Chapter 8: Bee

I woke at dawn with his arm still across me and the gray light on his face.

Christian slept, with his mouth slightly open.

I lay still and watched him, and I let myself have it.

Four years and four months, and now this.

When his eyes opened he didn't startle.

He looked at me for a long moment, and his hand came up and cupped my jaw.

"Hi," he said, hoarse.

"Hi."

"Did I say something? Last night. I feel like I said something."

My heart kicked.

"You said a name," I said carefully. "Bee."

He frowned at the ceiling.

"Bee," he repeated. "Who is that?"

"I thought you might know."

"No." He rubbed his face. "No idea. It just feels like a word I have in my mouth."

I laid my palm on his chest.

I could have told him then.

I could have said, you called me that when I burned the toast and when you couldn't sleep.

I could have said, you called me that in the delivery room, with your hand almost broken in mine.

But a man who doesn't remember his own daughter's birth can't be handed it in a rush.

I had waited this long.

I wanted him to arrive on his own legs.

"Go get Poppy up," I said. "Before your mother starts counting."

He kissed me once, slowly, and left.

By eleven the Foundation brunch was in full bloom on the terrace.

It was Giselle's event, an autumn fundraiser for the children's wing, and she had planned it for a month.

Forty guests stood among white chrysanthemums and silver trays.

Poppy sat at a small table by the hydrangeas with her rabbit and a plate of strawberries.

I stood at the edge of the terrace with a tray of champagne flutes, because I was staff.

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