Chapter 5
Simeon tapped his fingers impatiently on the counter at the flower shop. The cashier who was ringing up his purchase—a giant bouquet of soft tangerine-colored hibiscus—gave him a quelling look, and he stopped tapping with a mumbled sorry.
“Apology or special occasion?” the cashier asked.
“Uh.” A fresh wave of shame went through Simeon.
The flowers were an apology for last night. He still couldn’t believe he’d taken Abigail’s computer and read her book without her permission. If a client had ever come to him, asking if they should snoop on their spouse’s computer, he would have told them in no uncertain terms that it was a terrible idea. And he’d told himself the same thing, over and over again, lying in bed next to his wife.
But he’d had to know. And she refused to talk to him.
It had seemed like the only way.
In the light of day, he could see that statement for what it was—a baseless excuse for his actions. But somehow, last night, it had seemed justifiable.
He realized suddenly that the cashier was still waiting for an answer.
“Something like that,” he said as he passed her his credit card.
She raised an eyebrow, as if waiting for him to elaborate. But he couldn’t.
Yes, the flowers were an apology, first and foremost. But he also hoped they’d mark a brand-new special occasion. A chance for them to move forward. He’d met with new clients today who had just embarked on the adoption process, and the longer he’d talked to them, the more convinced Simeon had become that this could be the right path for him and Abigail too.
Now all he had to do was convince her.
He’d broached the topic a few times before, in passing, but she’d always blown him off.
But he hadn’t had information then. Hadn’t had a plan. Now he did.
Ideally, he’d wait a little longer to talk to her about it—give her a little more time to forgive him for last night—but the adoption agency was having an orientation meeting in two days, and he didn’t want them to miss it. This was just what Abigail needed to pull her out of her depression, just what their marriage needed to move forward.
What would you tell a client who thought bringing a child into the equation would solve all their problems?
Simeon ignored the question as he took his credit card back, thanked the cashier, and headed for the door. In most cases, adding a child wouldn’t solve the problem—but when the lack of a child was the problem . . . Well, maybe it would.
And if there are other problems? Deeper problems?
Again, Simeon ignored the counseling questions that were always rolling through his brain. He and Abigail had been fine until the first miscarriage. And they would be fine again once they’d gotten past all of this.
He jumped into the SUV and tucked the flowers carefully into the passenger seat, then started toward home. As he passed the Book Den, he considered stopping and surprising Abigail with the flowers.
But he’d left work early so he could make her a nice dinner. He wanted everything to be perfect. So he kept driving.
“What are you still doing here?” Ruth’s sleek white hair swished around her shoulders as she bustled to the counter where Abigail was dusting the bookmark display. “Your shift ended twenty minutes ago.”
Abigail concentrated on the bookmarks, not meeting her boss’s eyes. “You were busy in the back, and we had a few customers come in, so I thought I’d stay until they were done.”
Ruth glanced around the empty store and raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize we had invisible customers today.”
“Don’t worry. I clocked out already.”
Ruth waved a hand covered in rings at her. “I’m not worried about paying you, dear. I just don’t think a dusty, musty bookshop is the place for a young person like you to spend her evenings. Especially a young person with such a handsome and charming husband waiting for her at home.”
Abigail smiled tightly. She wasn’t sure if she was more amused that Ruth had called the bright, cheerful bookstore musty and dusty or that she’d called Abigail young when she was almost thirty-three.
One thing Ruth was right about, though—her husband was handsome and charming. But Abigail highly doubted he was waiting at home for her. As far as she knew, he’d never come to bed last night—and he’d been gone when she woke. This time he hadn’t left a note.
She couldn’t imagine what he must be thinking after what he’d read last night. Or, actually, she could imagine, but every time she did, it made her feel like she was going to throw up.
She fully expected him to hand her divorce papers the moment she walked in the door.
“All right. No more stalling.” Ruth plucked the dust rag out of Abigail’s hand. “Off you go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Abigail nodded and moved behind the counter to collect her purse. There was no point in arguing with Ruth. She may be the kindest woman Abigail had ever met. But she was also the stubbornest.
