Текст книги "A Different Blue "
Автор книги: Amy Harmon
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“There's some old furniture that was in the house when I bought the place.” Wilson jerked tarps off of various items in the farthest corner. “You're welcome to whatever you think you can use, and that washer and dryer are all hooked up. You could come down here and do your laundry, too.”
“How much, Wilson?” I demanded, interrupting his list of amenities. “How much a month?”
He considered, tilting his head to the side as if he had to put a lot of thought into it.
“It's small, and I can't rent it to a full-grown man. He'd feel like Gulliver living with the Lilliputians. I had actually decided to just leave it empty and let my mum use it when she visited. But she's too much of a snob, so that probably won't work.”
“How much, Wilson?”
“Four hundred a month would be too much probably.” He eyed me. “But I'll throw in your utilities to make it more fair.”
Four hundred was ridiculously cheap, and he knew it. The rent on Cheryl's apartment was $900 a month and it was a smelly dive, and that only included water and sewer. Gas and power were separate. I knew because there were times when I'd had to pay the power bill out of my paycheck from the cafe.
“Why are you doing this for me?” I demanded, shoving my hands into the pockets of my raggedy shorts.
Wilson sighed. “I'm really not doing anything, Blue. The $400 is more than sufficient, really. It will be nice for Mrs. Darwin to have another female in the building, too. My new tenant is a bloke. This way if she needs help with anything . . . female . . . then you will be here. It's perfect, really.” He was grasping at straws.
“Anything female? Like what?”
“Well, I don't know. Just bits and bobs . . . uh, female stuff that I wouldn't be able to assist her with.”
“I see,” I said, trying not to laugh. Euphoria was bubbling in my chest, and I wanted to do a celebratory dance around the basement. I was going to do it. I was going to move into that perfect little apartment all by myself. No smoke, no Cheryl, no beer bottles and sweaty men to trip over and avoid. I was moving out.
Chapter Fifteen
I found a table and two chairs, a loveseat with a matching recliner, and a bed frame that we brought up from the basement. Wilson insisted on having the sofa and recliner steam cleaned. He made up some excuse about Mrs. Darwin having already scheduled someone to come for some of her things, but Mrs. Darwin looked completey clueless when I mentioned it to her the day the steam cleaner arrived. Wilson also miraculously produced a brand new, double-sized mattress and box springs that he said had also been in the basement, though I hadn't seen them.
I presented him with a check for six hundred dollars the next day and told him I was on to him and to knock off the extras because I couldn't afford them, and I wasn't taking freebies. I loaded up my tools, discontinued my lease of the storage space, and gathered up my few belongings from Cheryl's. It was probably the easiest moving day in the history of moving days. Cheryl was a little surprised but not especially emotional. She seemed a little worried that she might not be able to pay all the bills that month but was considering possible roomates by the time I left. I wondered if I would see her again. I wrote down my new address and told her she had my number if she needed to reach me. She nodded, replying, “You too.” And that was all.
There was a huge dumpster at the edge of the complex, not far from where my truck was parked. I looked down at the garbage sacks filled with my clothes, and then back at the dumpster. Soon I wouldn't fit into most of my things, and they all stunk like Cheryl's apartment. I didn't want to bring them into my new place. I wanted to fling them high and wide, letting them land in a smelly heap on top of all the other trash. Tiffa had called me a few days before and told me she'd sold three more of my pieces. Together the pieces had gone for a thousand bucks. I could afford new clothes if I was thrifty. Tiffa said she would bring the check by Wilson's place when I was settled. She seemed to have all the details on my big move, which both surprised and pleased me. I liked that I warranted mention in Wilson's conversations.
I dug my boots and my shoes out of the bags, as well as a few other things I didn't want to part with, and piled them on the passenger seat. I couldn't replace everything. Then with great relish, I threw every last piece of clothing I owned away.
