Chapter 17
CHRISTINA
She pushed herself up from the pillow, every muscle protesting. Three days since they’d come home from the hospital, and sleep had become something that happened in fragments—twenty minutes here, an hour there—never enough to feel human.
“I’m coming, sweet girl.”
Violet’s bassinet sat beside Christina’s bed, a gift from Evan and Emily. Christina lifted her daughter, the weight still startling—seven pounds and change, but somehow heavier than anything she’d ever carried.
“Shh, shh.” She settled into the rocking chair Tara had moved from the attic, the one that had belonged to Aunt Frida. The wood creaked with each motion, a rhythm that had probably soothed generations of babies.
Violet’s face scrunched, her tiny fists waving as Christina fumbled with her nursing tank. The baby latched on with surprising strength, and for a moment there was only this—the soft pull, the quiet snuffling sounds, the moonlight through gauze curtains painting silver stripes across the floor.
Christina’s eyes burned. From exhaustion.
And from a love so overwhelming it made her chest tight.
From the ache that lived beneath her ribs, the one that flared every time Violet opened her eyes, and Christina saw that distinctive shade of blue-gray the nurse had promised would change over the coming months.
Would they turn green? She wondered for the hundredth time. Green with gold flecks, like—
She cut off the thought. Marco didn’t belong in this room, in these midnight moments. He didn’t even know this room existed.
Violet finished nursing and Christina lifted her to her shoulder, patting her back until a satisfying burp emerged.
“Good girl,” she murmured, pressing her lips to the impossibly soft skin of her daughter’s head.
She smelled of the lavender baby wash Emily had recommended, like warmth and milk and newness.
By the time Violet fell back asleep, it was nearly four AM.
The sun was fully up when Ryan knocked on the cottage door.
“I’m taking Angus for a walk,” he said when Christina opened the door, still in her pajamas, Violet fussing against her shoulder. “You should sleep.”
“I’m fine—”
“You’re not.” Ryan’s voice was matter-of-fact, the same tone he used when explaining why a particular coding solution was inefficient.
“Your eyes are puffy, you’re swaying, and you’ve got spit-up on your shoulder.
I’ll be back in about an hour to watch baby Violet so you can take a shower and a nap, or a nap and then a shower, whatever you want. ”
Before she could argue, he’d clipped Angus’s leash to his collar and disappeared down the path toward the lake, the dog’s tail wagging with relief.
Christina stood in the doorway, the morning air cool against her bare arms, carrying the scent of honeysuckle and fresh-cut grass from Will’s mowing yesterday. Violet had quieted against her chest, her breathing evening out.
Sleep, she told herself. He’s right. Sleep.
But the cottage was too quiet, and every time she closed her eyes, her brain supplied a new worry. Was Violet breathing too fast? Too slow? Why did her left eye look slightly crusty? Should she call the pediatrician?
She was still awake, lying rigid beside Violet’s bassinet, when Ryan returned an hour later with a sweaty, happy dog and a bag of blueberry muffins from Sam.
“She said to tell you the blueberries are fresh. And she’s coming by after lunch to give you a break.”
* * *
Days blurred. Christina lost track of which was which, marking time only by Violet’s feeding schedule and the steady parade of visitors who appeared at her door bearing food, advice, and extra hands.
Sam arrived that afternoon with a casserole dish warm against her chest—Dora’s famous chicken pot pie inside. She’d braided her dark hair into two neat plaits, and her face lit up when she saw Violet sleeping in the Moses basket Christina had moved to the living room.
“Can I hold her?” Sam whispered, as if the baby might shatter at full volume.
“Please.” Christina gestured toward the basket. “She’ll probably wake up the second you pick her up. She has a sixth sense for it.”
But Violet didn’t wake. She nestled into Sam’s arms with a tiny sigh, her rosebud mouth working in her sleep.
“She’s so perfect,” Sam breathed. She started humming—something soft and melodic that Christina didn’t recognize—and began swaying gently.
Christina grabbed the opportunity. “I’m going to take a quick shower. Is that okay?”
“Take your time.” Sam didn’t look up, her whole attention fixed on Violet’s face.
The hot water loosened the knots in Christina’s shoulders. She stood under the spray until it started to cool, washing away days of accumulated stress and the persistent milk smell that clung to everything. She shampooed her hair twice, a luxury she hadn’t managed since the hospital.