Abigail made her way through the back room lined in boxes and boxes of books. Curse this place for giving her the notion that she could—that she should—write her own story. She kicked at a box, not hard enough to do any damage but just hard enough to remind herself of the pain words could inflict.
She pushed the back door open, her eyes accidentally going to the riverwalk crowded with couples and families. She averted her gaze, concentrating on her shoes as she strode toward her car.
The last time she and Simeon had strolled here was a few weeks after they’d learned they were expecting for the first time. They’d walked along, making giddy plans for the nursery, for the baby’s name, even for the tire swing Simeon would hang and the sandbox they’d make. But as they’d walked, she’d started to feel cramping. She hadn’t said anything, and by the time they got home, she’d felt better. Until she’d woken up the next morning to find she was bleeding.
Simeon had been wonderful. He’d kept her calm, taken her to the doctor. He’d held her hand through the appointment and stroked her back through the tears. He’d brought her home and tucked her into bed and gotten her pie from Daisy’s.
And all she’d given him was more grief and heartache.
The sweet scent of pastry drifted toward her on the light breeze, but she dropped into her car with a heavy sigh. Even pie wouldn’t fix what she’d broken now.
She made the short drive home on autopilot, not snapping out of it until she pulled onto their street and spotted Simeon’s car parked on the road.
Because he didn’t plan to stay?
Abigail’s heart started to whomp against her chest, and she gripped the steering wheel tighter as she turned into the driveway. She tried to order herself to relax. He had probably parked there so she could put her car in the garage, just like he always did when he got home before her.
Only that didn’t explain what he was doing home early. He was supposed to have appointments until six tonight.
Maybe his clients had canceled.
Or maybe he was packing up her stuff even now.
Abigail pulled into the garage and turned off her car. But she couldn’t bring herself to go inside. Nausea turned her stomach upside-down, and she pressed both hands to it. She forced herself to take a few deep breaths, until she could at least stand without feeling like she was going to vomit, then made her way slowly to the door that led to the kitchen.
“Hey, there.” Simeon looked up from the stove with a smile the moment she stepped through the laundry room that doubled as a mudroom—which they’d thought would be such a perfect place for kids to take off their dirty shoes—and into the kitchen.
Abigail blinked as her heart shifted from a painful thrum to a surprised one. She wasn’t sure which was harder to bear.
“What are you doing?” She inhaled as the scent of the food hit her. “Is that enchiladas verdes?” She took a step into the room, her stomach suddenly rumbling.
“It sure is.” He scooped the enchiladas onto a serving platter, then stirred the sauce that was still on the stove and wiped his hands on the “Hot Stuff Coming Through” apron she’d bought him their first Christmas.
He pulled the apron off and laid it on the counter, then swept a big bouquet of flowers she hadn’t noticed off the table and into his arms. He crossed the room and held them out to her.
“What are these for?” She must have been in shock because she couldn’t even lift her arms to take them.
Simeon’s face fell. “Please, Abigail. You have to know how sorry I am about last night. Checking your computer was absolutely unacceptable. No excuse. It was the worst thing I’ve ever done.”
Abigail rubbed at her forehead, not sure if she should laugh or cry. Because she was absolutely certain it really was the worst thing he’d ever done. And in comparison to the things she’d done . . .
“Can you forgive me?” Simeon was still holding out the flowers, his expression torn between hope and fear.
“I forgive you.” Abigail took the flowers, and Simeon let out a breath.
Abigail’s stomach started up its anxious churning again as she turned around and retreated into the laundry room to hunt down a vase big enough to hold the bouquet. She buried her nose in the flowers, which were the same exact shade as the first flowers he’d ever bought her from the market in Ecuador. Their sweet scent brought a sudden prickle of tears to her eyes. Simeon shouldn’t be the one apologizing. She should.
“About what you read,” she called as she reached for a vase on the top shelf of the cabinet over the dryer. She half hoped he wouldn’t hear her from the other room.
“Yeah?” Simeon called back.
Abigail’s fingers closed around the lip of the vase, but her arm jerked before she could get a good grip on it. She tried to catch it on its way down, but she only managed to bobble it twice before it hit the floor with a crash.
