Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“Were they good for you?” I ask, digging cash from my wallet.
“Perfect little angels,” she says. “Though Adeline insisted that I read her two extra bedtime stories. She said it would help her fall asleep faster, and she was right. She was out before I even got to the second one.”
Adeline can be quite persistent sometimes, not unlike her aunt Theodora.
“How was your date?” she asks, brows lifted. At nineteen, Harper’s still just a kid herself, but she’s known my family, as well as our circumstances, for years. She lives in the brownstone next door, and her mother used to invite Emma over for bunco and wine every Thursday with a few of her friends. Emma had no idea how to play, but she learned quickly, and it soon became one of her favorite things.
Every Monday for the first year after Emma’s passing, Harper’s mom would bring us dinner. In a city where most people are swept up in their own schedules and busyness, the Crawfords are a genuine breath of fresh air.
“Food was decent,” I say, not wanting to get into the details. There’s no point.
Harper looks at me with heavy, sad eyes—the way most people look at me these days.
I hand her a hundred-dollar bill from my wallet. “Thanks for watching the girls.”
“Anytime, Mr. Bellisario.” She offers a wistful smile before showing herself out. “Have a good one.”
“You too, kid.”
On my way to retire for the evening, I poke my head into the girls’ shared room, lingering to watch my sleeping daughters long enough to see the rise and fall of their chests and hear the soft lull of their snores. Ever since Emma passed, I can’t go to bed without checking to make sure Adeline and Marabel are breathing.
As always, death changes a person.
If anything ever happened to my girls, I don’t know what I’d do.
A minute later, I’m changing out of my suit and climbing into my empty bed. The spot beside me is pristine, untouched, and ice cold. Emma’s pillowcase hasn’t been washed since she passed. My housekeeper knows not to touch it when she changes the sheets. Maybe I’m in denial about the way it still smells like her sunflower-scented shampoo, maybe it’s all in my head, but I can’t bring myself to wash it just yet.
Turning to my side, I reach to switch off the bedside lamp, only I stop to stare at the framed wedding photo on my nightstand.
I’ve spent hours, perhaps days, staring at this photo. Every square inch of it is forever embedded in my memory to the point where I could see it with my eyes closed if I tried hard enough.
Sometimes I swear I can still hear her gentle, infectious laugh. It tends to happen in those serene, quiet moments between waking and sleep.
I’d give anything to run my fingers through her sandy-blonde curls one more time, to have one more lazy Sunday morning with her, stealing kisses while the girls watch Sesame Street and the scent of her famous cinnamon rolls fills the air.
A man could have all things money can buy, but it’s the small, priceless moments that make him truly rich. By my own definition, I’d be dirt poor if it weren’t for my girls.
Shortly after Emma and I married, she suffered a bout of insomnia. It came out of the blue, with seemingly no explanation, but she’d work herself up into anxious fits she couldn’t get out of. She hated taking medications for it because they’d only sedate her and never fully address the issue. Whenever she would take something, her insomnia seemed to come back tenfold the following night. She decided she couldn’t go around it, so she was simply going to go through it.
Countless nights I’d lie awake with her, all but forcing my eyelids open with toothpicks so I could keep her company. Some nights she’d entertain us both by asking silly questions—would you rather have Chiclets for teeth or chicken drumsticks for arms? That sort of thing. We’d be rolling in laughter, imagining these absurd little scenarios.
Other times, her questions would take a somber turn.
For a while, she’d get caught up on topics related to death and dying. I’m not sure if it was a premonition of some kind or just her anxiety getting the best of her, but I’ll never forget the time she made me promise that if I ever died, I’d visit her as a blue jay.
“Why a blue jay?” I’d asked. “Of all the birds? I’d much rather be a peregrine falcon or a hawk.”
Rolling to her side, she peered up at me with a tender expression on her beautiful face, and she traced her thumb along my brow as she cupped the side of my cheek.
“Because,” she said, “blue jays are intelligent. And complex. And they can get kind of mean when they feel threatened, but it’s only because they’re fiercely protective. You’re absolutely a blue jay. One hundred percent. End of story. Period.”