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“But you do,” Lauren chimes in.
“Doesn’t matter. I blew it.”
“Oh, Daddy.” Lilly looks as if she might cry.
I reach for her hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. Letting go, I play with my silverware for a moment, trying to figure out a way to salvage this night. “Girls. I’m not really in the mood for dinner anymore. Would you mind if we reschedule?”
Glancing up, I’m met with three pitiful faces.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Camile says. “We understand.”
I stand from my seat, bend to plant a kiss on each of my daughters’ heads, and leave. Making my way to the car, I’m tempted to drive to her house. Beg for her to talk to me. However, Devon’s words come back to me like a mantra.
Focus on you and your girls. And I bet the universe will give you another chance.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-SEVEN
BROADIE
“That looks wonderful.”
My eyes slowly move from the object in front of me to the overly kind woman by my side. “You don’t have to say that.” I laugh.
“I know I don’t. I’m honestly impressed. You have great attention to detail.”
Who knew a surgeon’s hands could come in handy for something like this?
“It’s essential with this type of piece.”
Pulling back to get a fresh perspective, I smile. I still think the little dish looks like a kindergartener constructed it, but the painting has turned out better than I expected. If you’d told me a few months ago that I’d be spending my Saturday mornings in a pottery class, I’d have sworn you were high.
It took some convincing to bring the instructor to my home for private lessons. But I couldn’t risk bumping into Poppy. I’d never want her to think anything I was doing was for secondary gain.
I was intrigued by the Japanese artwork we enjoyed at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts on our date. Art is subjective. My mind works on a very objective level. If you give me a blank canvas, I’m lost as to where to start. Using the philosophy of creating art from the broken gave me something I could relate to. Not only as a surgeon but a man who’s lost his way over the last twenty years.
“The golden lines of the mended portions of your pottery seem almost perfectly placed,” the instructor commends.
“They do. It worked out better than if I’d broken it myself.” I chuckle. I’d been so careful with the clay piece. The first few had fallen apart on the potter’s wheel. Then I handed this one off to her to bake in the kiln, and somehow, it developed cracks in several spots. She suspects I overworked those areas.
The story of my life.
I look around the room covered in protective cloth. I’d turned my office into an art space. I was rarely in here, using my study more frequently. The only other option was my library, but I couldn’t help picturing Poppy reading in there. So that wasn’t an option. Plus, this room gets a lot of natural light.
It’s ridiculous how happy it’s made me, knowing this room exists. The thought of bringing Poppy here, if she were to ever come back to my home, fills me with pride. And if she doesn’t, I’ll have to accept that the universe has other plans for me. That thought still causes dread. But if I repeat it often enough, maybe one day, I’ll believe it.
Dipping the tip of my paintbrush into the bright green paint, I carefully decorate one of the broken areas, now mended with gold powder.
“Dr. Weston. You have visitors.”
“Thanks, Porter. Send them back.” Placing my paintbrush down, I grin. “Susan, I apologize ahead of time for the commotion.”
“What?”
“No way!” Lauren squeals.
“What? I asked if you wanted to take an art class with me?”
