Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Berk
As soon as I enter my home Sully greets me.
The six-year-old feline has a sixth sense when it comes to knowing when I’ll set foot through the door.
She rushes over to rub against my suit pants, dragging her body across them, leaving a trail of white hair in her wake.
This is the reason I have a half dozen lint rollers hidden throughout my home.
“I’m here,” I call out to anyone within earshot.
This townhouse, with its five bedrooms, large kitchen, and music room, has become home. It was all funded by an inheritance from my late grandfather and decorated by Layna’s hand. It’s filled with memories and the kind of sorrow that settles in your bones.
A strange, twisted comfort came with that level of grief. I could walk into any room and picture Layna smiling and laughing. Those images are less vibrant now, replaced with the joy I see on my daughter’s face when she rounds a corner or belts out a made-up song when she’s doing her chores.
“Daddy!” Stevie screams as she comes running at me. “You’re home!”
It’s the words that I long to hear all day.
I drop to one knee and take her in for a hug. This one rivals the one I got this morning when her world was shattered. I get to piece it back together for her starting right now.
“Guess what I have?” I ask as I spot my sister on the approach.
Sinclair’s brown hair is tied high on her head in a ponytail, and her pink sweatshirt is dotted with red spots.
“I made dinner,” she says before I can ask. “Spaghetti with tomato sauce.”
My sister is twenty-four and has spent a good part of the last few months learning to cook. She mastered scrambled eggs first and has steadily added to her repertoire since.
“Daddy has something for me.” Stevie steals a glance at her aunt. “I hope with my whole heart and all my wishes that it’s the key to my diary.”
“That’s not a secret anymore?” Sinclair’s blue eyes widen. “I thought we pinkie swore that the diary was a secret.”
I laugh. “It was until someone lost the key.”
“I have an extra,” Sinclair says, wiping a hand over her forehead leaving behind a bright red smear. “It came with two. I kept one just in case the original went missing.”
Stevie spins around to face her. Her hands drop to her hips. “I had no idea, Auntie.”
Sinclair plants a kiss on Stevie’s forehead. “Now you know.”
I tap my daughter on the shoulder to draw her attention back to me. “I have the original.”
“You do?” she screams as she turns to face me. “You found it?”
“I did.” I stand to reach into the front pocket of my pants to grab the key. I fish it out and hold it up. “See.”
My daughter’s face lights up with a smile. “Daddy! You’re my hero.”
If there are sweeter words to be spoken, I’ve yet to hear them.
I place the key in her hand, gently closing her fist around it. “Take good care of it.”
She rests her fist against her chest. “I’ll guard it with my life.”
Sinclair glances at me. “Where was it?”
I brush past Stevie to make my way to my sister. I wrap her in a hug and press a kiss to the top of her head the way I always do when I see her. “I dropped it in the guitar case of a singer along with some change.”
“A busker?” she questions. “Were they any good?”
“Very good.”
“He or she was good?” she questions with the perk of both of her eyebrows.
“She,” I answer succinctly.
“She’s my hero too!” Stevie moves to stand next to me. “I want to be a singer. Maybe one day someone will put some money in my guitar case when I sing for them.”
“You play the piano and the drums,” Sinclair points out.
That sends Stevie’s hands to her hips again. “For now. I’m going to start guitar lessons when I’m ten.”
Sinclair pats my chest. “Good luck with that, Berk.”
I glance down at the red stain she left in the middle of my light blue button-down shirt. “Thanks, Sin. I sure as hell hope this tomato sauce you’re cooking is worth the mess you’re making.”
“You swore,” my sister and daughter say in unison.
Stevie follows that up exactly as I expect her to. “You owe one hundred dollars to our fund, Dad.”
Our fund.
Shortly after Layna died, her parents and I launched The Layna Morgan Foundation. It’s a charity based in Boston that helps women battling cancer.
My family stepped up by creating a swear fund to increase our annual donations. Whenever any of us curse, we commit a hundred dollars to the cause.
I bend down to tweak Stevie’s chin with my fingers. “Noted. I’ll pay up.”
“Is it time to eat?” she asks Sinclair. “I’m starving.”
“It’s time.” Sinclair takes her hand. “There’s a bottle of sparkling apple juice in the fridge. We can toast to your dad being a hero.”
“From the fancy champagne glasses?” Stevie bounces in place.
“You bet.” My sister glances at me. “I noticed a bottle of wine in there if you want a glass of that.”
“Juice works for me.” I trail behind them as they make their way to the kitchen.
“Hey, Daddy!” Stevie suddenly turns to face me. “What was the singer’s name? The lady who found my key, what’s her name?”
“Astrid.”
“Astrid?” Stevie draws the name out. “That’s pretty. Is she?”
“Pretty?” I question as I hold back a smile.
Stevie nods.
“She is,” I say softly. “Astrid Rehn is very pretty.”
My sister wiggles her brows, but before she can open her mouth and say a word about how it’s time I start dating, I shoot her a look meant to keep her quiet.
She takes the hint, turns back around, and skips to the kitchen, holding tightly to my little girl’s hand.