“It meant the world.”
“Then why didn’t you come after me? Why didn’t you at least try to fight for me?”
He stared at her a moment, blinking rapidly, before his gaze dropped to the floor. “I suppose I didn’t have any fight left in me, after everything that happened.”
An unexpected wave of pity washed over Emma. “Not even for us?”
He still did not look up.
“That’s a shame,” she said, thinking of the daughter she’d given birth to, a daughter he knew nothing about. “Because you missed out on something wonderful, and not just the life we could have had together.”
He finally looked up. “What do you mean?”
She paused because she knew she was about to deliver a heavy blow, but she had to tell him. She couldn’t keep it secret. Rose could arrive at any moment.
“When we were together in the rose garden ...” Her throat closed over a jagged lump, and her voice shook. “The reason I was so desperate for you to come back was because I was pregnant.”
He stared vacantly at her while the words floated on a rolling fog between them.
In that moment, Emma realized with a touch of shame that there was a part of her that had enjoyed delivering the news. The psychoanalyst in her questioned if she’d ever truly gotten over the old sting of this man’s first rejection of her—when he’d left her humiliated on the beach before boarding the supply ship with no intention of ever returning. Maybe that rejection had been festering inside her for years, even when she’d believed him to be dead. Maybe, deep down, she’d become just as bitter and vengeful as Abigail McKenna, and today, seeing Oliver again, she had morphed into a hissing cat with claws.
Emma felt suddenly humbled. She was supposed to be an expert in her field, but who was she to sit in rooms with broken souls and help them sort through their traumas? She knew every tool available for coping with emotional scars, and for years, she’d handed them out in her office every day.
But here stood Oliver Harris, in her kitchen, embedded like shrapnel into her flesh. She was still wounded, like every one of her patients, and she didn’t have the first clue how to use any of the tools at her disposal. All she knew was the timeworn pain of her loss, and a faint recognition of his.
Standing in Emma’s kitchen, Oliver was aware of the ocean lapping onto the beach beyond her back lawn and the sound of birds chirping in the treetops outside the open window. But he couldn’t seem to speak or move. His mind was running riot through the past forty years.
Then it struck him—what Emma had said. They’d had a child. Years had gone by, years that could never be recaptured, a whole life lost to him. There was so little time left, no way to make up for it. He was seventy-seven years old. An old man.
“We have a daughter.” Emma’s words pulled him out of a strange and cold inertia. “Her name is Rose, and she’s coming over soon. She’s bringing her two children.”
“Grandchildren.” His thoughts exploded. He had a daughter he knew nothing about.
Oh, God!What a wretched failure he was as a man! For abandoning the only woman he’d ever truly loved. Why?Whyhadn’t he fought for her? Fought for his own happiness?
“Are you all right?” Emma asked, looking concerned.
He stood a moment, clenching and unclenching his fists, his body tense, his chest aching with all the could-have-beens. “I need to sit down.”
“Of course.” Emma directed him to the kitchen table, helped him onto a chair, and sat down across from him.
This news had hit him like a death, a loss he would mourn forever. There would be no peace for him after this. No superficial contentment, which had become an adequately comfortable bed for him since he’d reconciled with Mary. But now, there would only be regret.
“What’s she like?” he asked. “Our daughter, Rose?”
Emma’s expression warmed, which provided some consolation, because at least she was happy in her love for their daughter.
“She’s a beautiful person,” Emma said. “Smart, kind, generous. She was a schoolteacher until she had her first baby, and she’s been astay-at-home mom ever since. Her husband works in construction, and he’s a good man. A good father. They have a cozy home.”
“That’s good,” he replied, empty of breath. “Do you have any pictures?”
“Yes.” Emma stood, left the kitchen, and returned with a framed photograph. “This is Rose and her family, last year when they took a trip to Cape Breton. That’s David and their two children, John and Annette.”
“John. Named after your father?”
“Yes. He passed away in ’89. It was standing room only at his funeral.”
Oliver looked up at her wearily. “I’m so sorry. What did he do after he left Sable Island?”
