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“Everyone has the right to be hurt, Paige. Whenever they damn well feel like it.”
I laugh at the passion in her voice. “You remind me of Clara.”
“It sounds like you two had a special friendship.”
“It was more than a friendship,” I tell her. “Clara was my family.”
Cyrille does that sympathetic, sad, inward, heartfelt smile again that she does so well. She reaches out and strokes the back of my hand where it’s resting on the garden table. “Well, you’re part of our family now.”
“How can I be, Cyrille?” I ask softly, feeling a little light-headed from all that sparkling fake wine. “When the one who brought me in doesn’t even want me here?”
She rolls her eyes. “The ‘one’ in question is a stubborn ass most days. But give him time. He’ll come around.”
“And what if he doesn’t?”
“You’re having his baby, Paige,” she says. Then she lets out a deep sigh. “But even if you’re not a part of his family, screw it—from this moment on, you’re a part of mine.”
I smile tremulously and raise my glass. “To family; the old and new.”
74
MISHA
I come home to find Paige and Cyrille asleep on the couch in the informal living room.
Paige is wearing the green gown I bought her. Even unconscious, she looks amazing in it. But the luxurious dress juxtaposes sharply against the empty cookie dough wrappers and melted pints of half-eaten ice cream strewn in concentric circles around them.
It looks like a crisis bomb went off and was solved with sugar.
I take a blanket and drape it over Paige. Carefully, I adjust the cushion behind her neck so she doesn’t wake up with a kink. Her hand is resting just over her chest, a few inches away from her pendant. It looks like she fell asleep holding on to it.
When I straighten, I realize Cyrille is awake. Her eyes are trained on me.
“Well, hello,” she says quietly.
I grimace and straighten up, reluctant to be so close to Paige without touching her. “Looks like you girls had quite the night.”
Slowly, she swings her legs off the couch and rubs the sleep from her eyes. “Walk me to the door?”
“You don’t have to leave,” I tell her. “We’ve got plenty of spare rooms.”
“I know, but I think I’d rather go home. I’ll get in bed next to Ilya for a little,” she says. “You can lend me a driver, though. I’m too tired to drive myself.”
“Done.”
I’m texting the driver when she grabs my arm. “Misha.”
That’s all she says, but there’s a whole conversation in that softly uttered word. Guilt and grief struggle for top billing while I try to find a way to say goodnight without literally kicking her out of the door.
“It’s nice of you to be so welcoming with Paige,” I say before she can layer on any more guilt.
“Someone has to be.”
I arch my eyebrow. I expect that kind of response from Niki. But Cyrille? She’s always been the diplomat in the family. The constant calm amidst the chaos. Even when she’s angry, you can barely tell.
But I can tell now. Her blue eyes are alight with fire.
“I was clear with her from the beginning—”
