Chapter Thirteen
I turned the key in the lock, weary, my mind still muddied, trying to make sense of the news I’d received.
Gone.
Just like that, without warning. I guess I’d always viewed my father as unshakable, an indestructible force—immortal until the day he was not.
The door swung closed behind me, and I stood in the dimness of my condo, lost, the sun burning a thin line as it sank and disappeared at the edge of the ocean, the end of my perception. I stood in the same spot, watching it fall until it faded and darkness swallowed the room.
It scared me that I didn’t feel anything. At the same time, I felt weak, as if I might collapse and not know why.
Excruciating numbness.
With arduous steps, I walked to the end of the hall and into my bedroom. I flipped on the light in my closest, hesitating at the door before I built up enough courage to tug at the small brown chest shoved in the back corner of the top shelf. It was light, its weight the box itself. The contents shifted as I crossed the room and set it beside me on the bed. The metal latch rattled as I unclasped it and opened the lid to the photos I kept inside.
For a moment, I sat motionless, wondering why I was doing this and what I hoped to find, before I reached in and pulled them out.
The stack was small and contained the few printed memories of my childhood—each formal and posed. It was probably senseless to look for something other than pride from my father, but I felt compelled to search for a glimmer of something more—a sign of warmth, a glimpse of a love he’d never proclaimed. But in each one, he was there only because I’d done something notable, something that he’d deemed worth his time.
I shook my head with a harsh snort.
He’d lived in arrogance, had died in arrogance.
A stroke had taken him, something that would have been treatable had he not ignored the symptoms, but he’d been too prideful to believe anything could ever take him down. I’d learned through my father’s attorney that he’d started slurring his words at the office during the day, but he’d disregarded everyone’s concerns, told them he just had a headache, and had his driver take him home. Even my father’s wife, Kendra, as self-absorbed as I believed her to be, had urged him to seek care. Instead, he’d said he had work to do and had locked himself in his office upstairs. She’d awoken the next morning to an empty bed.
When they found him, he was in a coma and too much damage had already been done. He was lost apart from the machine that kept him alive.
They’d left him on it for three days, and no one had even bothered to tell me until they had removed him from life support and announced his death.
Sitting on my bed, I stared down at the pictures in my hand, my jaw clenched as the first real wave of emotion hit me.
Anger.
Had he thought so little of me, his own son, that no one around him had thought it important enough to call me and let me know what was happening with my father? That I might have liked to have known that he was dying?
Had he ever cared at all?
And why did I care?
Why on the fringes of the numbness I felt was there pain? Why had the emptiness in my chest begun to ache?
I dropped the photos back into the chest and pushed away the reminders of how little I’d meant to my father. I lay back on my bed and stared at the ceiling, hating that this was all we’d ever been, all we’d ever be. That to him, I’d been nothing more than a disappointment, and to me, he’d forever be the asshole who didn’t care.
My phone buzzed in my pocket and I glanced at the nightstand.
Seven fifteen.
The ache in my chest expanded, but in an entirely different way. Our seven-fifteen calls had become rare, only because I was usually with Lizzie during that time, but I still always called if it happened I wasn’t spending the evening with her. Tonight, she had beaten me to punch. I wondered if it was Lizzie or Elizabeth who had known how badly I’d need to hear their voices.
I pulled the phone from my pocket, rolled to my side as I tucked my pillow under my head, and lifted the phone to my ear.
“Hi, Daddy.” Her sweet voice assuaged the weight on my chest and chased the fog from my brain.
She’d been so scared this afternoon, fearing I was leaving her, not understanding what was happening or why I’d reacted in such a way. It was that voice that had touched me, had shaken me—one that I could never ignore.
“Hi, sweetheart. How’s my girl?”
She sighed, the sound wrapping me up in her tiny arms. “Just thinking about you, Daddy.”
And for the first time tonight, I smiled.
~
My mother sat in front of me while I stood with my hands resting on her shoulders. Tremors rolled through her body as she tried in vain to hide the tears she shed for a man she had never stopped loving.
I squeezed her and hoped it gave her comfort, a quiet reassurance that I was there.
Though we felt as if we didn’t belong, my mother and I blended in with the sea of black—black suits, black dresses, and black umbrellas that protected from the ceaseless drizzle of rain, the air heavy and damp. A black casket gleamed bright and ominous in the middle of it all. It was covered in what seemed to be thousands of white and yellow flowers and a million raindrops. My father’s last spectacle, his final farewell.
