Chapter 7
Marlene placed her phone on the desk.
Raymond saw the message.
He stopped talking.
From the back office, his wife, Donna, appeared.
She had handled the company’s accounting for twenty years.
“What message?”
Raymond rubbed both hands over his face.
“Donna.”
“What did you do?”
He began with excuses.
Insurance.
Contracts.
Eleven employees.
A lifetime building the company from nothing.
Donna listened.
Then she placed a legal pad in front of him.
“Write what actually happened.”
He looked at her.
“Now.”
Raymond’s amended statement did not erase what he had done.
But it mattered.
He admitted Hannah had remained inside the office within several feet of Ellie.
He admitted Marlene had told him that before he filed the report.
He admitted the language suggesting a personal relationship between Hannah and Ethan was speculation.
Donna took over daily operations shortly afterward.
Raymond stepped away.
No eleven employees were fired.
In February, Hannah received a letter.
She opened it on the porch with Ellie on her hip.
The investigation was closed.
No finding of neglect.
Hannah read the paragraph three times.
Then she sat on the cold front step and cried.
Not graceful tears.
Not quiet ones.
Everything she had held inside since Christmas Eve came out at once.
Ellie watched her with serious concern.
Then she pushed one mitten against Hannah’s cheek.
Hannah laughed through the tears.
“Yeah. Mama’s okay.”
Two days later Walter Fletcher called.
“When can you start?”
“Monday.”
“Eight thirty.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Bring your grandfather’s tools.”
Hannah smiled.
“I always do.”
One thing remained unfinished.
The music box.
After Ethan stopped coming, Hannah repaired the cracked hinge herself.
She polished the walnut.
She adjusted the spring.
Then one February evening, she placed it carefully in a paper bag and returned to Whitmore Confections.
Marlene let her upstairs.
“He’s usually in that conference room after seven,” she whispered.
“Why?”
Marlene shrugged.
“Same reason some people sit in church after everybody leaves, I guess.”
The fourth floor smelled like peppermint.
The conference room was dark.
Ethan sat near the window.
Exactly where he had been on Christmas Eve.
Hannah entered.
He turned.
For several seconds neither spoke.
She placed the music box on the table.
“It’s finished.”
His eyes moved to it.
“The state closed the case,” she said.
“I heard.”
“From who?”
“My assistant tracks legal matters involving contractors.”
Hannah gave him a look.
“I didn’t interfere.”
“I know.”
That mattered.
She pushed the box toward him.
Ethan placed both hands around it but did not lift the lid.
Hannah sat across from him.
“Avery was your daughter.”
It wasn’t a question.
Ethan closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
Silence filled the room.
“She was supposed to be born in January.”
His voice had changed.
No CEO.
No careful public speaker.
Just a man trying to force words past something that had been blocking his throat for years.
“My wife, Rachel, was thirty-four weeks pregnant when she noticed Avery hadn’t moved all morning.”
Hannah didn’t speak.
“We went to the hospital.”
Ethan stared at the wooden box.
“The doctor couldn’t find a heartbeat.”
Hannah’s chest tightened.
“Avery was born the next day.”
He swallowed.
“She had Rachel’s mouth.”
His eyes filled.
“I went back to work Monday.”
“Monday?”
“I told everybody I needed structure. Responsibility. Normalcy.”
He gave a small, bitter laugh.
“What I needed was to feel nothing.”
“What happened to Rachel?”
“She grieved.”
“And you?”
“I worked.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“I know.”
He looked toward the city.
“She begged me to talk about Avery. I couldn’t. Every time she said her name, it felt like somebody was reopening my chest.”
“So you stopped saying it.”
“I never started.”
Hannah said nothing.
“A year later Rachel left. The last thing she said before closing the door was, ‘You buried both of us with her.’”
His hand rested on the box.
“I bought this for Avery’s nursery. It arrived the week before we lost her.”
“Silent Night.”
He nodded.
“I wound it once.”
“How far did it play?”
“Halfway.”
“Then what?”
“I stopped it.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Hannah did.
But she let him discover it.
Ethan looked at the box for a long time.
“Christmas Eve,” he said, “when I saw Ellie in my office…”
His voice cracked.
“I was angry at first.”
“At me?”
“At life.”
Hannah waited.
“You were singing to her like you had nothing, but somehow she had everything she needed.”
Hannah shook her head.
“You saw forty minutes of my life.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t see me crying over utility bills. Or getting angry because she wouldn’t sleep. Or counting formula scoops because payday was two days away.”
“I know that too.”
“No, you don’t.”
Ethan nodded.
“You’re right.”
That answer softened something in her.
“I watched you,” he said, “because for the first time in four years, there was a baby near that music box.”
He looked down.
“And then Ellie couldn’t breathe.”
Hannah understood.
“That’s why you froze when she grabbed your hand.”
“Yes.”
“She isn’t Avery.”
“I know.”
“And I’m not Rachel.”
“I know.”
“And you can’t save us to make up for losing them.”
May you like
Ethan’s eyes met hers.
“I know that now.”