The very best thing about my apartment was the vent in the ceiling. If I stood beneath it, I could hear Wilson playing his cello. I don't know why the sound traveled the way it did, but once I discovered it, I placed the sagging recliner beneath the vent in the center of my tiny living room, and I would sit there in the dark each night, rocking and listening as Wilson's music whispered through the metal slats above me and wrapped me in sweetness. He would have laughed to see me there, my face upturned, a smile on my lips, as he made the strings sing without words. He played one particular melody every night, and I would wait for it, sighing with satisfaction when the familiar tune found its way to me. I didn't know the name. I had never heard it before, but every time he played it I felt like I had finally come home.
The weeks following my move were the happiest I had ever spent. I hit the thrift shops and the garage sales to furnish my new home and fill my new closet, and my wardrobe underwent a drastic transformation. Gone were the skin tights jeans and low cut tops. Gone were the short shorts and boob tubes. I found I liked color – lots of it – and dresses were cooler in Nevada than even shorts, so the majority of my purchases were sundresses in happy shades and cool fabrics, with the added bonus that there was room for my expanding midsection.
My home became my haven, a heaven, and I pinched myself everytime I returned. Even the fear of what the future would bring did not dim my pleasure in my new place. If I saw something a a garage sale that I could afford and it made me happy, I bought it. The result was a bright yellow vase with a chip in it, and an apple green throw on my couch, surrounded by red and yellow throw cushions Mrs Darwin didn't want anymore. Mismatched dishes in bright colors and throw rugs to match filled the cupboards and covered the floors.
I sanded down the table and chairs from the basement and painted them barn red. Then I placed three glass canisters with wooden stoppers in the center and filled one with red cinnamon bears, one with skittles, and one with chocolate kisses. And and no one ate them but me. I found a cuckoo clock with a bluebird that chirped on the hour and bronze Julius Caesar bookends for five dollars at a garage sale. The bookends made me laugh and think of Wilson, so I bought them. I built myself a book shelf – working with wood has its more practical advantages – painted it apple green to match my throw, and filled it with every book I owned and every book Jimmy had ever owned. My two Caesars guarded them seriously, keeping them aligned like obedient soldiers. My wooden snake and a carving Jimmy and I had done together sat atop it, along with the housewarming gift Wilson had surprised me with.
I had come home after my first big day of shopping to find a little package outside my door. It had a note attached and BLUE written across the envelope in bold letters. I unlocked the door and dumped my bags in the entryway, unable to contain my curiousity.
I opened the package first – I couldn't help myself. The card could wait. Inside was a little porcelain blackbird with bright blue eyes. It was dainty and well-formed, with fine detailing and sooty feathers. Standing in the palm of my hand, it was maybe four inches tall from head to foot. I placed it carefully on my countertop and tore open the card bearing my name.
Blue,
You never finished your story. The blackbird needed a safe place to land. I hope she's found it. Congratulations on your new nest.
Wilson
My personal history, the one I had tried and failed miserably to write, was included with the note. I read it once more, noting the way I'd left it, with the blackbird hurtling toward the earth, unable to right herself.
Once upon a time there was a little blackbird who was pushed from the nest, unwanted. Discarded. Then a Hawk found her and swooped her up and carried her away, giving her a home in his nest, teaching her to fly. But one day the Hawk didn't come home, and the bird was alone again, unwanted.
She wanted to fly away. But as she rose to the edge of the nest and looked out across the sky, she noticed how small her wings were, how weak. The sky was so big. Somewhere else was so far away. She felt trapped. She could fly away, but where would she go?
She was afraid because she knew she wasn't a hawk. And she wasn't a swan, a beautiful bird. She wasn't an eagle, worthy of awe. She was just a little blackbird.
She cowered in the nest hiding her head beneath her wings, wishing for rescue. But none came. The little blackbird knew she might be weak, and she might be small, but she had no choice. She had to try. She would fly away and never look back. With a deep breath, she spread her wings and pushed herself off into the wide blue sky. For a minute she flew, steady and soaring, but then she looked down. The ground below rose rapidly to meet her as she panicked and cartwheeled toward the earth.