Samuel Clymer, my father’s business partner and probably his only true friend, rose to give the eulogy. He moved heavily to the podium, cleared his throat as his eyes flitted over those in attendance. He looked upon my mother and me for a moment longer. He was a man I’d known all of my life, tall and stocky, his cheeks round and red. From my childhood, I remembered him with a full head of brown, curly hair. Now he was balding and wore wire-rimmed glasses that he continually pushed up his nose.
His voice cracked as he spoke kind words of my father and told of a man different from the one that I’d known. When Samuel finished, he moved aside and lifted his glasses to wipe his eyes with a white handkerchief.
The minister began the last prayer, and my father’s casket was lowered into the ground.
With the prayer, I bowed my head and willed tears that never came.
Instead, I watched with a hollow ache as my father’s widow stood to throw the first handful of dirt into his grave. She was young, younger than I was, her black-skirted suit perfectly tailored to fit her perfect body—another prize my father had won.
As she threw the dirt, Mom reached up and clutched my hand. She held her breath in grief as the soil scattered and showered through the flowers. She failed to stifle a cry with a tissue against her mouth. I kneaded her hand in mine as everyone who had gathered to grieve my father went forward to pay their last respects. Some faces were familiar, distant relatives and old friends, as well as many strangers. Voices were hushed and respectful as they passed by.
We waited until the crowd cleared before Mom stood and together we went forward. Mom whispered at the edge of his grave, indecipherable words that bled together, maybe a prayer, maybe a goodbye. Then she reached down and tossed a handful of dirt onto the black casket below.
I knelt and dug my hand into the mound of soft dirt, cold and foreign. I fisted it and wished we had ended things differently, that I could mourn my father as a real son should.
I felt sick as I dumped the handful of dirt over his casket and murmured an unheard goodbye.
~
The limo turned onto the private drive lined with wiry elms and lush oaks. The sun had broken through the clouds, and rays of light glinted down through the branches as we passed by.
Mom and I sat in apprehensive silence as the driver followed the path that curved around the sweeping grounds and came to a stop in the circular driveway in front of the enormous house we had once called home. It was an imposing three-story colonial, its roof pitched as it stretched for the sky. Evergreens towered over its height, impressive and strong, so much in the way my father had viewed himself to be.
From the backseat of the car, Mom gazed out at the house I had grown up in. Her grief was suffocating, and I found it hard to breathe in the confined area. She looked at me, her face wet and splotchy as she shook her head as her lips trembled.
“I can’t believe he’s gone.”
I had no words to comfort my mother, so I reached out and drew her to me, hugged her while she sobbed against my chest. She’d told me once that she’d never stopped loving him, but I’d never understood the depths of that love until I’d first seen her in the hotel lobby when I’d arrived, her face ashen—devastated.
“We don’t have to stay.” I rocked her as I spoke, unsure if my offer was more for her benefit or mine.
She sniffed, pulled away to wipe her eyes and nose with a tissue, and looked back at the house. “No.” She slid her watery eyes to me, swallowing back the emotion. “We should stay.”
Even though I didn’t want to be here, I knew she was right. In the very least, I owed my father this, a measure of respect in his passing, my presence as his family and friends gathered to say goodbye. Maybe he wouldn’t have wanted me here, but in the end, I was what I was—his son.
With a tight smile, I extended my hand to Mom. “Come on.”
She clenched my hand, breathing through her nose in calculated breaths, unsure of her welcome or where she stood.
This wasn’t going to be easy for either of us.
The house was almost exactly as I remembered. The furniture in the formal living room off the foyer remained the same—ornate upholstered pieces widely unused, polished antiques. A staircase wound to the floors above, and artwork hung from the walls, planned and cold.
How I longed for the warmth of Elizabeth’s little house, for the clutter and the mess, for the comfort of stepping over toys abandoned on the floor, and for the ability to rest my bare feet on the edge of her worn coffee table.
I took a deep breath and told myself, “You can do this.”
Muted voices echoed over the dark hardwood floors. The first level overflowed with people, family and acquaintances, friends and clients. They converged in small groups, some chatting quietly and others hugging each other and wiping away lingering tears.
