Page 72 of Dearly Departed

Gabriel’s also the one who gets Jacob to eat again. He doesn’t succeed by cajoling him into it or making a big production of mealtimes. He does it by appearing with a plate of food for himself, sitting down next to Jacob, and handing him bites while they watch French TV or work on a puzzle or get into debates about art with Nate and Lydia.

This seems to be the only way to give Jacob what he needs—cuddling and food—without embarrassing him, because Jacob never complains. After a while, I think it must be because the choice, and therefore the stress, is out of his hands. My husband doesn’t have to worry about what to eat or when to eat it. Gabriel only eats things Jacob likes and never gives him too much and is faultlessly, flawlessly patient.

He’s so patient that Nate and Lydia finish the school year online. Jacob feels so awful that they’re finishing high school in another country that he almost has another breakdown, but Nate and Lydia sit him down and tell him the friends they’ve made in France are way cooler than the people at their school in New York, so they don’t mind. Like, at all.

It takes until the spring for Jacob to reach over and take food off Gabriel’s plate, and it takes until the middle of June to reach the next phase.

It’s a warm, sunny day—the kind of honeymoon weather I dreamed of on the island—and we’re going to swim in the pool, so I’ve put on my bikini and a flowing cover-up. I’m about to step outside when it happens:

My husband comes out of the kitchen with a plate of his own, arrayed with cheese and crackers and sausage that he got for himself.

I stand there, blinking at him, trying not to cry and make a scene, for so long that he gives me a cocky grin and sways his hips a little to show off his swim trunks.

“See something you like, kitten?”

“Not just something,” I tell him as soon as I have control of my voice. “Everything.”

20

JACOB

It’s surprising how quickly the seasons go by.

One moment, we’re landing in France in the wintery rain. The next, summer’s going all gold and orange and autumn is blowing in.

All those days went by because of Gabriel and his family. Our family? They made a nightmare into a dream, damn them. How are we supposed to live without them now?

Catherine doesn’t seem to be in any rush to go back to London. She walks in the grove of olive trees, a thoughtful expression on her face, and I watch her from the window of the main bedroom, admiring the view.

My wife. That is my fucking wife, Catherine, and I love her.

The buzz of an incoming call interrupts my admiring thoughts.

“Chambers.”

“Oh, sweet Christ! You’re alive! I thought you’d died and bequeathed your company to me!”

“You’re hilarious, Evans.”

“Don’t I know it. Have you had enough of abandoning your business interests here in London?”

Evans has neatly taken over my role at the office. She told me that if I ever got in a plane crash again and neglected to call her, she’d find me herself and smash heirloom china over my head.

“I don’t know,” I say, after a too-long pause. “I might need to abandon them a bit longer.”

She sighs. “If you’re going to hand me the reins, then just do it, Chambers. I want the title and the raise. I want the power.”

“You already have the power.”

“Of course I do. But it’s better if you make the arrangement formal. And permanent.”

“You forget yourself.”

“Do I?” she wheedles. “Or do I simply know that your heart’s desire is to spend a few years making your wife grow round with child in New York?”

“Evans! I’m shocked!’

She laughs evilly. “No, you’re not.”