“Are you all right?” Simeon was at her side before she could fully register the field of shattered glass that surrounded her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, the tears that had prickled now falling openly.
“Hey, it’s okay.” Simeon took her arm and steered her through the glass into the kitchen. “It’s only a vase.”
She shook her head, but she couldn’t bring herself to say that wasn’t what she was sorry for.
“I’ll clean it up,” she choked out, swiping at the ridiculous tears she couldn’t seem to go a day without shedding.
“I’ve got this,” Simeon soothed. “You go sit down. I’ll be right there.”
Numbly, Abigail made her way to the dining room table. Simeon had set it with the china his parents had given them for their wedding. Two unlit candles stood in the center of the table, and soft music played in the background. Simeon had really gone all out for this apology.
She sniffed.
She had to tell him. He’d read it all anyway. It was only a matter of time before he confronted her. She couldn’t fathom why he hadn’t already—except maybe that he felt guilty for the way he’d learned about it. But even that was her fault. She was the one who’d kept her past a secret from the beginning.
“All better.” Simeon smiled as he hurried back into the room. He washed his hands, then moved to the stove. He stirred the sauce once more, then turned the burner off and poured the sauce over the enchiladas. He carried the platter to the table and scooped a large serving onto her plate. “I hope you’re hungry.”
Abigail pushed her cheeks into a smile, though her appetite had completely fled.
Simeon added an enchilada to his own plate. “Oh. I forgot to light the candles.” He pushed his chair back to get up.
“Simeon.” His name came out as more of a gasp.
He paused, half standing. “What’s wrong?”
“Why aren’t you saying anything about what you read last night?”
Now it was out there. They’d get this over with. He’d say he couldn’t be with her anymore, and she’d—
Well, she had no idea what she would do.
He sat back down. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to.”
She stared at her food, nausea swimming up her throat. Of course she didn’t want him to. But there was no point in avoiding it any longer.
“Do you hate me?” She barely pushed the whisper out.
“Hate you?” Simeon sounded shocked, and Abigail had to look up. “Why would I hate you?”
He looked so sincere that Abigail almost couldn’t make herself say the next words. “Because I never told you. Because I—”
“I admit I was a little hurt that you never told me. But I understand why you didn’t.”
“You do?” Abigail took a sip of water. It didn’t even seem possible. She knew he counseled people who probably told him big, devastating things about their past every day. But she was his wife. Was he really okay with her having a past like that?
“Of course I do. Writing a novel is a pretty big thing. You probably wanted to wait until you were done to tell me, right?” Simeon smiled, as if his conclusion was the only possibility.
Abigail nodded mutely. He understood why she hadn’t told him she was writing a novel. He thought she’d made the whole story up.
A strange mix of relief and dread went through her. He didn’t know the truth. Her secret was safe. But also, he didn’t know the truth. Which meant she still had to hold onto this secret all on her own.
“So—” Simeon passed her a basket of tortilla chips she hadn’t noticed. “How long have you been working on this book?”
“A few weeks,” she mumbled as she picked up her fork. “It was a silly thing to start.”
“It’s not silly.” Simeon reached across the table, touching his hand to the back of hers. The contact was like a thousand daggers, reminding her of her lies.
“It’s actually really good,” Simeon added. “I was impressed by your psychological insights into your characters. Where did you get the idea?”
Abigail pulled her hand back, pretending to be interested in cutting her enchilada. Now was her chance to tell him. To break free of this lie once and for all. “Uh. Books, movies. You know.”
“Well, it’s very realistic. I can tell you did your research.”
Abigail shrugged. “Should we pray?” Not that she had any appetite. Or any desire to talk to God. But it was the only way to get out of this conversation.
“Of course.” Simeon’s smile was so hopeful that Abigail had to bow her head and close her eyes.
“Dear Lord,” Simeon started. But Abigail’s thoughts drifted to the words of her story. The words Simeon thought she had made up from some deep creative well. Not from her own life.
“In Jesus’ name we pray, Amen.”
Abigail startled as Simeon ended the prayer. “Amen,” she mumbled, though she had no idea what he’d prayed for. Hopefully nothing that had anything to do with her. Because there was no way God would listen now.
Simeon’s food was almost gone and still he hadn’t brought up adoption.