Mom’s gaze caressed the living room, embracing fond memories before finally resting on the piano at the far end of the living room.
My father had played all his life, his mother dedicating him to lessons from the time he was a young boy. I realized suddenly that the only time I’d ever seen him let his guard down was when he’d play. I’d forgotten how Mom would sit on the chaise lounge by the window and stare outside, engrossed in the strains of his melody, her body swaying to my father’s tempo, at one with him.
Or perhaps I hadn’t forgotten. Maybe I hadn’t been old enough to see it for what it was.
Mom crossed the room to it as if it were a magnet, and I followed a bit behind to give her time. She ran her fingertips along the glossy black wood and sat down at the bench. She reached out her finger and played a solitary key. Her eyes were closed, lost in the past.
I turned away to give her privacy and parted the sheer curtain covering the huge windows that faced out the back of the house and over the pool. The view extended out to the salt-water marshes of Lynnhaven River. I could picture myself as a boy running through the high grass, climbing the trees, tossing rocks in the water. Mom had lolled by the pool, and I’d thought she’d paid me no attention at all, yet she still had an uncanny way of knowing when I’d been up to something I shouldn’t be and would call out to be careful just before I did something that was sure to cause me harm.
“You used to play out there for hours.” I was startled from the wanderings of my mind by Mom’s soft words and tender touch on my arm. She smiled up at me, her expression wistful as if she were picturing the exact same thing I had been.
A gentle huff came through my nose, an appreciation of those memories that had been buried beneath the pressure that had come from this place. “I loved it out there,” I admitted, taking her hand. “I’d forgotten how much.”
“Claire?” We both turned. Aunt Mary, my father’s older sister, stood behind us, wringing her hands in a white handkerchief. She was still tall and slender, her long black hair pulled back in a coif at the base of her neck, her eyes sad.
Mom tensed. Her biggest fear of coming here had been the reaction of her ex-husband’s family, not knowing whether they would condemn her presence or if it would somehow bring them more pain.
Aunt Mary pulled Mom into a hug, cried into her shoulder, and told her how much it meant that she’d come before she turned to me and did the same. I hugged her close, told her how sorry I was, before I excused myself to allow them the space to reconnect as they made apologies that were not owed, their estrangement a consequence of circumstance.
Standing at the edge of the room, I shifted my feet and dug my hands deeper and deeper into my pants pockets as I accepted the condolences of those who stopped as they passed by. I chatted with distant cousins who I’d not seen in years, murmured thanks for the apologies of strangers. It was hard pretending that the strained relationship my father and I had shared hadn’t crumbled in the end, that he hadn’t disowned me, and that I hadn’t walked out of his life. I wondered how many knew, that as they shook my hand and forced a smile that they weren’t questioning what I was doing here and why I had come.
My father’s wife wouldn’t even look at me, not that I wanted her recognition. My father wasn’t just a bastard, but a hypocrite. I couldn’t understand his unfounded ridicule of Elizabeth, and then for him to turn around and marry a woman like Kendra.
I tensed when Samuel Clymer caught my eye from across the room and approached with his hand extended. “Christian.”
In my discomfort, I averted my gaze, wishing I didn’t have to face my father’s partner. It had been easy walking from that office in reaction to my father accusations, but in doing so, I’d also walked out on Samuel. He’d always been kind to me, a mentor who had helped in every aspect when I’d made the transfer to San Diego. Out of respect, I accepted his hand. “Samuel.”
“Can I talk to you a minute?” he asked as he gestured with his head in the direction of the terrace.
For a moment, I hesitated. I really didn’t want to have this conversation here at my father’s funeral. But I relented and followed him out back through the french doors and to the patio.
He was silent as he looked out over the river. I waited behind him, nervous to discover his intentions.
He rubbed the palm of his hand over the top of his balding head, sighing when he turned back to me. He pushed his glasses back up his nose, appearing flustered. “Listen…” He paused and released a heavy breath, seeming to need to find his words as he took one step forward. “I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am about your father.”
Sighing, I roughed a hand through my hair as I nodded and mumbled, “Thanks.” I didn’t know how to respond. Samuel’s name was listed right beside my father’s on the lawsuit, and as much as I didn’t regret making a stand for what was important in my life, I regretted that in the process I’d let Samuel down.