When she emerged, dressed in a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt, Sam was still humming to Violet. The cottage smelled like the chicken pot pie warming in the oven, and for a moment, standing in the hallway with damp hair, Christina’s throat went tight.
Not sad. Grateful. These people, who owed her nothing, who kept showing up every day, helping out.
“My grandmother said she sang this to me when I was little,” Sam said, noticing Christina watching.
“I don’t remember but she said she’d rock me in an old rocking chair and sing about mockingbirds and diamond rings.
” Her smile was soft with memory. “I had her sing it to me again, thought maybe Violet would like it too.”
* * *
Emily came the next morning, Grace on her hip and a diaper bag slung over her shoulder that seemed to contain half of the baby supplies in Blueberry Hill.
“Survival kit,” she announced, dumping the bag on the couch.
“Gas drops—if you don’t already, you’ll need them soon.
Nipple cream—the expensive kind because the cheap stuff doesn’t work.
Extra swaddle blankets because they get disgusting fast. And these.
” She held up a pair of noise-canceling earbuds.
“For when you need to take a break but can’t actually leave the room. ”
Christina stared at the mountain of supplies. “I can’t accept all this.”
“You can and you will.” Emily set Grace down on the play mat she’d apparently also packed, then turned to examine Violet in her bassinet. “Oh, she’s so beautiful. Look at those fingers. Grace, can you see your cousin? You two are going to grow up together, and be like sisters, you know that?”
Grace babbled something and reached for her own toes.
“Does it get easier?” Christina asked. She hadn’t meant to—the question just slipped out, exhaustion loosening her filter.
Emily’s expression softened. “Yes, and no. The sleep deprivation eases up around month three or four. But then they start teething. And then they’re mobile and trying to eat everything that isn’t food.” She laughed at Christina’s horrified face. “I’m not helping, am I?”
“Not really.”
“Here’s what actually helps.” Emily sat on the couch, pulling Christina down beside her. “Let people take care of you. I know you want to prove you can do this alone, but you don’t have to.”
Christina looked at her lap, at her hands still rough and dry from all the sanitizing. “What if I don’t deserve it?”
“Deserve what?”
“Any of this. The help. The casseroles. Everyone dropping everything to make sure I’m okay.” She swallowed hard. “I made a choice. A stupid choice. And now everyone else is cleaning up after me.”
Emily was quiet for a moment. “Was it stupid? Or was it human?”
Christina didn’t answer. Her sister-in-law leaned over and hugged her. “I know you wanted to get married and then have babies, but this is how life worked out. Violet is perfect. Maybe the universe decided you needed the baby first.”
She noticed Emily didn’t ask who the father was. It was like they’d all talked and decided not to ask, which on one hand she was grateful for, but on the other, she wanted to tell them, it was just … she didn’t know if she was ready for all the questions that would follow once she named him.
“Look,” Emily continued as if reading Christina’s mind, “I don’t know what happened or who Violet’s father is, and I’m not asking.
But I do know this. Tara, Will, Evan, Ally, Ryan—they all love you.
Not because you’re perfect or because you never make mistakes.
” She squeezed Christina’s hand. “That little girl is never going to lack for people who adore her.”
A tear slipped down Christina’s cheek before she could stop it.
Grace chose that moment to spit up on the play mat, and the moment dissolved into a flurry of wet wipes and paper towels and Emily’s cheerful cursing.
* * *
The casseroles kept coming. Tara’s chicken and rice on Tuesday. Dora’s enchiladas on Wednesday. Some kind of casserole that was unidentifiable but delicious from one of Will’s construction crew on Thursday, delivered with a gruff “Wife made it. Said moms need feeding too.”
Christina’s refrigerator had never been so full.
She learned to sleep when Violet slept, even if it was only twenty minutes at a time.
She learned to let family help, to accept Sam’s quiet company, the way the younger woman seemed to understand that sometimes Christina needed a person in the cottage without the conversation.
Thankfully, her online job had given her twelve weeks of maternity leave so she could focus all her attention on her daughter.
But at night, when the cottage was dark and Violet was sleeping and there was nothing to distract her, Christina’s mind always wandered to the same place.
She wondered what Marco was doing right now. Three AM in North Carolina—that made it morning in Milan, if that’s where he was. Or was he in New York? Manhattan, maybe, going to brunch at some place that charged thirty dollars for scrambled eggs.
