Chapter 4
four
HANNAH
Clara turned five tomorrow.
Beau didn’t make it home by bedtime on the eve of the day she’d been so excited about. She was disappointed that he wasn’t there to tuck her in on her last day of being four, but she hid it well. Impressively well for a girl who was not practiced at being disappointed by the people in her life.
It was the first time her father had ever let her down.
She’d been disappointed by her body, modern medicine, and the universe who’d given such a big burden to a small body.
Which was likely why everyone in her life—me included—bent over backward to make her comfortable in every other aspect of her existence.
I’d done a decent amount of research on childhood development and raising children. I wanted to be good at my side gig so that I’d get paid more, and I was curious. Maybe I wanted to heal my inner child too. If such a thing were possible.
I knew that children needed to build resilience to become productive, well-rounded adults. That you shouldn’t go out of your way to help them avoid discomfort. Clara had certainly had her share of discomfort.
Therefore, I was pissed that she had a downturn to her normally upturned lip.
That her eyes welled up for a second while looking at the door and understanding that her dad wouldn’t be there to kiss her good night, to help farewell a difficult and painful year in her short life.
To usher in a new one of hope and health.
I kept up the cheer—because Clara deserved that—kissed her good night, then started preparing.
I’d stashed the supplies in my room because no one went in there.
Clara had been interested in my space when I first moved in.
Beau had tried to set boundaries, telling her I needed my personal space, but I’d happily shown her how boring it was.
Her room was much more entertaining. That’s where we spent a lot of time, decorating, lying in her teepee, telling stories before bed, having tea parties, doing fashion shows.
I’d been collecting decorations for weeks, finding the most unique things I could—spider garland, black and pink balloons. A variety of little gifts. Trivia books. An elegantly embossed insect encyclopedia that had vivid illustrations. A real porcelain tea set from a vintage store.
Clara had been counting down to this birthday. It felt monumental—her first one not being sick, the first where she could actually have a party. A big one. Well … big for her world.
I’d been praying the weather would hold. The only way she could be around even a handful of people was if we stayed outside, following every protocol, every precaution. If it rained, if the temperature dropped, it would all fall apart.
I checked the forecast obsessively. Her birthday promised the high seventies, a tiny miracle for that time of year. I prayed it stayed that way.
She deserved this—this sliver of normalcy, this chance to laugh with other children after months of isolation. She’d been starved of connection.
I knew it was a birthday Beau had feared she might never see.
I was trying to give him grace given this fact, but it was hard. The past week, he was grumpier than ever, a dark cloud blocking the sunshine that Clara brought to the house. And now he’d failed to tuck her in the night before her birthday.
I stomped around the house in anger as I arranged presents and decorations.
I lividly blew up balloons, irritably climbing a ladder to string up my garland.
Wrapped presents in vintage scarves and mismatched ribbons.
I shoved in my headphones, playing a feminine rage playlist as my soundtrack for decorating the cake I’d made and put in the oven while Clara had her ‘quiet hour’ in her room earlier.
Something we’d instituted to help give her space, using it as reading time, to listen to music, or just wind down for the night.
I’d heard about the spider cake she’d been given before her bone marrow transplant, which was entirely cute and annoying since that had been my first idea.
Then I’d heard that Nora from The Chaotic Baker had baked it and felt intimidated because there was no way I’d be able to replicate that deliciousness.
But I’d reasoned that anything full of sugar and frosting would taste good to a five-year-old, and if it didn’t, Clara would likely lie to protect my feelings.
I hope it didn’t suck.
Clara loved space, spiders, and all things weird.
We’d recently been getting very into learning about fairies, toadstools, and all kinds of plants.
I’d ordered outrageously expensive chocolate toadstools and was arranging them on the tiered ‘mossy’ woodland cake I made.
It was dotted with sugar daisies, ladybugs, caterpillars, and some edible flowers.
There was an adorable fairy figurine perched in the middle.
Not edible, another gift for Clara. For her growing fairy garden.
I’d already written a note from the ‘fairy’ on tea-stained paper about how she would like to live in Clara’s fairy garden and watch over her while she slept.
