“Right away?”
“Yes.”
“You won’t make us hug anyone?”
“No.”
“Call him Dad?”
“No.”
Miles nodded.
“Then I want to see him.”
Ethan said:
“I want to see his face.”
I gave him a look.
“That sounds threatening.”
“It’s not.”
“What is it?”
“Research.”
Of course.
I accepted Adrian’s invitation that night.
My reply was only:
Thank you. We’ll attend.
He wrote back:
I’m glad. Vanessa is looking forward to meeting you.
We.
He did not notice the word.
Two days before Christmas, Adrian’s mother called.
I had not spoken to her in eight years.
Her voice still carried the same polished caution.
“Claire.”
“Hello.”
“I heard you’re coming.”
“Yes.”
“I think that’s very mature.”
There was that word again.
Mature.
As if I were the unpredictable one being granted the opportunity to behave.
She mentioned Vanessa.
Successful.
Graceful.
Perfect for Adrian.
I responded politely.
Then finally she said:
“I just hope there won’t be any unpleasant discussions about the past.”
“What past?”
“You know.”
“No.”
She exhaled.
“The pregnancy claim.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“Claim?”
“Claire, it was eight years ago.”
“I was pregnant eight years ago.”
“Adrian believed—”
“I know what Adrian believed.”
She lowered her voice.
“Christmas is not the right place to reopen something that was never substantiated.”
I nearly laughed.
Then asked:
“If you discovered that something you believed for eight years was completely wrong, what would you do?”
She hesitated.
“I suppose I would apologize.”
“Good.”
I ended the call.
Christmas afternoon brought heavy weather around Bellmere.
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