Life and Other Inconveniences(119)

It was enough.





CHAPTER 35


    Miller


Miller had to work late to make up for the afternoon delight with Emma, which didn’t thrill his mother-in-law. He stood in the kitchen, getting a summary of his child’s misbehavior, noise volume and destruction and why her hair had a marshmallow half melted into it, all while Tess ran around the kitchen, banging a pot with a candle, naked. David, his father-in-law, was apparently asleep in the living room, which was about par for the course.

“You need to get her potty trained,” Judith said.

“We’re working on it.” In fact, last night, Tess had woken up four times, promised she would go on the potty, then sat there for half an hour each time, staring stonily at him, easily winning the battle of wills.

But nothing was going to crash his good mood today.

Oh, and speaking of that, he should probably say something to his former mother-in-law about dating Emma.

“Tess, let’s get your clothes on, honey,” he said.

“No! I not get my clothes on!” She ran into another part of the house, and Miller followed. The talk about dating could wait.

Half an hour and some more inner ear damage later, courtesy of his child’s screams, Tess was diapered, mostly dressed and strapped into the car seat. “You so mean, Daddy. I hate you.”

“It would be easier for us both if you just kept your clothes on.”

“I hate clothes. I hate you. I hate Nana. I hate car.”

“It’s hard, being three. I’m sorry you’re upset.” It sounded like something Emma would say, and Tess side-eyed him. But she stopped her tirade, and he couldn’t help a smile.

When he got home, he let Luigi out so the cat would be safe from Tess’s attention, locked the door, set the alarm. Tess watched him, her eyes narrowed.

“You can play or color if you want. Daddy has to make dinner. Or you could help me, if you want.”

“I hate dinner.”

“Doesn’t matter. Everyone has to eat.”

She went into the living room, which looked like it should exist in a war-torn country and not peaceful Stoningham. But it was childproofed, and if she dug another chunk of stuffing out of the couch, well, someday he’d get another couch. He put on some music (Bach’s cello concertos, hoping they’d soothe the savage toddler) and opened the fridge.

Closed it.

There was a picture of him and Ashley.

What would she think of his dating Emma? They’d talked about their dying the way smug, healthy young adults do. “I’d want you to find someone else,” he’d said. “But he can’t be better looking than me. Someone like . . . Christopher Walken. So you’d still miss me.”

“Christopher Walken is smokin’ hot,” she’d said. “I’ll take it. But if I die first, I’m gonna haunt the hell out of you and your new wife.”

That would be okay, Miller thought now. He wouldn’t mind a visit from his wife.

“You there, Ash?” he asked softly.

There was no answer.

There was no guilt, either. Just that old familiar feeling of missing her, loving her, liking her. She’d been his best friend. His only friend, really. They’d had couples they spent time with, and she’d had friends, being a woman. It was different for men. They had wives.

Genevieve had become his friend, sort of.

And Emma definitely was. He had that nanosecond impulse to call Ashley and tell her about Emma and share his happiness, tell his wife he didn’t feel so alone anymore.

He touched her face in the photo, remembering the freckle to the left of her mouth, her curly, silky hair, the sound of her laugh. He didn’t want to be the widower of Ashley James Finlay, but here he was. He’d wished a million times she hadn’t died, had begged God to bring her back, cursed his life, wished he’d die, and shook in loneliness and fear at raising a child alone.

But he was doing it. He was getting through.

And he was falling in love with Emma, and the thought didn’t hurt. It didn’t hurt at all.

Ashley would approve of Emma. Any woman who hadn’t so much as shed a tear when she’d had to shave her entire head because of their daughter was someone Ashley would’ve liked. Had liked, in fact.

“I love you,” he said to the picture. “I’ll always love you.”

Then he put the picture back and took out carrots and chicken breasts and started making dinner.

It wasn’t until a good ten minutes later that he realized he hadn’t heard any noise from the living room.

“Tess? You doing okay?” he called, washing his hands. He went into the living room. She wasn’t there. “Are you hiding, honey? Remember, you have to tell Daddy if you want to play hide-and-seek.”

He looked under the couch and behind the curtains.

She wasn’t there. “Tess? Where are you?”

No answer.

Shit.

He looked in the den and the dining room, then ran upstairs. She wasn’t in her room, or his, or the guest room. Not in the bathroom. Not in the laundry chute, where she’d once hidden, bracing her arms and legs against the sides and scaring the life out of him.

Not in the closets. “Tess! Tess, answer Daddy!”

Nothing.

He ran back down to the kitchen, looked in the pantry, the coat closet, ran down into the cellar, which, the house being old, was dark and smelled like limestone and dirt. “Tess! Answer now!”