“Welcome home, Miss Caldwell.”
“Where is my father?”
“In his study. He asked me to tell you he doesn’t want to overwhelm you. He said to rest. He’ll be here whenever you’re ready.”
Gregory paused.
“Even if that’s never.”
I stood in the marble foyer.
The staircase curved above me.
My mother’s portrait hung over the fireplace.
Even if that’s never.
“Okay.”
Raymond carried Wren upstairs.
My bedroom was almost exactly as I remembered it.
Fresh sheets.
Clean towels.
My mother’s reading lamp.
A robe.
Slippers.
A new toothbrush.
A dish of the lemon candies I had loved as a child.
But then I noticed an open door on the far wall.
That room used to be Mom’s sewing room.
Now it was a nursery.
Cream walls.
A white crib.
A mobile made of small paper wrens.
A rocking chair with one of my mother’s embroidered cushions.
A fully stocked changing table.
Children’s books.
Fresh white roses on the dresser.
I stopped breathing.
“When?”
Raymond set the car seat down.
“When did he do this?”
“He started in May. Your aunt Paula told him you were pregnant.”
May.
Six months earlier.