He’d held her face in his hands that night in Miami. Looked at her like she was the only person in the world. “You’re the first real thing I’ve touched in years,” he’d said, and she’d believed him.
Violet stirred, her face scrunching in a way that meant she’d be fully awake in about thirty seconds. Christina reached for her automatically, her body already running on muscle memory.
“It’s okay,” she whispered as Violet’s cries filled the room. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
* * *
A few weeks after coming home from the hospital, Christina woke to sunshine streaming through her windows and the unfamiliar sensation of actual rest.
She lay still, heart pounding. Violet. Why hadn’t Violet woken her?
She scrambled out of bed, tangled in the sheets, and rushed to the bassinet—
Which was empty.
Panic clawed at her throat until she heard the voices from the living room. Her mother’s laugh. A man’s deeper voice—Will. And beneath it all, the quiet snuffling of a content baby.
Christina pressed a hand to her racing heart and let herself breathe.
When she shuffled out of the bedroom, she found Tara on the couch with Violet in her arms, Will cooking bacon and eggs at the stove, and a fresh pot of coffee already brewed.
“There she is,” Tara said, her face bright. “I hope you don’t mind—I used my key. You needed sleep, and this little one was just starting to fuss when I got here. We’ve been having a lovely conversation, haven’t we, Violet?”
Violet kicked her tiny feet, seemingly in agreement.
“How long was I out?” Christina croaked.
“Eight hours straight.” Tara looked smug. “You’re welcome.”
Will set a plate on the kitchen table—bacon, eggs, avocado toast. “Eat. Then shower. And then we’re taking this little one over to the inn to meet the contractors. Give you an afternoon to yourself.”
Christina opened her mouth to protest—she should be with Violet, she should be the one handling everything—
But Tara was already standing, transferring Violet to Will’s arms with practiced ease. “Eat. Being a good mother doesn’t mean doing everything alone. It means building a life where your daughter is surrounded by people who love her.”
Christina ate her breakfast. The eggs were perfect—creamy, seasoned just right.
She watched her mother coo at her daughter, watched Will bounce Violet gently, watched Angus press his nose to Violet’s blanket with canine curiosity before padding over to rest his head on Christina’s foot.
And underneath the gratitude, the ache persisted. The Marco-shaped absence that no amount of casseroles or village kindness could fill.
Tara was already packing the diaper bag, listing off things she’d need for the afternoon. “Extra onesies, burp cloths—oh, and I should grab that pacifier clip Sam made. Violet seems to like the texture.”
“Mom.” Christina’s voice came out rough. “Thank you. For all of this.”
Tara paused, diaper bag half-zipped. Something flickered across her face—curiosity, maybe, or concern. “Sweetheart, are you okay? You seem...”
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
Her mother held her gaze a moment longer, and Christina wondered if Tara could see through her, could see all the things she wasn’t saying. But then Violet let out a squawk, and the moment passed.
“Text me if you need anything,” Tara said, scooping up the baby. “We’ll be back by dinner. I’m thinking of making that pasta you like—the one with the sundried tomatoes and the cream sauce.”
“Sounds fantastic.”
Christina stood in the doorway and watched them load Violet into the car seat, watched Will secure it with careful attention, watched her mother wave from the passenger window as they pulled away down the gravel drive.
The cottage was quiet. The afternoon stretched ahead of her, empty and unfamiliar.
She should start the thank-you notes. There were at least a dozen casseroles to acknowledge, not to mention Emily’s survival kit and Sam’s endless patience. Ryan had been returning each dish as they finished the food.
Christina picked up her phone and found herself opening a browser. Typing in the name before she could stop herself.
Marco Castellano.
The search results loaded instantly. Photos from a charity gala last week—him in a tuxedo, a blonde on his arm, that smile she remembered aimed at cameras instead of her. Headlines about fashion deals and family business and speculation about his love life.
She closed the browser and set the phone face-down on the counter.
The thank-you notes could wait. Right now, she needed air.
Christina grabbed her cardigan and stepped onto the back porch, the afternoon sun warm on her face, the lake glittering beyond the trees.
She’d walk to the dock. Just for a few minutes.
Just to remind herself that the world was still turning, still beautiful, even when everything inside her felt tangled and raw.
Her phone buzzed. Probably her mom, already sending pictures of Violet.
Christina kept walking.