His voice lowered, tight in emphasis. “I mean for everything, Christian.” His head dropped into his hand, shaking it against his palm. “Your father was my closest friend.” His words were rough, choppy with emotion. He looked to the sky, struggling. “But what he did to you . . . I never agreed with it . . . and . . . and I won’t stand by and allow it to happen now.” He lowered his gaze back to me. “The firm is dropping the lawsuit.”
I shut my eyes, knowing I should feel relief. Instead, I found myself fighting to control my surging anger.
It was all my father—not the firm, not a decision left up to the board. It had been something my father had led, had spurred. I backed away, knocking into the wall. While deep down I’d known, I couldn’t help but hope that the lawsuit had been pursued because of my breach of contract or company protocol and not an act of vengeance.
Samuel moved to stand in front of me and exhaled as he placed a sympathetic hand on my shoulder. “I know what you’re thinking, Christian. Your father was a complicated man, but he did care about you . . . loved you.”
I scoffed, the sound a scornful wound in the back of my throat. “How can you say that?” I looked up to meet Samuel’s eyes. “You know as well as I do that my father hated me.” I clenched my fists, and a wave of grief passed through my body when the words passed through my mouth, grief for a relationship that had died long before my father had, maybe had never even existed at all.
Through all the pressures and demands, the obligation and coercion, somewhere inside me I’d always wanted to believe that my father must have loved me in his own way.
But it was clear he had never loved me at all.
~
The farther I wandered away from the house, the more distant the voices inside became. I plodded down the graveled path and wended through the opening in the trees. My steps echoed over the wooden planks once I hit the dock walkway and trod above the murky, green waters of Lynnhaven River.
Tossing my jacket aside, I sat down on the edge of the dock, swung my legs, and watched as gulls skimmed inches from the water. I listened to their call and relaxed in the peace.
This had always been my place of escape, and I’d never needed the solitude more than now.
“Hey.” The subdued voice came from behind, her footsteps quiet as if she were unsure if she should disturb me.
A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth, and I turned to look at her over my shoulder. Though I was hiding, I didn’t mind her company.
The timid expression she wore spread into a small smile, tender and kind. Always kind.
“Hey.” I inclined my head to the side, inviting her to take a seat.
She came forward, careful as she took the wooden walkway in heels. She tucked her skirt behind her and climbed down beside me, her apprehension clear. The last time I’d seen her she’d been in tears, heartbroken, begging me to love her but strong enough to know she wouldn’t stay for anything less.
I’d tried so hard. I had really wanted to love Brittany the way she did me, but in the two years we’d lived together, the fondness I felt for her had never blossomed.
“How are you holding up?” she asked as she nudged her shoulder into mine and peered up at me with warm chocolate eyes. Her dark brown hair was pulled back at her neck, wisps falling out and around her face. Though she wasn’t tall, she was all leg, a combination of sweet and sexy.
It had been an immediate physical attraction, the first time I’d seen her here in this very spot.
It had been at one of my father’s garish New Year’s Eve parties, my presence deemed a responsibility, and just as I’d done so many times as a teenager, I had snuck out back and hidden here by the water when the air became too thick. Brittany had come with her parents and she confessed later that she’d followed me out.
We’d kissed at midnight, and in that moment, it had felt so right.
I shrugged, glancing at her. “Not well, I guess.”
She stared out over the water, fidgeting with the hem of her skirt that was bunched up over her knees. “I’m really sorry, Christian.” She turned her attention to me, her mouth twisting in a grimace. “I know you two had issues, but I know it must be hard losing him.”
Releasing a slow breath, I rested my elbows against my knees, shaking my head. I still didn’t know what I felt. “It’s just hard to believe he’s . . . gone.”
Brittany leaned in, caressed my back.
I closed my eyes against the sensation, soothing and so wrong, rebuking myself for again allowing myself comfort at her hand, but I couldn’t find it in myself to pull away.
“I heard you reunited with your daughter.” She rested her cheek on my shoulder and gazed up at me, her expression filled with joy. She’d known how it had haunted me, had witnessed the sleepless nights, the guilt.
“She looks like me.” I leaned my head against the side of Brittany’s, grinning at the thought, Lizzie’s face never far from my thoughts. I wished she were here to experience the place where I’d grown up. I knew I’d never be back.
