Mia waved at him. And he lifted his glass to us as if he’d been waiting all night.
My daughter squirmed out of my grip and took off across the patio as if she’d been shot from a slingshot. Her little yellow dress flashed between the legs of Harold’s guests; I heard someone laugh and someone else clear their throat.
“Mia, honey, come back here, please!”
I chased her around a cocktail table, apologizing to a woman in cream silk whose champagne I’d nearly knocked over.
“I’m so sorry. She’s just excited.”
The woman gave a smile that wasn’t really one.
Harold appeared out of nowhere, laughing, and scooped Mia up under her arms as if she weighed nothing.
“Gotcha, wild thing,” he said, smiling.
“Harold, I’m so sorry. I’ll take her,” I said, rushing over.
“Alison, relax. Breathe. She’s four. Nobody minds.”
He balanced Mia on his hip and turned so she could see the pool lights. I watched my daughter’s whole body soften against him the way it used to against Mike, and I felt something complicated.
Then Mia went very still.
Her eyes locked on the side of Harold’s head, and her little hand lifted, hovering near his ear as if she were reaching for something only she could see.