All little girls deserved to believe in all sorts of magic at five years old, Clara more than most.
The cake looked pretty good, if I said so myself.
And tasted good, I thought, swiping the last of the frosting from the bowl.
A dark swath in my periphery made me let out a scream as I turned, brandishing my butterknife on instinct. My body tightened, ready to fight this intruder, determined to ensure that he didn’t get near the sleeping little girl in the room down the hall.
But as my vision cleared, I thankfully realized I wouldn’t have to fight for my life with a dull knife covered in frosting.
It wasn’t an intruder.
It was Beau.
He was standing in the middle of the kitchen, scowling at me—big surprise—his mouth moving.
I pulled my headphones from my ears. “What?”
His expression looked nuclear, nostrils flaring, hands fisted at his sides. “You should not be listening to music so fucking loud that you can’t hear anyone entering the house when you’re alone.”
He had a point. Jupiter had a laughably low crime rate, and this was a quiet family street, but shit did happen. I’d watched enough true crime documentaries to know women were never really safe, that even in our own homes, we were at risk. Especially in our own homes, as I’d learned the hard way.
Beau’s ire was still misplaced. I didn’t bother mentioning how low of a risk that really was.
I’d lived in much more dangerous areas my entire life and managed to survive.
This man didn’t know reason. And he had a point.
His daughter was sleeping in her room. I was supposed to be taking care of her. Protecting her.
But then I remembered I was mad at him.
Therefore, I didn’t blurt an apology, which was second nature at that point. I felt like all I did was exchange rudimentary greetings and apologize to the man when I wasn’t talking about Clara.
Beau’s glower was zeroed in on me, but then he looked around me, at the cake then into the living room. The house had been transformed by decorations and presents.
“What the fuck is this?” His voice was heavy, throaty and accusing.
Of course, Beau would find this somehow insulting or irritating.
“This is a cake,” I stated, since his gaze was back on the cake. “A birthday cake. For your daughter. It’s her birthday tomorrow.”
I hadn’t thought it was possible, but his glower became even more severe. Brows pointing down, mouth a thin line, a tic in his jaw. “I fucking know it’s her birthday tomorrow. I was there the day she was born.”
The accusation was clear. The ownership. He was telling me he was there, I wasn’t. Therefore, I had no right to speak in the biting tone I hadn’t previously ever used toward him.
Normally, that would be enough to make me step back into my role of nonconfrontational nanny.
Except I couldn’t stop seeing Clara’s glassy eyes in my head. And yes, maybe I was nursing a bit of a grudge about the week of near-silent treatment and passive aggression—even more than normal—from Beau.
“She wanted to see you.” I realized I was still holding the frosting-laden knife. I stared at it, considered the amount left, licked it off, then tossed it into the bowl. “She wanted to see you. On her last night of being four,” I added. Beau, eyes narrowed.
Beau’s scowl flickered somewhat, giving me a glimpse of the guilt he should’ve been feeling.
“Fuck.” He seemed to mutter the word more to himself than me as he pinched the bridge of his nose, shoulders slumping. The change in his posture and energy was rapid, jarring. I could feel it, the shift in the tension in the room. It was no longer wired for battle, an argument.
He truly felt bad. Whatever my thoughts about him as a person, he was a good father. Trying his best. And his best was pretty damn good, tonight notwithstanding.
“The restaurant got busy.” He sighed. He looked tired. Weary. Like two years of sleepless nights, hospital visits, and unimaginable worry had drained his very life force, and he was only now letting it show.
He still looked good, though. His long-sleeved thermal clung tight to his muscles.
The jeans he wore weren’t tight, but they encased his powerful thighs perfectly.
His well-maintained beard added to the pissed-off lumberjack look.
All he needed to grace the cover of any romance novel was an axe and to take off his shirt.
But there were circles under his eyes, a weariness to him that marred his attractive exterior.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I got her a cake.” He nodded to a box on the counter I hadn’t noticed until then. He then motioned to mine. “Not a cake covered in insects, though.”
I folded my arms in defense, heat blooming in my cheeks. “Clara loves insects. We’ve been reading about forests and the creatures that live in them. Both mythical and real.”