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I gasp, and stare at him, and he nods.
“It’s ok. I just didn’t want to worry you until you were out of the woods with the baby. I don’t want you to worry. It’ll just be quick surgery and they’ll fix me up.”
“And in the meantime, you’re in excruciating pain?” I guess. He looks away.
“A bit.”
“Pax! Oh my God. This was so unnecessary. You didn’t have to keep this from me. I swear to God, sometimes you’re protective to a fault. You need to make an appointment today for surgery. No more delays. I’m fine. Do it.”
He stares at me, searching my face, and then he finally nods.
“If you’re sure.”
“Oh my God,” I swear. “Do it.”
“Ok.” He’s sheepish now, and I’m glad.
“Seriously. I can’t believe you did this.”
“Calm down,” he tells me, standing. He’s wobbly, and his knee gives out. He tries again, this time successful.
“Are you even supposed to be walking on it?” I eye it doubtfully.
He doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.
“Call today,” I tell him firmly.
“I will.”
He dresses and heads to work, and I have breakfast.
When Natasha comes to clear my dishes, she pauses.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you about his knee,” she apologizes. “But he didn’t want you to know.”
My head snaps up at this.
“You knew?”
She nods. “Yeah. He’s been having trouble sleeping, and I’ve caught him up and around the house at night. He’s been in a lot of pain. But he didn’t want to worry you.”
Natasha knew.
For some reason, this bothers me. He told Natasha, our housekeeper, but not me? That seems very, very wrong. Very, very unlike him.
“Well, thank you for taking care of him,” I finally say limply. She nods again, pleased with herself.
“Of course. I took care of his grandfather, and I’m happy to take care of Mr. Tate, as well.”
Except taking care of Mr. Tate is my job. But I don’t point that out.
Instead, I fiddle around the house, messing around in my new studio, trying to arrange my supplies, but my agitation over the situation blocks my creativity. I can’t seem to focus on drawing or painting.
When Maddy comes in, she brings the mail, and hands it to Natasha, who whisks it away for sorting. There is a small box addressed to Pax on top, but it’s gone before I see what it is.
My daughter distracts me anyway.
“Mama!” she shrieks, throwing herself into my arms and holding out her foot. “Look at my new boots!”
