“She might be.”
“Do you think she could live with us? At night, we could all sleep together.”
Logan snuffed out the mental image of Jeannette in his bed and cleared his throat. “I don’t know if that would work. She has her own house. And usually people who live together are married.”
Her eyes lit up. “If you married ’Nette, would she be my mommy?”
“Yes.” Change the subject. Now. “Aren’t you getting hungry? I hear some growls. Unless you’re hiding a bear inside there.” He tickled her tummy.
She giggled . . . and his lungs locked.
That was the sound he’d been waiting to hear for months.
“Yes. Mrs. Shabo cooks good. Better than you.”
“That wouldn’t be hard.” He stood, balancing her on his hip as he smothered a yawn. The long, traumatic day was catching up with him.
“Are you sleepy?” She held on tight as he bent to scratch behind Toby’s ear.
“Getting there. After we eat, I think we both should go to bed.”
“Do you want to stay with me tonight, so you won’t be lonesome?”
The two of them in her twin bed? Until morning?
It wouldn’t be the most comfortable night of his life.
But it might be one of the best.
“I think that would be perfect.”
She smiled at him, no trace of worry or sadness in her eyes. “I love you, Uncle Logan.”
“I love you back.” Somehow he managed to choke out the words.
And as he carried her into the kitchen, the beagle at his heels, Logan’s heart overflowed.
After months of effort, he and Molly were finally on the road to their happy place.
One down—one to go.
“I’ll do the dishes while you put Elisa to bed.” Mariam rose as the family finished their late dinner and looked at him across the table.
Thomma didn’t need his mother’s prompt. He’d planned to take on that duty tonight, had been thinking about what he’d say to Elisa once the two of them were alone.
The words still hadn’t coalesced in his mind, though.
He’d been hoping for some guidance based on Elisa’s conversation during dinner, but despite his diligent efforts, his daughter hadn’t cooperated. Even his mother hadn’t managed to elicit more than a sentence or two.
Elisa had eaten her dinner mostly in silence, casting him frequent surreptitious glances.
Like she sensed something was different but didn’t quite know what.
He intended to clear up her confusion now.
Setting his napkin on the table, he rose. “Are you finished, my little one?”
Elisa stared at him, and in his peripheral vision he saw his mother freeze.
No wonder.
He hadn’t used that term of endearment for his daughter since the day his world had exploded in Syria.
Elisa sent his mother an uncertain look.
“Go with your father. I’ll give you a good night hug here.” She did so, offered him a nod of approval, and busied herself clearing the table.
Thomma held out his hand to Elisa.
After regarding him for a moment, she slid off her chair and slipped her fingers into his. “I have to brush my teeth.”
“You can do that while I get your pajamas out.”
She followed along beside him to the bathroom and disappeared inside.
It took him a few tries to find the drawer where his mother kept her pajamas—yet more evidence of his lack of interest in his daughter.
But perhaps he could lay the groundwork for a new start tonight.
He was waiting when she returned, her nightclothes in hand. “Want me to help you put these on?”
She shook her head. “I can do it myself.”
And she did, with quick efficiency, turning her back on him as she changed.
Like he was a stranger.
A twinge echoed in his heart, but her treatment of him was no more than he deserved. After all the months he’d pushed her aside, he was in many respects a stranger to her.
She tugged the top into position, folded up the clothes Logan had loaned them, placed them in a neat pile on the chair in the room, and climbed into bed.
Thomma tucked her in, dimmed the light, and sat on the edge of the mattress, heart hammering.
God, please help me as I try to mend the damage I’ve done.
Summoning up his courage, he took Elisa’s hand. “I’m glad you and Molly decided to come back today.”
The conclusion that the girls had changed their mind about running away was a supposition—but they had been retracing their steps when Sherlock found them.
“Why?”
So his assumption had been accurate.
That was a positive sign—unless Molly was the one who’d decided to return and had convinced his reluctant daughter to go with her.
“Because it wouldn’t be the same here without you.”
She hugged her Raggedy Ann doll tighter, watching him. “You wouldn’t miss me.”
His stomach knotted.
What else could she conclude after his behavior these past few months?
But hearing it verbalized gave her despair a stark harshness that ate at his gut.
“Yes, I would.” He stroked his fingers down her cheek and met her gaze. “I know I haven’t been a good papa for a long time, and I’m sorry for that. I’ve been very sad about all the people we love who went to heaven, and about leaving our home in Syria. Sometimes, when you’re that sad, it’s hard to think right. You forget about what you have now because you’re thinking so hard about everything that’s gone. That’s what happened to me.”
A few seconds passed.
“I miss Mama a lot too.” Her voice was a mere whisper.
Curious that she knew he’d been fixated on Raca in particular, given all the family they’d lost.
“I know you do, little one.”
“Sometimes I look at the picture Teta gave me and pretend she’s here.”
His mother had given Elisa a photo of Raca?
Which one?
“Will you show it to me?”
She hesitated. “You won’t keep it, will you?”
He frowned. “No. Why would I do that?”
“Teta said it might make you sad and you might take it away.”
Would he have deprived his daughter of a photo that gave her comfort?
He’d like to think the answer was no . . . but it was hard to say, considering his mental state since the tragedy.
“I promise I won’t take it away. Maybe we can look at it—and remember her—together.”
She studied him, kneading the edge of the blanket between her fingers . . . then rolled over, opened the drawer in the bedside table, and pulled out the photo. She tilted it toward him, keeping a tight grip on the image. As if she didn’t trust him.
Another punch in the stomach.
Taking a fortifying breath, Thomma leaned close to examine the dog-eared photo. It wasn’t one he’d ever seen, but the setting was familiar. The shot had been snapped at the wedding of some friends of theirs, less than a year before the bombing. Raca was holding Elisa on her lap, her eyes bright with laughter as if someone had just made a humorous remark, her whole being radiating life and joy and optimism.
It captured her perfectly.
He blinked to clear his vision.