Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
“Oh, we may have tea with Gladys,” I added. Gladys was happy to abide by the protocols required to protect Clara’s immune system.
“Amazing!” Clara replied with her mouth full.
“Clara, swallow your food before you speak,” Beau grumbled. Then he finally looked at me. “Who the fuck is Gladys?”
I flinched, because he was addressing me directly and because he was asking a question that he should know the answer to. Maybe it was a joke. Even if he wasn’t smiling. But he was serious. Of course he was. He was always serious.
“She’s, um, your neighbor?”
I don’t know why I expected him to know Gladys. Even though she was his neighbor—had been since he’d moved in with his pregnant ex, whom Gladys said she always knew was trouble—was friendly, adored Clara, and was often outside in her impeccable garden.
Now and then, we stopped by for afternoon tea, sitting outside, Gladys always an appropriate distance away from Clara. Clara ate cookies and read Gladys’s ballet books, oohing and aahing over gorgeous images of ballerinas in ornate costumes. Swan Lake was her favorite.
“She said I can call her my next-door nana if I want,” Clara piped in, her plate clean. For a tiny girl, she could eat. I loved that for her. Loved to see her devouring life in all the ways she could, now that a sickness wasn’t draining the very marrow from her.
Even when she was sick, she was full of life. The first time I met her, I was struck by it. Her energy, vibrancy. But since the transplant, it was palpable, the fresh color in her cheeks, the meat she was putting on her petite frame. The future was laid out before her feet.
“Because I don’t have a nana of my own.” She hopped down from the chair, going on her tiptoes to try to retrieve the plate. I handed it down to her with a smile, watching as she bit her tongue while she balanced her silverware then climbed on her special step to deposit everything in the sink.
Beau’s face softened, changed, lost ten years as he lovingly helped his daughter rinse her dish, opened the dishwasher, put the plate in it, then kissed the top of her head.
“Well, that’s nice of her,” he murmured. “As long as she knows about the rules.”
Clara rolled her eyes. “She knows about outside, masks, hand washing.” She listed off what had been drummed into her since the transplant.
My heart bruised at how small Clara’s world had to be, even if she never made it seem that way.
I noticed Beau still for a moment, as if he were thinking the same thing. Naked pain marred his face, but only for a split second before his soft smile returned.
“Come on.” He lifted her into his arms. “I’ll get you dressed and ready for your day before I leave.”
He walked out with Clara as she told him all about Gladys and her preferred outfit for the day.
He didn’t even look at me. Yet I felt the heaviness of his lack of attention, as if it meant something.
It meant he didn’t like me. It meant I was nothing to him. Nothing but someone to tolerate for the sake of his daughter.
I forced down the most amazing pancakes I’d eaten in my life then got ready to face the day, trying to push Beau Shaw from my mind.
As much as I could, which was close to impossible while living with him, and he invaded my nightmares.
And, on occasion, my sexual fantasies.
three
HANNAH
Clara and I had a wonderful day.
We always did. Even when we were inside while Clara was regaining her strength. Even more once the world beckoned her back.
Summer still tried to cling on, with warm days bathed in sunshine. On those we went to the ocean, dipped our toes in the freezing cold water, laid out on beach towels, looking at clouds while deciding what they looked like. We collected seashells then arranged them on the fireplace mantel, along with whatever other treasures Clara decided were special—a smooth piece of sea glass, a feather, an old, rusted penny. I put all of those things in jars and on trays, arranged around the house.
Maybe it wasn’t my place. It wasn’t my house, after all. But it was such a little girl thing to do, to collect mementos of moments in time that felt happy, to be creative, be in awe of the world. I’d done the same. Except whatever treasures I found were scoffed at or thrown away, my childish innocence and wonder going with it.
Although it was only my job to be her nanny, I considered it my duty to be the protector of that innocence and wonder for as long as I could. Beau did his best—as much as it pained me to admit it—but he was also a man. He didn’t understand the subtleties of being a little girl, although I saw him try.