at that brick wall some more. “She died less than two
weeks ago, you said?”
“Yes.”
“I gotta hand it to you.” His voice was rough with carefully
contained emotion. “You got here fast.”
“There seemed...no excuse to put it off. Though I must confess,
Preston, I wanted only to put it off, to take Ben
home with me to Montedoro and bring him up as my own.”
“But you couldn’t. You did the
right thing.”
She turned toward him on the bench. “Please. She’s gone. Don’t
hate her. She did the best she could. And she was Ben’s mother. Don’t...poison
her memory for him.”
He was looking in her eyes now. His mouth was grim, but his
gaze was warmer than before. “I would never do that.”
She did reach out then. She laid her hand on his arm. Beneath
the sleeve of his coat, she felt the strength of him, that steadiness she’d
admired from the first. “Good. I didn’t think you would.”
He looked down at her hand. She withdrew it. He said, “It was
wrong what she did. I don’t think I’ll ever get over that. But that’s not
something the child has to know about. From what you’re describing, she was a
good mother. A loving mother.”
“Oh, yes. She was.”
“I’ll, uh, focus on that.”
“I’m grateful that you
buildings, out of the wind. He let go of her fingers to brush snow off one of
the benches there. They sat down, side-by-side but not touching.
He asked, “What did she say, when you asked her about Ben’s
dad?”
“That it was a one-night thing. That she hardly knew the man.
And that she kept meaning to get in touch with him. That she would get in touch with him—with you, as it turned out. But she did nothing to make that happen
through her final month of life. When she gave me that letter I showed you last
night, I was reasonably certain of what would be in it. By then, I had a good
idea of what she intended. I understood that she wasn’t planning to be the one
to get in touch with the father of her child. I accepted that. I couldn’t do
otherwise. She was so sick. She was in no condition to reach out to you, to tell
you what you needed to know.”
“But there was plenty of time
before she got sick for her to have done the right thing. Why didn’t she?”
“You would have to ask her that question.”
“That would be a little difficult at this point.”
She folded her hands and lowered her head. “Yes, it would.”
He was silent for a moment. He stared at the brick wall
opposite the bench where they sat. Then he asked, “Before that letter, she never
told you my name or anything about me?”
Belle shivered, folded her arms around herself and shook her
head. “No. Didn’t I already say that?”
“I just want to get real clear on all this.”
“She asked me not to read the letter until after she was gone.
I did what she asked. I did it her way. It wasn’t an easy time. My main concern
was for my friend, to help her get through the final days of her life. The only
other thing that mattered then was Ben—to make that horrible time as bearable
for him as I possibly could, to make certain he knew that he was loved and safe
and would always be cared for.”
There was a moment. He stared straight ahead. She feared he
would say something angry and hurtful. But he surprised her. In the end, he
leaned toward her, bumping his shoulder against hers in way that struck her as
reluctantly companionable. “Okay,” he said. “I’m sorry. I am. I know this isn’t
your fault, that you’re doing the best you can here. I’m sorry you lost your
friend. I’m furious at Anne, but I still can’t believe that she’s...no longer on
this earth. It’s awful that she died. But the hard truth is that I’ve been a
father for a year and a half and I just found out yesterday that I have a son. I
want someone to blame for that and you’re way too damn convenient.”
“Yes,” she said softly. “I can see that.”
He stared at that brick wall some more. “She died less than two
weeks ago, you said?”
“Yes.”
“I gotta hand it to you.” His voice was rough with carefully
contained emotion. “You got here fast.”
“There seemed...no excuse to put it off. Though I must confess,
Preston, I wanted only to put it off, to take Ben
home with me to Montedoro and bring him up as my own.”
“But you couldn’t. You did the
right thing.”
She turned toward him on the bench. “Please. She’s gone. Don’t
hate her. She did the best she could. And she was Ben’s mother. Don’t...poison
her memory for him.”
He was looking in her eyes now. His mouth was grim, but his
gaze was warmer than before. “I would never do that.”
She did reach out then. She laid her hand on his arm. Beneath
the sleeve of his coat, she felt the strength of him, that steadiness she’d
admired from the first. “Good. I didn’t think you would.”
He looked down at her hand. She withdrew it. He said, “It was
wrong what she did. I don’t think I’ll ever get over that. But that’s not
something the child has to know about. From what you’re describing, she was a
good mother. A loving mother.”
“Oh, yes. She was.”
“I’ll, uh, focus on that.”
“I’m grateful that you
Similar Books
