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Haven picked up the photo with a trembling hand, her composure slipping. She traced her mother’s outline with her pointer finger. “Thank you for showing me.”
“You’re welcome. That’s all I wanted, so you can rejoin the festivities.” She stood up and glanced at the picture briefly before holding it out to him. He shook his head. “Keep it. It’s the reason Celia gave you a frame.”
* * *
Carmine climbed out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist, surprised to see Haven sitting on the edge of his bed. She clutched a picture, her focus squarely on it. “What’s that?”
She glanced at him, her eyes bloodshot. “My mama.”
Intense dread rushed through him. “Your mom? Did something happen to her?”
“No, it’s a picture of her. Your father gave it to me.”
“Well, that was awfully nice of him.” He ran a hand through his wet hair as he sat down beside her. He reached for the picture, but she automatically gripped it tighter in response. “I just wanna see, hummingbird. I’ll give it right back.”
She smiled sheepishly, handing it to him.
He surveyed the photo of the skinny woman with short hair, standing in front of a large wooden house. Beside it was a row of old horse stables, behind them a greenhouse and some storage buildings.
Haven rested her head on his shoulder. “Now you see where I came from.”
“I can’t believe they made you sleep outside.”
“It wasn’t so bad.”
“Wasn’t so bad? There’s a lot more to life than just being not so bad. How about being happy?”
“Happiness is nothing but good health and a poor memory.”
His brow furrowed. “What?”
“Albert Schweitzer said it.”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re too smart for your own good.”
“Thank you,” she said genuinely. “No one has ever called me smart before.”
“Prego.”
She stared at him. “Prego? The spaghetti sauce?”
He chuckled. “It means you’re welcome in Italian.”
“Oh.” She turned her attention back to the photo. “Why don’t you have a picture of your mama?”
“I do, but they’re hard to look at.”
Haven smiled softly. “I bet she’s beautiful.”
“Of course she is,” he said playfully. “She made me.”
* * *
Vincent sat in the silent office for a moment before opening his top desk drawer again. He pushed a few things around and grabbed the small photograph from the bottom. It had been there for years, the edges worn and image faded although it rarely saw the light of day.
He gazed at the picture of his wife, his chest aching. He desperately wished she were there because, out of everyone, she’d be able to tell him what to do. She would know what to say, how to make it right again. Maura always had the answers, even if they were ones Vincent hadn’t liked to hear.
Reaching into his shirt, he pulled out the chain that hung around his neck and absentmindedly fiddled with the small gold band. It matched the one he still wore on his finger. He never had the nerve to take it off.