Although Abigail had said she forgave him, she still seemed rather subdued. She’d hardly touched her enchilada, and every time he brought up a topic, she seemed to barely notice what he was talking about, only mumbling a word or two here and there.
The worst part was, he couldn’t blame her for still being upset. What he’d suspected her of—it was terrible.
So maybe he should wait. Give her time to get over this. The adoption agency’s website had said they held orientation meetings every three months. That wasn’t terribly long to wait. But something told Simeon it was too long. He couldn’t guarantee their marriage would make it another three months if something didn’t change.
He pushed his plate to the side. “Ready for dessert?”
Abigail looked up from her half-eaten enchilada with what might have been the closest thing he’d seen to a real smile from her in months. “Is it chocolate?”
“Of course.” He stood and cleared their plates, then pulled the French silk pie out of the refrigerator.
He cut them each a large slice and returned to the table, watching as Abigail slid her fork through the fluffy filling and lifted it to her mouth.
“It’s good.” This time her smile was really real, and it gave Simeon courage.
“There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.” He cut off his own bite of pie, mostly to give himself something to concentrate on, other than the nerves suddenly flaring through his chest.
Abigail stopped with her fork halfway to her mouth, her eyes going wide and scared.
“Relax.” Simeon laughed, though he couldn’t keep himself from sounding as terrified as she looked. “It’s something good.”
But her expression didn’t change, and she didn’t bring the pie to her lips.
Well, he’d made the opening. Now he had to go for it. “I think we should consider adopting.” The words came out in a rush, sucking all the air right out with them, but he couldn’t seem to breathe back in.
Abigail’s expression shifted from fear to surprise, and it struck Simeon how similar the two expressions could be. She set down her fork with its uneaten piece of pie. “Adopting?” she finally asked.
At last Simeon could inhale again. She hadn’t flat-out refused. At least not yet.
“I have some clients who just started the process. It begins with an orientation meeting. It’s purely informational. No obligation.” He reached across the table for her hand that still clutched the fork, wrapping his fingers around hers. “It’s this Thursday, which I know is short notice. But it can’t hurt to go, right? Just to find out what the process involves?”
Abigail stared at their joined hands but didn’t say anything.
“Please, Abigail.” He reached to take her other hand as well. “This could be the answer to our prayers.”
Abigail kept her head bowed, and Simeon’s heart sank slowly through his middle, down his legs, into his feet.
He’d been so sure this was the answer to saving their marriage. But if she wasn’t willing to at least go to the meeting . . .
“Will you at least think about it?” he whispered.
She looked up slowly. “I’ll go.”
“You’ll . . .” Before he could even finish the thought, he’d pulled his hands back and jumped up so fast his chair hit the wall. But he didn’t care.
He raced around the table and engulfed her in his arms. She gasped, and he was afraid for a second that she was going to pull away. But then her arms were around his back, and she was crying into his shirt.
“Shh.” He held her tighter and stroked her hair. “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to be okay.” For the first time in a long time, he felt like it was true.
After a few moments, he loosened his grip and gently leaned back so he could wipe the tears off her face.
“These are good tears, right? You’re happy?”
She nodded.
“Good. Me too.” His fingers stilled on her face, and his eyes went to her lips. Slowly, he leaned closer, keeping his eyes on hers. Instead of turning away and offering her cheek as she had so many times over the past months, she leaned into him.
Simeon closed his eyes and brought his lips to hers, gently, questioningly. Abigail sighed as her lips responded and her arms wrapped around his neck. Simeon pulled her in closer, soaking up her fruity-floral scent. It had been so very long since they’d shared a real kiss, and he wanted to keep her here, wrapped up in his arms, forever.
But after a few minutes, he eased himself out of her embrace. Since the last miscarriage, she hadn’t been ready for more—and he was willing to wait as long as she needed.
“That was nice,” he murmured, stroking a hand over her cheek.
She nodded, and Simeon smiled to see that he’d left her breathless.
“I’m going to go register us for the orientation, to make sure we get a spot.” He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to it, then stood and headed for the stairs.
“Man alive.” He stopped and grinned over his shoulder at her. “This is going to be great.”