Brittany laughed, a small, wistful sound. “Mmm . . . beautiful.” In sync, our legs swung and our hands touched. “Funny . . . I always pictured a little boy,” she said softly, her words laced with a hint of sadness as her gaze traveled out over the water
I tilted my head to look down at her. “She’s amazing, Britt. I wish you could meet her. She’s the sweetest little girl.”
“I’m so happy for you, Christian.” She looked back up at me, her brown eyes sincere. She bit her lip, snuggled closer, and clung to my arm. “And her mother?”
As much as I wanted to say yes, I knew what she was asking. I swallowed, the movement jerky, and shook my head. Suddenly I felt uneasy, our faces too close, her touch too intimate.
“I miss you, Christian.” With her whispered words, she moved closer, brought her hand to my neck, and pressed her lips to the corner of my mouth. Her kiss was soft, wet, filled with need, lingered as she waited for a response.
On instinct, I turned to her, brought my hands to her cheeks, and held her face, restraining her. “I can’t,” I said, my tone strained.
“Please.” Her breath spread out over my face as she clung to my arms and pled, “Just tonight.”
My body reacted, hungry for release, deprived of it for so long, knowing how good it would feel to lose myself in the familiarity of her touch. But to me, even considering what Brittany suggested was the most debase form of infidelity.
Even if Elizabeth never again belonged to me, I would forever belong to her.
I edged away just a fraction, but enough to make it clear that I was pulling away, that I was saying no.
“You love her?”
I nodded and held my friend’s face while tears gathered in her eyes. The decision I’d made more than six years ago was still hurting the people I cared about. “I’m so sorry, Britt. I hate that I hurt you.” I held my hands firm against the wetness of her cheeks. “I never wanted to hurt you.”
She removed herself from my hold and looked away, embarrassed, then back at me. “I guess I always knew.” She sniffled, her mouth twisting in a self-conscious sort of smile and her expression sad. “I’d always hoped that it was all about the child, that you punished yourself because of it, and wouldn’t allow yourself to move on and love me.”
More tears fell down her face, and she looked down in a shame that was really my own. “But when you’d make love to me . . . well . . . I knew you weren’t. You were always a million miles away. I just didn’t want to believe you were with her.”
More regret.
I couldn’t even bring myself to apologize again, knowing words would never make up for what I’d done.
Instead, I held my palm to her face and wiped away another tear that fell down her cheek. “You deserve so much more than one night, Britt.” She deserved so much more than the two years I had stolen from her, so much more than I had ever given her, so much more than I could ever give her.
All I had was for Elizabeth.
Brittany closed her eyes, leaned into my hand, and for a moment, seemed to indulge in my touch, before she stood and, without looking back, walked away.
~
Never had I wanted Elizabeth more.
The need was suffocating as I rode the hotel elevator to the eleventh floor and opened the door to my suite. Not bothering to switch on the light, I stood in the dark, empty room, the only illumination coming from the glow of the street lamps below.
The aching numbness I had wandered through since Sunday had become a constant throb, pressing, pulsing, and forcing its way out.
Today had been torture, burying my father, facing the pain I’d caused my friend, sitting through the reading of my father’s will.
Confusion clouded my heart and mind with uncertainty, too many questions, and too many whys.
I’d wanted nothing that was his, and I still hadn’t come to terms with what he’d wanted me to have.
I was sure he’d have erased me from his will and, in essence, from his life, removing me from what I knew in his mind would be his most valued gift.
To his widow he’d left the house, his cars, and enough money to maintain it all, to afford her to live out the rest of her days comfortably. But he hadn’t left her his vast fortune, the inheritance he’d received from his parents. A quarter of it had been left to me and the rest he’d given to my mother. With this announcement had come the first real emotion I’d seen from Kendra, first her look of confusion and then the offense with being denied something she believed she deserved.
Mom had broken down and cried out that she didn’t understand. She’d begged for answers to questions that no one knew, why Richard would choose this life over her and then turn around and try to give it to her. For both of us, it was an exacerbation to our confusion.
When we’d stood to leave my father’s study, his attorney had taken me aside and given me a key to the bottom drawer of my father’s desk. The key had been left in a safety deposit box in an envelope with my name on it. Inside the drawer, there were pictures, all of them of me. Some I could remember, others I could not. But it was what I had found at the bottom of the drawer that had really shaken me. It was an envelope, and inside was the picture of Lizzie I’d left him the last time I’d seen him and a crinkled, folded up sheet of paper, the edges frayed and torn as if it had been folded and unfolded a thousand times. It was a picture that I had no recollection of, but one that had obviously been drawn by my hand, the crude child’s work depicting a man and young boy, the worn caption Daddy Loves Christian written at the top.
