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Her face scrunched up, and he smiled involuntarily. It reminded him of the look she gave Maura that day. “No, sir,” she said hesitantly.
“The first time I met you, you were six years old,” he said. “Well, you told my wife you were six, but you held up four fingers.”
She looked startled. “Your wife?”
“Yes, my wife,” he said. “I suppose you wouldn’t remember her, either.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“An apology is unnecessary,” he said. “Anyway, the reason I asked you up here is because I have something to give you.”
He opened his desk drawer and pulled out the photograph, sliding it across to her. “I saw your mother a few weeks ago while on business and snapped that picture.”
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?”
