Our Finest Hour (The Time #1)(21)

I’m not sure if I’m stunned or disappointed or both. “If you loved me, really loved me, you would find it in your heart to love what I created. She’s a part of me. That will never change. And now that I know about her, I’m never going to be without her.” I feel it so strongly that I wonder if, on some level, I knew there was a person out there with my DNA. The moment I spent in Claire’s bedroom, watching her sleep, I felt whole.

Jenna stares at me, her face stoic. Between the empty expression and the white blond hair, she looks like an ice queen. With a heart to match.

She pivots and walks, the small plastic wheels on her roller bag making the only sound in the place.

Bump, bump, bump into the foyer.

Bump, bump, bump over the threshold.

The slam of the front door is like the exclamation point on her noisy departure.

I could go after her. Make her see my side of this. Ask her to look at it differently. The seconds tick by and I stay frozen in place. After a minute, I know I’ve lost the chance.

Honestly, I don’t know if I wanted it.





The swings were always my favorite as a child, and they’re Claire’s favorite too. Seven times since she woke up this morning I’ve told her she won’t be on the swings again for months. And just now makes the eighth time I’ve said it.

“But, Mom.” She draws out the vowel so it sounds more like Mo-om.

“No, Claire,” I say a little too sharply. Regret blossoms instantly.

“I’m sorry, baby.” I pull her up against my side, careful not to touch her hurt arm. “I’m just a little out of sorts today. Forgive me?”

I feel the bob of her little head against my thigh.

“What can I do today?” She sighs and sits down carefully on the little pink-and-yellow striped chair with her name embroidered on the slipcover.

“We can play games. We can watch a movie. Just take it easy until you get your real cast.” This isn’t going to be simple. Claire is accident-prone, but she always bounced off whatever she collided with, including the ground. Before yesterday we joked she had rubber bands for bones.

“Hmph,” she says, petulant. If she could cross her arms right now, she would. “I wish Grandpa was here.”

My dad left early this morning. He didn't tell me where he was going, but it's his day off, so it's safe to assume he’s trekking over some far-off mountain and he’ll be gone all day. Hunting is his passion, and if he's not hunting, he's hiking.

“What if I told you you’re going to have a visitor?” I try to smile, but trepidation might as well be my middle name right now. How am I ever going to tell her about Isaac?

She nods enthusiastically and bounces a couple times in her chair. I wince and put my hands out to settle her down.

“Aunt Britt?” she asks.

“No.” I make a mental note to call Britt later. Hi, Claire broke her elbow and had surgery and the surgeon turned out to be the guy who fathered her. K, bye.

I attempt a nonchalant smile. “Dr. Cordova is going to stop by.”

Claire sends me a questioning look. Even her four-year-old brain finds it odd. Our pediatrician has never visited our house.

I grab a book off the shelf and open it. It’s a Magic Treehouse chapter book, one we’ve read a dozen times, but Claire loves it. Soon she’s swept up in the story, and the swings and our impending visitor are forgotten.

We finish the book and start another. We finish that one, also, and one more. She hands me another, but I put it back on the shelf.

“I need a break. Mommy’s mouth is getting tired.” Besides, it’s time for the next dose of pain medicine, and Isaac will be here soon.

She takes the medicine without a fuss and follows me to our bathroom. Claire sits on the toilet lid while I make myself presentable.

“Can I have lipstick too?”

“It’s lip balm. And yes, you can.” Her tiny hand reaches for the tin. I hand it to her, forgetting for a moment that she can’t do anything with it, thanks to her broken arm. Bending down next to her I take the tin, then hold it out so she can scoop a little balm on her finger and apply it. My breath catches in my throat when I watch her little hand work. Her mind is intelligent, her heart big, and her soul brave, but her finger is tiny.

She finishes smearing the cherry lip balm on her lips and smiles at me proudly. Using my pinky, I rub off what’s beyond the lines of her lips and smile at her.

“Now I look just like you,” she announces, her smile wide.

And she does…sort of. But after seeing Isaac yesterday, it’s clear how much she resembles him.

Leaving the bathroom, we settle in the living room and play Candy Land. Every few minutes, my gaze strays to the clock.

“I won again!” Claire yells gleefully.

“How do you keep winning?” I ask, making a silly frown face. It’s possible I stack the deck in her favor.

There’s a knock at the door, and my heart moves into my throat. I stand, wiping my hands on my jeans as I walk, and run them through my long hair. With shoulders squared, I pull open the front door.

Oh, my heart… my poor, stupid, lonely heart.

Isaac has his trademark smile ready. His white T-shirt looks soft. I like the way it spreads out over his chest, how it hugs his biceps. His pecs are big enough that it causes a ripple in the shirt, like a plateau that suddenly drops off. Don’t even get me started on the tan of his skin against the stark white of his shirt.