A few of my routines will need to change. I won’t be able to write in the garden anymore, like I enjoy doing when the weather is warmer. Or rather, I won’t be able to write in the backyard when Peony is playingthere. She’ll be a distraction I don’t need, especially now, when my book is due to my editor in three months, two weeks, and two days. When I’m lost in my story world, the words flowing like nobody’s business, the last thing I need or want is a distraction yanking me out of the story. Although the last time I was lost in the story was almost a week ago. I barely remember what that’s like.
Athena takes the hand of my new pint-sized distraction, and they tentatively walk into the hallway as if unsure what to do next.
I put the first of their bags in the laundry room and lead them to the guest bedroom. I point to the open door. “This is your room, Athena.”
We step into a room that looks nothing like it did a week ago. The walls have been repainted a soft blush beige. Off-white bedding has replaced the old navy sheets and comforter.
“Wow.” Athena runs her hand along the lace edging of the bedding. “It’s nothing like I was expecting.”
“You can thank Zara. She figured you’d prefer this over the previous man-cave look.”
Athena picks up Peony and carries her to the window. The blinds are open, providing a great view of the garden. “Jesus,” she blurts, a Texan drawl that wasn’t there before now reshaping her vowels.
Her face flushes, and she clears her throat. “I mean, it’s like an enchanted garden.” The Texan drawl is gone from her tone. “Do you think there are fairies and woodland creatures out there?” She tickles Peony, who giggles.
Athena slowly walks around the room, checking out the previously sparsely decorated space. Zara added a few extra feminine touches throughout the bookshelf. Mostly small bouquets of silk flowers and wicker baskets.
“It’s as beautiful as morning dew sparkling on a spiderweb.” Athena smiles, and it’s brighter than anything I’ve witnessed from her yet. It takes years off her age. Like she’s momentarily free of everything that’s been weighing her down. Her employer’s death and the apartment fire and taking care of Peony while they traveled across the country to get here. “I’ve never stayed in a room like it before.”
“Just wait till you see Peony’s room.”
The furniture arrived this morning, and I spent the next few hours setting up the room…with Zara’s guidance. She FaceTimed me from work.
I open the door and let them go in ahead of me.
Uncertainty laps over me like a rogue wave at the possibility Peony might not like the room. My gaze jerks to the ceiling in a silent prayer to Clarke. A prayer that I can be the type of father he was to his little girl…until I failed to save him.
A prayer I won’t fail my daughter.
I walk into the bedroom in time to see Athena’s wide-eyed expression as she takes in the pale-green walls. Framed woodland-critter posters hang on the wall above Peony’s new bed.
Peony toddles to the low bookshelf and grabs the wooden shape-sorting toy. She drops her butt onto the new rug and starts playing, oblivious to Athena’s reaction to the room.
I kneel next to the toddler bed, protecting her personal space.
My movement snares Peony’s attention from the toy, and her curiosity-widened eyes watch me. But it’s the other emotion, the one hovering in her features like a storm cloud passing in front of the sun, that has a dejected huff coasting my lips.
In her mind, I’m the boogeyman, scheming to haunt her dreams.
Give it time.
The voice in my head isn’t my own. It’s Zara. The woman who has an endless supply of patience. Who volunteered in a program during college that helped young kids in crisis.
“I know you’re used to sleeping in a crib,” I say to Peony, “but I thought maybe you would like to start sleeping in a big girl’s bed.”
Peony’s bottom lip wobbles and tears fill her eyes.
And it’s like a grenade once the pin has been yanked. Panic tightens the vise around my chest, and my heart rate kicks up. I can almost hear the robotic voice in my head, counting down the seconds until her meltdown begins.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
The ticking of another clock echoes in the back of my mind, reminding me I’m wasting time I don’t have while I try to get her to accept me as part of her life.
Panic at the prospect of Peony having a meltdown is greeted by self-doubt. It slithers in, wraps me in a knot, squeezes my chest tighter and tighter. What if she hasn’t accepted me because deep down she knows I’m not her father?
