It still chafed his pride that he’d had to move in with his parents following his wife’s death, but in the aftermath of such tragedy, he’d come to rely on their love and support to help ease his and Sofia’s grief. They were the only family Sofia had left, the only ones he trusted to care for his daughter. But the drawback of accepting their help was that his daughter was picking up too many Greek words and customs for his liking.
One day soon, once Sofia was in school, they’d get their own place and he would weed out the Greek traditions as deftly as his father weeded the garden.
Darius set his jaw. His daughter would be accepted as a full Canadian as was her birthright. No cultural sneers or prejudice would ever taint her the way they’d tainted him.
The way they’d destroyed her mother.
“Why didn’t you come home for dinner, Daddy?” Sofia shifted to peer up at him. “Yiayiá cries sometimes. I think she misses you too.”
Darius pressed his lips together. How did a four-year-old turn guilt into an art form? “Grandma cries over lots of things. Like burning the stew.”
That elicited a giggle. “She does. Yesterday she dropped a cup, and she cried when she was cleaning it up. I told her big girls don’t cry, but she didn’t like that.”
“No, she would think that rude. You must respect your elders, remember?”
Sofia’s eyes went wide. “I know, but sometimes things just pop out of my mouth.”
Darius bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. His little girl had that right. The words she said sometimes . . . He sighed and snuggled in closer. “Which story will we read first?”
“The princess one.”
Of course. He turned the ragged pages and then began to read, thanking God for the precious gift of his daughter, the source of joy that motivated his every waking moment, his every breath.
Don’t worry, Selene. Our baby will have the best of this world. She will never suffer the way you did.
3
Four days later, Olivia finally felt strong enough to venture out of her room. She’d found the drawstring bag Mamma had given her on the tufted bench at the foot of the bed and had plucked out a blouse and skirt, horribly wrinkled but at least clean. For the past few days, Mrs. Bennington—or Ruth, as she insisted Olivia call her—had helped her to the lavatory down the hall, and now Olivia knew her way. The modern convenience of a large claw-foot tub, porcelain sink, and flush toilet had apparently been added several years ago in an attempt to modernize the house for Ruth’s grandson, who lived with her at the time. Only one of many stories the widow had entertained Olivia with while she recuperated.
After freshening up, Olivia used the hairbrush she found in her room to tidy her hair and, with no hairpins available, simply braided the tresses into a thick plait, tying it with a string pulled from the hem of her blouse. Before she put her bag away, she reached inside to assure herself that the knitted blanket she’d put there—the one tangible reminder of her son—was safe. Bringing the wool to her nose, she inhaled the faint baby scent that still had the power to rip the air from her lungs. Then, with a shaky breath, she tucked it back inside. She didn’t care if she lost everything she owned as long as she still had that blanket.
Her nerves now steadier, she made her way down the wide staircase to the main level. Though she felt uneasy wandering around a house that wasn’t hers, she couldn’t resist lingering in the foyer to admire the beautiful woodwork. Carved arches marked each doorway in the hall. The staircase railing and ornate newel posts were themselves works of art. Countless paintings graced the walls, a mixture of landscapes and portraits. Ruth must be an avid art collector, or perhaps her late husband had been the connoisseur.
“There you are, my dear. How wonderful to see you up and about.” Ruth appeared in the hallway. Tall and elegant in a simple gray dress and pearls, she reminded Olivia of royalty.
“I’m still weak, but overall much improved. Thanks to you and Dr. Henshaw.”
Ruth came forward to take Olivia’s arm. “I planned on having breakfast in the sunroom. So much more cheerful than the stuffy dining room.”
Olivia murmured some sort of agreement, unsure what a sunroom or the dining room looked like.
“I’m glad you’re able to join me. My cook has prepared some lovely hotcakes. Served with butter and maple syrup, there’s no better treat in the morning.”
They had reached the end of the hall and entered a room that took Olivia’s breath away. Floor-to-ceiling windows surrounded the space, flooding the area with sunlight. A round table and chairs sat in the center of the room, while several seating areas flanked the surrounding windows. Plants and flowers overflowed everywhere, almost like a gardener’s greenhouse.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
“I knew you’d like it. Come and sit. Would you like coffee or tea? Or perhaps orange juice?”
“Coffee, please.” She took a seat, noting the covered platters in the middle of the table, the gold-edged plates, real silver utensils, and white linen napkins. She folded her hands in her lap. Nothing about this seemed right. She didn’t belong in such a fancy place. She should be back in the cramped apartment over the grocery store that smelled of spices and cured meats.
“Is anything wrong, Olivia?” Ruth was staring at her, a frown marring her high forehead.
“You’ve been so kind to me, and I don’t wish to—”
A woman in a black-and-white uniform came in. “Are you ready, ma’am?”
Ruth’s attention shifted. “Yes, Anna. You may serve us.”
The maid proceeded to lift the lids from the platters.