I’d understood immediately what he was trying to say.
It had hit me full force, and for the first time it really hurt that I’d lost my father.
He’d loved me and he’d never once told me.
I looked around my empty hotel room and tried to hold onto the anger, but it was gone. In its place was only pity.
The clock beside the bed read just after midnight.
For the first time since I’d reunited with my daughter, I had missed our seven-fifteen call.
I kicked off my dress shoes and peeled the jacket from my body. As I unbuttoned the first couple of buttons of my shirt, I felt despair setting in.
My head spun and my stomach twisted in knots.
My father was dead, and I’d never see him again.
Gone.
I wanted Elizabeth. I needed Elizabeth.
Grabbing my jacket from the chair where I’d tossed it, I fumbled through the pockets, produced my cell phone, and sat down on the side of the bed. I was desperate to hear her voice.
She answered on the first ring, as if she’d been expecting me, waiting for me, the dulcet sound of her voice my consolation, my breaking point.
“Elizabeth.” The tears I’d prayed would come finally broke free, and I was at last able to mourn for my father.
“Oh Christian.” Elizabeth’s tone was soft and understanding and held me the same as if I were in her arms—the only place I wanted to be.
“Elizabeth,” I cried again. She was my only solace, my first reminder to never become like my father. I’d come so close—had nearly given it all away.
Had he ever felt the regret that I felt? Had there ever been a day when he’d realized he was living the wrong life, that he never should have let my mother walk away? When he knew he was dying, did he wish he could have been given one last chance to tell us how he felt about us instead of waiting until he was gone and telling us the only way he knew how—with what he’d left behind?
I choked over the emotion, sobbed against the phone, pleaded with her again. “Elizabeth.”
I felt as if I were drowning in my father’s mistakes—mistakes that I’d made my own.
I was through wasting my chances. If I died tonight, I’d leave Elizabeth with no questions, nothing to decipher, no reason to wonder.
“Christian?” Elizabeth’s worry traveled over the distance and touched my heart.
I cried harder, wept for my father who’d been too proud, and vowed to myself that I would never be too proud.
“I love you, Elizabeth,” I wheezed out the words, unashamed and laid bare. She had to know. “I love you so much.”
From the edge of the bed, I curled in on myself and pressed the phone to my ear, silently begging her to be brave enough to say it back.
Please, Elizabeth, say it back.
I needed to hear her say it back . . . I needed her to take me back.
Her phone rustled, and I heard her shift, felt her movements. I pictured her lying down on her bed, envisioned her long, dark blond locks splayed out over her pillow, saw her in the black tank top and pajama pants she wore to bed—wished I were lying down beside her.
“Christian . . . ” she whispered in what sounded adoration. If I could see her face right now, I knew what I’d find. I’d see what was in the expression she’d worn as she had gazed out at me from her kitchen window on Sunday afternoon, the same thing that I had felt in her touch when she’d knelt before me and begged me to look at her, one I’d recognized but had been unable to respond to.
She swallowed, and in her hesitation, I knew she wasn’t ready to say it.
Turning to lie on the cold sheets of my hotel bed, I faced the wall in a way that I was sure would mirror her position, pretended that she held me, felt her ghost her fingers along my jaw, and listened to her breathe. It calmed me, soothed the sting, caressed the pain. “Elizabeth,” I said again, this time softly, matching the calm her distant presence brought, her name a promise on my tongue—soon.
“I miss you, Christian.” The words were muffled, slurred against what I could only imagine was her pillow, but still distinct, powerful.
Burying my face in the pillow, I rejoiced and thanked God she was giving me this moment, as innocent as it was intimate. I gathered myself enough to whisper, “I miss you, too, Elizabeth. More than you know.”
We lay together in silence listening to each other breathe. Still wearing my pants and dress shirt, I tugged the sheet and blanket over my body and hugged a pillow to my chest. I refused myself the fantasies flickering on the outskirts of my consciousness and forced myself to rest satisfied in Elizabeth’s peace.
Finally, Elizabeth whispered, “I’m so sorry, Christian.”
“I’m sorry too.”