“I tell them what you told me to tell them. That she was beautiful and clever and cherished them very much.”
“Is that enough?”
“Is it true?”
Rhys thought of Celeste. Her dark hair and her French accent and the way she laughed at his jokes, even the terrible ones. The way she had looked at him when she told him she was pregnant, terrified and defiant and already fiercely protective of the children growing inside her. The way she had held each daughter in turn when they were born, naming them with the theatrical conviction that had characterised everything she did.
“Every word,” he said.
“Then it’s enough. For now.” Mel set down her book and met his eyes directly.
“They will want more, eventually. They will want to know who she was, where she came from, why she isn’t here anymore. You should prepare answers for those questions.”
“And what should I tell them about their father?”
The question hung between them, weighted with everything he had not said and she had not asked.
“What do you tell them now?”
“I tell them he’s someone who cherishes them dearly them but can’t always be here.”
“That’s not enough either.”
“I know.” The words came out rough, stripped of the polish he usually maintained.
“I know it isn’t enough. I don’t know how to make it more without telling them things they’re not ready to hear.”
“You say that a lot.” Her voice was quiet but steady.
“That you know. That it isn’t enough. That you don’t know how to change it.”
“Because you’re usually right.”
The silence that followed was different from the silences that had preceded it. Warmer, somehow and more intimate. As though the conversation had carried them across some invisible threshold into territory neither of them had intended to enter.
Mel’s mouth twitched. Just slightly, revealing a ghost of a smile that she did not quite allow to form, held back by whatever internal discipline governed her expressions.
But he caught that momentary softening, that brief twinkle of amusement or warmth and he wanted, with a desperation that surprised him, to see the real thing.
He wanted her genuine smile, unbidden and unguarded. The kind that broke through her practiced politeness and revealed something real underneath.
He wanted to know what Mel Grace looked like when she let herself be happy.
“Mr. Langford.” Her voice recalled him from thoughts he should not be having.
“It’s late. The children will be awake early, and Thistle has announced plans to teach Brutus swimming.”
“Swimming?”
“In the ornamental pond. I have advised against this, but Thistle’s enthusiasm for ill-considered experiments is not easily dampened.”
“I should be there to supervise.”
“You should be there to fish her out when she inevitably falls in.” Mel rose from her chair, gathering her books with the efficiency that characterised all her movements.
“Good night, Mr. Langford.”
“Good night, Miss Grace.”
