5. Conrad #2
Amethyst somehow kept up with all three conversations at once, laughing at exactly the right moments and asking questions in between. I caught Winnie smiling to herself as she rinsed the dishes, listening to the cheerful chaos behind us.
After their call, the kids and I built a blanket fort in the family room for the movie we were going to watch.
We asked Winnie to join us, but she insisted on finishing the kitchen cleanup.
Somehow, I had become the kind of father who willingly spent forty minutes engineering structural support for couch cushions.
Honestly? It was a great use of my time.
Inside the fort, Billie fell asleep halfway through a movie with her feet in my lap.
Bianca regaled us all about the director’s technique and why he chose that specific lighting for that specific scene, until CJ started talking over her, intent on telling a story about a haunted piano and the cursed orchestra that played in Carnegie Hall after it was closed to the public.
Winnie listened to all this with complete seriousness that made him beam from the inside out.
And every single time I looked at my children that week, they looked lighter.
Still grieving. Still complicated. Still themselves.
But lighter.
After everyone was finally upstairs for the night, Winnie stood by the door, searching for her keys in her purse.
I leaned against the wall watching her. Watching her had become a problem, not that she encouraged it in any way.
Actually, the opposite. Winnie remained utterly professional with me, jokes and riddles notwithstanding.
Her demeanor was warm but measured. Kind without inviting interpretation.
Unfortunately, that only made her more noticeable.
“You survived the first week,” I said.
“So did you.”
I shrugged. “That’s still up for debate.”
Her mouth curved slightly. “I believe,” she said, taking a step onto the porch, “you still owe me the answer to this morning’s riddle.”
I frowned immediately. “The one about what has many keys but can’t open a lock?”
“Yes.”
“I know this one.”
“Do you?”
“It’s a piano.”
“Correct.”
I was a grown man who had just successfully answered a riddle intended for children. I had no business feeling so absurdly pleased with myself, yet I did.
“Your reward,” she said solemnly, “is a truly terrible joke.”
I let out a long-suffering sigh.
“What kind of doctor is Dr. Pepper?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Why am I afraid to hear the answer?”
“A fizzician.”
The groan that came out of me was completely involuntary and completely unstoppable.
Winnie laughed softly.
And there it was again. That strange, impossible feeling. Warmth coupled with guilt. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed at a woman’s joke, the last time I’d simply enjoyed a moment between two adults.
Winnie took another step down the porch steps. “Well, I’m going to head home so you can get some sleep and be well-rested in the morning.”
I laughed. The sound escaped before I could stop it.
Winnie looked mildly concerned. “What’s so funny?”
“Sorry. It’s just...” I shook my head. “The idea of me being well-rested is genuinely funny.”
“You look exhausted.”
“That’s because I am exhausted.”
The professional distance in her gaze completely dissolved. “I can’t imagine how tired you must be.”
I leaned against one of the porch columns. “Honestly, I wouldn’t know how to function if I wasn’t operating some level of exhausted.”
Winnie smiled faintly. “That’s probably not healthy.”
“Oh, it’s definitely not healthy.”
“As long as we’re acknowledging it.”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “At this point, being tired feels like part of my personality.”
“That explains a great deal.” She glanced toward the house. “Do you at least sleep once you get the children settled?”
I snorted. “Not really.”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“I have insomnia.”
She leaned closer, as if something about the word insomnia had piqued her interest. “Really?”
“Some nights are better than others. Some nights I stare at the ceiling wondering whether I remembered to answer an email three days ago.”
“That sounds dreadful.”
I shrugged. “It gets old. That’s actually why I started running.”
“Running?”
“Most nights after the kids are asleep.” I gestured vaguely toward the neighborhood. “I make laps around the estate.”
That surprised her. “You run at night?”
“Almost every night.” I smiled. “Originally, it was just something to do when I couldn’t sleep. Now it’s kind of become my thing.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“More than I expected.” I thought about it for a second. “It clears my head. Gives me time to think. Half the time I solve work problems while I’m running.”
Winnie nodded thoughtfully. “That makes sense.”
“I come back with fewer emails haunting me.”
“That’s always an admirable goal.”
I laughed. “Exactly.”
For a moment, she looked almost hesitant, then she said, “I’m a night owl myself.”
“You are?”
She nodded. “I’ve never enjoyed sleeping early.”
“Insomnia?”
“No, not exactly.” A strange expression crossed her face, disappearing so quickly I thought I’d imagined it. “I simply tend to be awake when most people aren’t.”
I grinned. “Well, that’s convenient.”
“How so?”
“Now I know there’s at least one other person wandering around at ridiculous hours.”
A small laugh escaped her. “Perhaps.”
I looked out at the darkened grounds. “Honestly, night is my favorite part of the day.”
“Mine too.”
The answer came so quickly that we both paused.
Something about that made me smile. It was nice finding another person who understood. For some reason, talking about insomnia with Winnie was the easiest conversation I’d had all week.
Stepping onto the pathway, she paused and turned back to me. “Goodnight, Conrad.”
Not Mr. Lawrence anymore.
It shouldn’t have mattered. It was only a name. But somewhere along the way, I’d stopped hearing it. Coming from her, it sounded strangely personal. And I didn’t hate it.
“Goodnight, Winnie.”
I watched her walk down the drive, until her black coat had disappeared in the dark. Black clouds had gathered overhead, making the night that much darker.
Next week’s weather report had mentioned storms crossing from Europe because of unusual pressure systems, so we had to prepare ourselves for heavy rain.
From the looks of it, though, the storm might be coming before that.
I hoped it didn’t. The kids wanted to spend the weekend outside, and honestly, I was looking forward to getting some sun.
The house had finally gone quiet, and I made the rounds through it, checking that the windows and doors were closed and locked.
I peeked into my children’s room as I checked the upstairs.
Billie was sprawled sideways over her bed, one sock missing.
I pulled her blanket over her, then kissed the top of her before leaving the door ajar.
Bianca had fallen asleep with a book open on her chest, so I used her blue ribbon to mark her place, then turned off her bedside lamp.
CJ slept soundly, a pillow tucked under his arm.
He was snoring softly, which he’d later deny with great conviction.
Nobody needed anything from me. It was a miracle.
Downstairs in the mud room, I put on my running shoes and stepped outside into the brisk night air.
I hadn’t always been a runner. For most of my adult life, I’d maintained what I generously referred to as “functional dad fitness.” I wasn’t unhealthy, but I wasn’t particularly athletic, either.
I’d spent most of my days sitting in meetings and answering emails.
I used to convince myself that carrying groceries counted as exercise.
Then Jade died.
After that, sleeping became complicated. Some nights I couldn’t stop thinking. Some nights I couldn’t stop feeling. Other nights I couldn’t sit still, so I’d started running.
A lap around the estate. Then two. Then three.
Eventually, it became part of my routine.
One hour every evening when nobody needed me to solve anything.
One hour where the only thing I had to focus on was putting one foot in front of the other.
Now, I actually looked forward to it. My shoulders felt looser.
My legs felt more powerful. Everything felt stronger, including parts of me I hadn’t realized needed rebuilding.
I started down the familiar route, settling into an easy pace. The estate roads curved through old trees and sprawling properties. Most of the houses were dark and quiet this time of night.
I quickly fell into a rhythm, where I focused on my breathing and movement. Usually, this was the point where my brain tried to sort through work problems like budget issues or staffing concerns, or when I tried to work out the perfect wording for a particularly difficult email I had to send.