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“I know I can’t blame her for it. She was ill.”
“I think you can feel any way you want,” I tell him. “You don’t have to…”
“Downplay it,” he says, then smiles. “I know.” His smile drops, uncertainty flitting across his eyes. He nods to the door, through its small windows, at the cab pulling up. “ I should go and help her.”
I nod, taking his hand. We go outside together. The woman who climbs out of the car looks older than seventy. Logan mentioned she smoked cigarettes endlessly during his childhood but quit after getting help with her illness. She’s wearing a large jacket despite the heat. Her hair is peeled back over her head, tied into a brittle ponytail, and she’s crying. She leans heavily on a cane.
Logan moves forward, takes her wrist, and helps her better grip the cane. “Uh, Emma, can you… I’ll get the bags.” He looks at me, seeming lost, as the old woman bows her head and cries as though ashamed.
I move forward. “Hello, ma’am. It’s nice to meet you.”
She replies in English. I can tell she’s been practicing recently. “It is nice to meet you too, Emma.” She says my name in a sweet accent. Despite everything I know about her, about Logan’s childhood, I find myself warming to her. She deserves a second chance, doesn’t she? But that’s Logan’s decision.
I help her into the house. Logan pays for the cab, then walks behind us with the bags. After helping her sit on the couch, I say, “Would you like some tea? Some coffee? A glass of water?”
“Coffee,si vous plait.” She looks at Logan, standing awkwardly behind an armchair, fiddling with the tag we haven’t removed yet because I’m unsure if it fits in the space. I’m seeing if it grows on me. She talks in French, and I hear Logan’s birth name.
Logan swallows, replies in French, then looks at me. “She says you’re beautiful, Emma. She says she never dreamed her daughter-in-law would be such an angel.”
Emotion floods into me. That warm glow expands from inside like the baby is telling us this is what we should do—heal the rifts of the past. I won’t overstep until I know how Logan feels. “Merci,” I say, probably clumsily.
She smiles, takes a handkerchief from her pocket, and dabs her eyes. Logan glances at the bags. She came straight from the airport. Logan talked about her staying in one of our five bedrooms or a hotel, depending on how this goes.
When Marie speaks in French again, I walk into the kitchen and prepare some coffee. When I return with a tray in my hands, Logan is sitting next to Marie. She’s clasping one of his large hands. She’s crying, and Logan is trembling. Marie talks earnestly in French. I gently lay the tray down and sit opposite them.
Finally, Marie sits back, bursting into tears. Logan clears his throat. Slowly, he raises his hand and places it on her shoulder. He looks at me with red eyes. “She’s begging for my forgiveness. She’s saying sorry for every night. For every vicious thought she put into my head. She said…”
“What?” I whisper, sometimes wishing he would let himself break down, let it out completely, but that’s not Logan. He can still be ice, even if we melt it together often.
“She said if she could go back in time, she would’ve gotten help sooner. She would’ve let me live with my aunt, but she really believed she was doing the best thing for me. She believed she was protecting me.”
Marie huddles into the opposite end of the couch, weeping, clutching her handkerchief. Logan looks at me, a gentle smile touching his lips. “I think she means it. I know it hurts, but I really think it came from love.”
“From. Love.” Marie speaks forcefully, pushing through her tears. “All. Ways.”
Slowly, Logan wraps his arm around her. He pulls her close to him and lets her cry. He speaks soft words, sounding intense in his husky, emotion-filled voice. “I just told her I want her to be in her grandchild’s life,” Logan says softly, “and I asked if she wanted to stay.”
This pregnancy pushes me through the hormone Olympics, but this is something else. Logan and I talked about healing the family, and now we’ve done it. Marie replies in French, looking at me almost girlishly.
“She said only if you don’t mind, Emma.”
I go to the couch, sit on the arm, reach down, and hug her. When I do, she bursts into tears, which gets me crying too. A moment later, Logan folds his powerful arms around us both.
“Tell her she’s welcome,” I say. “This is about the future now.”
“The future,” Logan replies firmly, his hand on my arm, “and it’s going to be perfect.”
EPILOGUE
SIX MONTHS LATER
Logan
I lie on the bed, looking at my wife sitting on the vanity unit. The morning sunlight filters in through the curtains, resting on her beautiful, bulging belly. She’s wearing a light-fitting nightgown, the material showing me her gorgeously swollen nipples through the fabric.
She looks just as beautiful here, dabbing delicate makeup on her cheeks, her hair frizzy from the shower, as she did on our wedding day, walking down the aisle with her father at her arm. “Aren’t you looking forward to the baby shower? I could cheer you up…”
She looks at me in the mirror, that pouty, sexy look on her lips. She’s become more and more attractive as the pregnancy has progressed, but that’s not saying much. She’salwaysmore beautiful and sexier to me. Even now, my shaft is thickening. My tip is aching as I look at her big nipples.