I dug into my purse and found a pen. Sitting down at the table, I added a few more lines.
At the last minute, the bird looked upward, fixing her sights on the horizon. As she raised her head and straightened her wings, she began to fly instead of fall, the wind beneath her lifting her back into the sky.
It was silly and cheesy. But I felt better for having written it. It wasn't an ending, exactly, but maybe it was a new beginning. Then I folded up Wilson's letter and my story and tucked them into a copy of Dante's Inferno that I knew I would never read but that would forever make me think of harpies and history, heartache and holding on.
In the weeks that followed, I was suspended in a happy timelessness. My baby's birth was still far enough in the future that I could push thoughts of motherhood away, even as I began regular visits to the doctor, having made no real decision beyond acceptance. I had accepted that I would not be ending my pregnancy. I would be giving birth. I owned that responsibility. I claimed it. I was living on my own, working in the cafe, and selling my carvings. And I was happy. Beyond that, I just didn't know.
When Tiffa sold four more of my sculptures, I stopped placing them at the cafe, simply because I couldn't meet the demands of both and Tiffa could sell them for so much more. I apologized to Beverly, explaining my dilemma.
“That is wonderful, Blue!” she said firmly, resting her hand on my arm. “You have nothing to be sorry for! Don't apologize for success! Are you crazy? I might have to smack you up side the head, girl!” She squeezed me tightly and then pulled me into her office, shutting the door behind us.
“I found a roll of film when I was cleaning out some old filing cabinets the other day. I had it developed. I have something for you.” She pulled an 8 x 10 frame from a plastic Walmart sack and handed it to me. “I thought you would like this.”
I stared down at a picture of Jimmy and me, our eyes squinting against the sun, the cafe in the backdrop, Icas at our feet. I drank it in, speechless.
“I had just purchased a new camera and was taking shots of all my regulars that day. There were pictures of Dooby and Wayne having their morning coffee, same as they've done for the past thirty years. Barb and Shelly were waitressing for me back then, too. I have a cute one of them in their aprons keeping Joey company in the kitchen. Barb's gotten fat. So have I, for that matter.” Bev patted her stomach ruefully. “I forgot that she used to have a pretty cute little figure. I haven't shown her the pictures. Thought it might depress her. I don't know why this roll didn't get developed, but you know me, always moving a mile a minute.”
Beverly tapped the glass, pointing at an unsmiling Jimmy. “He turned up that day, out of the blue, which was the way it always was with Jimmy. I got lucky, I guess. I ordered him to pose for a picture. You were so cute, smiling and thrilled to get your picture taken. I remember thinking what an old codger Jimmy was. He wasn't thrilled about the picture at all, even though he didn't say much. He just made me promise that I wouldn't display it in the cafe. At least he put his arm around you. It's easy to see that you belonged together – just two funny peas in a pod, you and your daddy, huh?” Her words were like a slap, especially because they were so heartfelt.
“You think so?” I whispered around the memories that clogged my throat. “You think we belonged together, Bev?”
“No question about it, honey,” Bev declared, nodding her head as she spoke. I managed to smile, hugging the picture to my chest. I'd never shared the fact that Jimmy wasn't my father with Beverly. In fact, the only person who knew, besides Cheryl, was Wilson. The realization struck me. I'd told Wilson things I had never told another soul.
Bev cleared her throat and straightened her blouse. I could tell she wanted to say something more, and I waited, almost certain that she had noticed the changes in my figure.
“You're changing, Blue.” Her words echoed my thoughts almost verbatim, and I held the picture tighter, mentally shielding myself from the discomfort of the topic.
“You've softened up some, and it looks good on you. And I'm not talking about the weight you've put on.” She eyed me pointedly, pausing for effect, letting me know she was on to me. “I'm talking about your language and your appearance and your taste in men. I'm talking about that cute Sean Connery you're friendly with. I hope you keep him around. And I hope to hell you've told him about the baby, 'cause I'm guessing it ain't his.”
