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“Put your faith in me,” Violet assured her. “Your wedding will be spectacular.”
Chapter Twelve
Adam was ten days old and a miracle in every sense of the word. Anna wrapped her hand tenderly around his tiny foot and gazed at him while he was sleeping, wondering if she would ever have it in her to enter the “real” world again. A few writing clients had reached out to her in the past week, asking if she wanted to be featured in a travel magazine or travel up the coast for a gig. Anna no longer remembered how to chase her dreams. She’d given her heart to her baby. And it felt right.
With Adam fast asleep, Anna carried him downstairs to put the kettle on the stove and grab a snack. In the fridge was a selection of bottles from her as-yet inefficient pumping attempts, the milk glinting in the fridge light. She was closer to nursing properly than ever, but she still came up short.
As the kettle heated, Violet appeared in the kitchen with a thick selection of folders and her hair in a tight ponytail. Her face melted when she saw Adam in his carrier, and she knelt to touch his soft, little hand.
“What’s all that?” Anna asked, nodding to the folders.
Violet grinned and sat down. “You won’t believe this. Your mother hired me to plan her wedding!”
The kettle began to howl, and Anna turned and removed it.
“Maybe Dean never mentioned it. I used to plan weddings back when the kids were little,” Violet explained. “I had a real knack for it, in fact. I got my start with my own wedding to Larry. Everyone said it was divine.” Violet flipped through her phone to find a photograph of herself and Larry from their wedding—a time when Violet had been a slender and sweet-faced lady of twenty, and Larry had been the broad-shouldered captain of the football team. Anna’s heart skipped a beat. Again, she wondered, where was Larry in all this? Why had he kept his distance?
Somewhere in the back of Anna’s mind, she remembered something. Something about Dean’s parents. Had Dean mentioned something about infidelity? About thinking his parents weren’t right for each other? Anna and Dean had had hundreds of conversations in their nine months together. Probably ten percent of them had stuck.
“I have to make about a zillion phone calls today,” Violet explained, tapping the folder. “Your mother gave me less than three months to plan the thing.”
“She’s an optimist,” Anna said, filling a mug with tea.
“It’s exhilarating,” Violet said, her eyes on baby Adam. “I always thought showing my children I was a working woman was good. That women could do anything. That’s why it’s so good you’re still writing. Adam will know you for the strong woman you are.”
A shiver of annoyance went up and down Anna’s spine. Everything Violet said seemed to have a layer of parental advice to it.
Before Anna could dwell, the door between the residency and the family house squealed open. Greta’s voice filled the hallway. “It’s not a problem at all. Right here. Look. We have too much of everything. You know how Bernard likes his pasta when he’s upstairs writing!”
“Thank you, Mrs. Copperfield,” Smith replied. “I can’t believe I forgot to go to the store.”
“I’ve told you over and over again,” Greta said. “When you’re at the residency, you’re like a member of our family. What’s ours is yours.”
Smith appeared in the doorway before the pantry, assessing the wide selection of pasta, pasta sauces, and other canned goods. It was three in the afternoon, and Anna had to guess that Smith had spent the better part of the morning and afternoon writing and editing. She watched him as he reached for a box of penne and flipped it over to read the back. His hair was scraggly and wild, as though he’d played with it as he’d written, growing frustrated and flipping it around. A wave of passion flowed through her chest, one she wanted to immediately snuff out.
As though Smith could sense her, he flinched and turned around to catch her gaze. His smile was crooked yet immediate. He shook the pasta box as though it were a musical instrument.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey, back.” Anna’s voice wavered, and she sipped her tea, feeling approximately twelve years old.
From Smith’s angle, he probably couldn’t see Violet and vice versa. When he strode into the kitchen to speak to Anna more, he stalled, and his smile faltered. “Good afternoon,” he said to Violet. Anna wasn’t sure they’d ever spoken before.
“Hi there,” Violet greeted, closing one of her folders. “Smith, right?”
“Yes, Mrs. Carpenter. I’m sorry that we haven’t been properly introduced.”
Smith tilted his head in a way indicating he knew all about Anna once being engaged, Dean’s death, and Violet. It was wild to Anna that she could already read him so well—after hardly spending much time with him.
Anna wondered who he’d asked about her past. She could imagine Scarlet whispering the truth to him on the back porch as the waves rolled menacingly toward them and Smith looking intrigued. It didn’t bother her, exactly, if this conversation had happened. It thrilled her to think that Smith had inquired about her when she wasn’t around.
“I’ve heard you’re a brilliant writer,” Violet said.
“You heard all wrong,” Smith assured her.
Violet chewed her lower lip. “You’re just like my Dean,” she said. “He was always so modest.”
“I’m not modest, Mrs. Carpenter,” Smith said. “I’m just honest.”
