Page 85 of A Song for Another Woman

It has a wide built-in bench under the windows, finished first because I couldn’t help myself. The cushions are still wrapped in plastic in the corner, waiting for fabric Emmy picked at nineteen without knowing I kept the note. There are folded drop cloths, a clean quilt from the truck, and enough space for her to stretch out without the floor, the dust, or my stupidity getting in the way.

“There,” I say.

She follows my gaze, and her mouth trembles. “My nook.”

“Your nook.”

I get the quilt from the truck. I shake it out twice on the porch, then again inside, because I need something to do with my hands that isn’t grabbing for her like I haven’t learned anything. Emmy watches me with her arms wrapped around herself, eyes bright, hair loose around her shoulders.

When I come back, I lay the quilt over the cushions and smooth it with ridiculous care.

“You’re fussing,” she says.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her mouth curves, small and real. “I missed that.”

I stop smoothing the quilt. She looks away like she didn’t mean to say it.

I cross to her slowly. “I missed everything.”

Her eyes come back to mine. I offer my hand, and she takes it.

We climb the few steps to the nook together. The windows look out over the old dogwood, bare against the dark yard. Moonlight and porch light mix on the glass. The whole house is quiet around us, unfinished and waiting.

Emmy sits first, careful as she lowers herself to the cushions. I kneel in front of her and take off her boots one at a time while she watches me. I press my mouth to the inside of her ankle.

Her fingers flex against the quilt. “Cade.”

I kiss her calf through her jeans, then look up. “Tell me if I get it wrong.”

She swallows. “You won’t.”

That faith hits harder than any accusation.

I rise onto my knees and slide my hands up to her waist. She lifts her arms when I touch the hem of her sweater, but I pause there. “Can I?”

“Yes.”

I draw it over her head carefully. Her hair falls around her face. Underneath, she wears a soft camisole that shows me what she’s been hiding from rooms, cameras, and me: fuller breasts, softer waist, and the roundness of our child low beneath her navel.

My throat closes. Emmy crosses an arm over herself.

I catch her wrist gently. “No.”

Her eyes flash, wounded and wary.

"Let me see you," I say, never pressing. "You're far too beautiful to hide."

A tear slips down her cheek. I kiss it away, then kiss her mouth, then her jaw, then the hollow beneath her ear. She shivers. I move slowly, giving her time to stop me, but she doesn’t. Her hands come to my hair again, pulling me closer when I kiss the slope of her shoulder.

I touch her like every inch of her deserves an apology I can’t speak without ruining the quiet: her neck, her collarbone, thesoft swell above her camisole, and the curve of her belly, where I rest my mouth and go still.

“Hi, baby,” I whisper.

Emmy lets out a broken little laugh and covers her face with one hand.

I kiss the place where our child sleeps beneath her skin. “I’m your daddy,” I say, so quietly I barely hear myself. “I’m late. I’m sorry. I’m here.”