Chapter Forty-eight
Martina
I come out of the kitchen holding the birthday cake and bring it to the dining room table where Dallas and Charlie are waiting.
Dallas gives me a sad, yet heartwarming smile.
He moved into my rental a week after Charlie asked him to read him a book. And for the past month, Dallas has effectively stepped into the role of father. Though he works at the winery most days, he sometimes drops Charlie off at preschool. He takes him to the park. And he’s teaching him how to play baseball, convinced we’ll be raising the next breakout star of the New York Nighthawks.
I set the cake in front of Dallas and hand him a lighter.
Charlie knows the drill. He’s sat through many birthdays like this in his four years. For the grandma and grandpa he never knew, the sister he can’t really remember, and a father he only had for three short years.
This one is different however, and even if Asher and Bug lived closer, they still wouldn’t be here. This one is just for us.
With misty eyes, Dallas lights the candle on the cake. “Happy birthday, Phoebe.”
“Happy birthday,” I repeat, as does Charlie.
There’s a photo of Phoebe across the table. Next to it is the vase she made, filled with her favorite flowers. In the picture, she looks young and vibrant, and she’s resting a hand on her pregnant belly. I know it’s one of his favorites.
Out of respect to me, Dallas doesn’t display photos of her on our walls. He keeps them in a special drawer in the room that has become his office. I don’t begrudge him that. He had a whole other life before Charlie and me. One that deserves to be remembered, recognized, and revered.
Dallas has opened up about her to me more and more over the past four months. But today… today I get to hear about everything. How old she was when her family moved to Calloway Creek. How she finally gave in and agreed to date him when they were seventeen. How she loved being pregnant and swore they would have a dozen kids.
As the three of us eat cake and Charlie and I patiently listen to Dallas recall every happy memory, I realize there’s no jealousy. No bitterness toward a past he still holds dear. No resentment over the woman who had his heart for more than half his life.
Later, after Charlie is in bed and I’m cleaning up, I pick up the photo of Phoebe. “You must have been one heck of a woman to deserve the love of a man like him.”
Arms wrap around me from behind. “How in the hell did I get so lucky to have not one, but two amazing, selfless women in my life?”
In bed that night, we lay close and hold hands. But we don’t make love. And that’s okay. This is Phoebe’s day, not mine. I get him the other three hundred and sixty-four days a year.
And that’s enough.