Chapter 3 - CELESTE BEFORE THE WEDDING
I met Celeste Marlow fourteen months after Mara died.
She was not twenty-two.
Not naive.
Not impressed by my money in the obvious way.
She ran development projects for a luxury hotel group and had negotiated against one of my companies twice.
She won one argument.
I remembered her.
We met again at a charity board dinner.
She said:
“You look less terrifying when you’re holding a juice box.”
Eva was asleep against my shoulder.
I laughed.
That was the beginning.
Celeste did not move into the residence for eight months.
I insisted on slow.
So did Eva’s therapist, Dr. Helena Ward.
Celeste agreed.
She stayed weekends.
Then three nights.
Then more.
Eva liked her.
Not instantly.
Gradually.
Celeste knew how to braid hair badly enough to make Eva laugh.
She built towers.
She hated peas.
Eva hated peas.
Alliance.
When I proposed, Eva was in the room.
I did not ask her permission.
Children should not be made responsible for adult marriage.
But I told her:
“Celeste and Daddy are getting married.”
Eva asked:
“Does Celeste sleep here?”
“More often.”
“Does Mommy come?”
Silence.
Celeste answered before I could.
“Mommy is always in your heart.”
A good sentence.
Then Eva said:
“And picture.”
Celeste smiled.
“And picture.”
I remembered that later.
May you like
Promises do not always break loudly.
Sometimes they erode under comparison.
