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“My ex-husband,” Violet said. “Ten years ago, he had an affair with Dean’s science teacher. After Dean died, they got back together, and they got married over the weekend.”
Violet said it flatly, as though she spoke about something simple like the weather. She hoped this would force her to get over it.
Empathy echoed back in Smith’s eyes. “That’s awful. I’m so sorry.”
Warmth flooded through Violet’s chest. She sipped more tea and stretched out her toes, grateful to feel them again. “I shouldn’t act out like that. I’m a grown woman.”
“You’ve been through tremendous stress,” Smith reminded her. “Sometimes, the body reacts to certain stimuli without asking permission.”
Violet remembered that Smith had come from a troubled background. His mother had been abusive, and he’d had to raise his half brother himself. When she’d first learned this via the gossip channels of The Copperfield House, something in her heart had shattered, and she’d pledged herself to make Smith’s life a little bit easier, to add an extra layer of comfort to his day. She’d found herself cooking him pasta and delivering little treats. Each time he opened his door, she caught herself hoping that the man on the other side would be her son. It was a form of magical thinking, she knew. But each time, Smith had smiled gratefully, thanking her. And a piece of her “mama” heart had brightened.
“I just can’t figure out what I’m doing here.” Violet surprised herself with her honesty. “I adore baby Adam, but I know Anna needs to create her own rhythm. She doesn’t want me hovering over her shoulder every few minutes.”
“Anna loves that you’re here,” Smith told him gently. “She wants you to be a part of Adam’s life.”
Violet laughed wryly. “I don’t know if that’s true.”
Smith crossed his ankles. “Maybe it wasn’t always true. But I assure you, it is, now.”
Violet’s heart lifted. Abstractly, she wondered if Smith was accustomed to dealing with women like herself if, once upon a time, his mother had been similarly disheveled, wandering around without comprehension of where or who she was.
“I really am so sorry for all you’ve lost,” Smith told her, his voice cracking.
“You’ve lost so much, too. I know that.”
Smith lowered his gaze. Something in his face made Violet imagine what he’d looked like twenty years ago—age six, with no one to care for him. She fought the urge to hug him.
“Sometimes, I wonder if it’s too late for me,” Smith said. “If I’ve gone through too much pain to properly love anyone or really let someone in.”
An image of Anna at Dean’s funeral floated through Violet’s mind. She’d been red-nosed and pale-cheeked, wavering on her feet as though on the verge of collapse. Nobody had known she was carrying Dean’s baby. Violet remembered being jealous of the girl, knowing she would have to move on from this one day. That she was too young not to. Violet had been a fool. That wasn’t something you got over. You carried it with you forever, like a tumor beneath your heart.
“I guess you’ve heard about my mother?” Smith said then.
“Bits and pieces. I know you’re writing about her.” Violet stuttered. “Has it been helping? Writing it, I mean.”
Smith swallowed and shook his head. “I thought it would help. I thought it would get it all out of my system. But instead, it’s forced me to relive every harrowing detail. And it’s really messed with my psyche. I find myself avoiding it more and more. Trying to block it out.”
Violet nodded, sensing their shared pain swimming in the air between them. “When did your mother die, Smith?”
Smith’s eyes were rimmed with red. He set his mug on the desk, clasped his hands, and pressed them over his lips as though he wanted to keep the truth to himself.
And then, Violet heard herself echo the same words she’d told Dean a long time ago when all she’d wanted to do was keep him safe.
“You know, you can talk to me about anything, right?”
Smith’s eyes lifted to find hers again. They echoed his grief. But they dared to dream of a future. Of a home.
Chapter Nineteen
All evening, Adam was fussy. It was as though he sensed the turmoil in the house and the worry in Anna’s heart. Anna did everything in her mother's playbook: nursing, burping, walking, and driving. Still, Adam wailed. Around one thirty in the morning, when Adam finally drifted off to sleep, Anna collapsed on her bed, rubbed her eyes, and checked her phone for signs from Smith. There was nothing.
ANNA: Hey! Just checking in. How did it go with Violet?
Ordinarily, Smith was a night owl. No text was too late. But tonight, Smith didn’t even read the message. Anna frowned and rubbed her chest, where a knot was growing. Knowing what was happening on the other side of the house was impossible.
What was important, she reminded herself, was that Smith had told her he was falling in love. They’d agreed to take things slow.
Somehow, Anna drifted off to sleep and awoke with a lurch at six thirty. Someone was knocking on her door. Still in her clothes from yesterday, Anna waded through the darkness and opened the door to find Violet before her, dressed in the coat she’d come in. She looked sheepish and under-slept, but her face was no longer marred with the strain and fear of yesterday. She looked completely present.
