Pocketful of Sand(9)

Now I feel like an over-sensitive ass. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just…it’s just been a long couple of weeks.”

With his mesmerizing blue eyes narrowed on mine, Cole watches me. Without saying a word, he just watches. I can tell he’s thinking. His lips move as though he’s biting on the inside of his cheek.

“What brings you here? To Miller’s Pond?” He finally asks, almost grudgingly, as if he really didn’t want to ask but couldn’t help himself.

“Fresh start,” I respond, forgetting all my carefully rehearsed half-truths and full-lies.

“What was wrong with the old one?”

I think vaguely to myself that I should kindly berate him for his nosiness, so as to dissuade him from asking so many questions in the future. But before I can, I see a curious little face ease slowly into my line of sight behind Cole.

Emmy.

This must have her all out of sorts.

I drop my magazine and squeeze out from between Cole and the counter so that I can make my way to my daughter. Her thumb is already in her mouth.

She turns her head and presses her cheek to mine when I pick her up, both of us facing Cole. Her big green eyes are trained unwaveringly on him. “This is Mr. Danzer,” I tell her, not bothering with the normal mommy things like Can you say hi. She won’t. And the doctors tell me not to try and make her. It only adds a sense of pressure, and she doesn’t need more anxiety. “This is my daughter, Emmy.”

Cole’s color fades a little. He doesn’t look quite as…unhealthy as he did the day we ran into him on the beach, but he still has a haunted look about him, one that I now understand. I wonder about the child he lost–how old she was, what she looked like, if they were close. My guess is that they were.

“Hi, Emmy,” he greets, his voice softly scratchy as he addresses her. It brings chills to my arms and a lump to my throat. I imagine this is his daddy voice, the one that says you are loved and I would never hurt you. I hear it as plain as day and my chest aches for his loss.

Cole doesn’t approach us and Emmy, of course, says nothing. After a few seconds of staring him down, though, she lifts her free hand and points toward the refrigerator. Cole’s intense blue eyes swing in that direction and settle on the picture hanging there. He approaches it slowly, reaching out to drag a single finger over the Crayola daisy. “Sand and daisies,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

He stares at the image for several long seconds, during which I’m at a loss as to what to say. I can feel his sadness filling my kitchen with a fog as thick as the smoke.

When he finally recovers, he turns toward us and, God help me, he smiles. And what a smile it is! It changes his face completely. He was gorgeous before. Breathtaking even. But when his lips curve and his teeth gleam and his eyes light up, he’s the most potent male force I think I’ve ever encountered.

I stare helplessly as he speaks to my daughter. “It’s beautiful, Emmy. I’m glad you liked the castle.”

With her eyes stuck on Cole (and I can’t really blame her for that), Emmy wiggles until I set her down. She backs up slowly, never looking away and never taking her thumb out of her mouth. When she reaches the edge of the kitchen, she raises her fingers in a gesture for him to follow her.

Cole looks to me for approval. I nod, having no idea where this is going, but anxious to find out. Emmy doesn’t engage anyone. She hasn’t since we left home. For that reason alone, my heart is so full of hope right now that I can practically feel it trembling, like it’s teetering on the cusp of something wonderful.

Cole follows Emmy, and I follow Cole back to Emmy’s room. She stops just inside the door and points to the daisy Cole gave her. She wanted to frame it so we could hang it on her wall.

She didn’t let go of it until we got home that day. When she finally did, she insisted that we preserve it. I let her help me press the flower between newspapers and cardboard, and then we set a heavy book on it for a week. When it was ready, I used one of my old frames to display it for her. She wanted it hung right across from her bed, where she could see it every day, she said.

Cole squats down in the hall outside Emmy’s room, never getting too close to her. “Did you do that yourself?” She shakes her head and points to me. “Your mom helped?” She nods. “Moms are good helpers, aren’t they?” She nods again. “Well, you did a good job. Maybe one day you can help me make one like that. For a present.”

Emmy says nothing, just stares at our big interloper like a tiny fawn caught in headlights. We all hold perfectly still in this oddly poignant moment. Eventually, Cole slowly stands and says to no one in particular. “Guess I’d better get going.”