“What did you tell him?” I asked, curious that I hadn’t received a call or a visit.
“Anything I could remember. Is there more you want to tell me?” Julia asked as she settled again at my side.
“I think I would like a relationship of some kind with Brooklyn.” It was a new thought, but it was there. If I was opening up, I wanted to be completely honest.
“Do you want her to know you’re her father?”
“I don’t know. I want what’s best for her.”
Julia lifted her head and brought her hand to my cheek.
I could stare into her blue orbs for hours. Despite the fact I didn’t deserve it, in her gaze I saw her love, understanding, and devotion.
Her smile grew. “Hate is consuming. But love is different. There’s always enough.”
“I never loved Madison, not like you.”
“Your feelings for her no longer matter because they’re in the past. But you love Brooklyn—you always have even if it’s been from afar. I can hear it in your voice.”
“I’ve never let myself think about it.”
“You care. It’s why you have her picture, and the PI who’s kept you informed.” Julia leaned down until our noses touched. “You care because instead of stating whatyouwant, you want what’s best for her. That’s love, Van. I would be more concerned if you didn’t care. The man I know, the one who found me, he loved even when he didn’t know he did.”
“It’s not the same.”
“No, it’s not. You can and should love Brooklyn, as her father or her uncle. I’m not threatened by that. What you feel for her is proof of what a good man you are.”
After leaving a kiss on my lips, Julia settled again at my side and yawned. “I’m going to dream about you.” She curled against me. “And in the morning, be ready.”
“Because when I wake up, you’ll be gone?”
“No. I’m too tired to process all of this, but that doesn’t mean I love you less. Tomorrow, I’ll tell you about my long-lost twin and the men from my past.”
“Men?”
“Yes, plural.” A soft giggle filled the air.
“And I thought I was the only one keeping secrets.”
“Oh, be prepared.”
Julia
Stepping into the kitchen from the breezeway a few steps behind Van, I was filled with mixed emotions—relief while simultaneously, unsettling apprehension. It was as if the two were at odds within me.
Pausing within the doorway, we both looked around. Nothing was out of place. No one would enter this house and know what had happened a little over a week ago. No one would imagine that this home had been a crime scene. Even the scent of smoke that we’d been told about had been cleared away.
Michael followed us from behind until we were all three inside the kitchen. At the same time, Albert came from the living room. “Mr. Sherman, Ms. McGrath, you’re alone,” Albert announced. “I’ve personally checked the entire house. Would you like to see the third floor? The sensors are now installed.”
Van pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and sat.
I couldn’t help but assess his every move. There was no doubt he was improving. His color was better, and his strength was improving. I was concerned that the trip back to Ashland took its toll.
“The third floor can wait,” he said.
Despite Van’s heroic effort, I knew he wasn’t without pain. When he was finally discharged from the hospital in Madison, the first thing Van did was to proclaim the cane as trash. And while the nurses wanted him to ride in a wheelchair in those final moments, step by step, he walked to the waiting car.
When one of the medical staff looked to me for help, I shrugged.