“It's not. We're not. I mean . . . we're not in a relationship like that,” I stammered. “But yes, he knows. He's been a good friend.” But Bev was more right than I wanted to admit. Something was happening to me, and it had everything to do with Darcy Wilson.
“That's good then.” Bev nodded to herself and straightened some papers on her desk. “I'm your friend too, Blue. I've been where you are, you know. I was even younger than you are now. I made it through. You will too.”
“Thank you. Bev. For the picture, and . . . everything else.” I turned to go, but she stopped me with a question.
“Are you keeping the baby, Blue?”
“Did you keep yours?” I asked, not willing to answer her.
“Yes . . . I did. I married the baby's father, had my son, and got divorced a year later. I raised my boy on my own, and it was hard. I'm not gonna lie.”
“Did you ever regret it?”
“Regret keeping my son? No. But getting pregnant? Getting married? Sure. But there's no way to avoid regret. Don't let anybody tell you different. Regret is just life's aftertaste. No matter what you choose, you're gonna wonder if you shoulda done things different. I didn't necessarily choose wrong. I just chose. And I lived with my choice, aftertaste and all. I like to think I gave my boy the best life I could, even if I wasn't perfect.” Bev shrugged and met my eyes steadily.
“Knowing you, I'm sure that's true, Bev,” I said sincerely.
“I hope so, Blue.”
Chapter Sixteen
“But the fourth of July is an American holiday.” I wrinkled my nose at Wilson. “What in the world are a bunch of Brits doing celebrating Independence Day?”
“Who do you think celebrates more when the child moves out, the parents or the kid? England was glad to see you all go, trust me. We threw a party when America declared their independence. Bravo! Now go, and don't let the door hit you in the arse!” Wilson growled.
“I'm not buying it. Does the Revolutionary war ring any bells, Mr. Professor?”
“All right then. Actually, Mum is in town, along with Alice and Peter and my three nephews. It's too blasted hot to barbeque, but Tiffa's flat has an amazing view of the strip – so the fireworks are brilliant – and best of all, there's a pool on the roof.”
It had averaged 118 degrees all week. Hot didn't even begin to describe it. The thought of a pool was almost too wonderful to contemplate. Then I thought of how I would look in a bathing suit and felt my enthusiasm wane.
“So why are you asking me? Where's Pamela?” I was proud of how innocent and conversational I sounded.
“I'm asking you because you informed me that you are out of wood, you are bored, you are hot, and you are cranky.” That much was certainly true. Wilson had come down to the basement to do some laundry and found me staring at my empty work bench mournfully, trying not to melt into a hot mess all over the concrete floor. I had neglected my wood gathering expeditions lately. The heat combined with pregnancy made me an absolute wuss. Now I was paying for it. A whole day off and nothing to sculpt.
“And Pamela's in Europe,” Wilson added, moving a load of his clothes to the dryer. Of course she was. People like Pamela hobnobbed all over Europe with their hobnobby friends. But if Pamela was gone . . .
“Okay,” I agreed. “Bring on the barbeque!”
Wilson's mother looked nothing like him. She was blonde, slim, and looked very much like an English aristocrat. She would look very at home in a wide brimmed hat watching a polo match and saying 'Good form!' I could see a resemblance to Tiffa in her willowy figure and wide blue eyes, and Alice looked exactly like her, only less serene. The lack of serenity might have been the result of the three little red-haired boys bouncing around her, over her, under her. Alice looked frazzled and irritated where her mother seemed cool as a cucumber. I wondered if Wilson favored his dad. If not for Tiffa's curly hair, I might think he was the product of a torrid affair. The thought made me snicker. Joanna Wilson did not do torrid affairs, I would almost bet my life on it. But she was crazy about Wilson, no doubt about it. She held his hand in hers while they talked, hung on every word he said, and patted his cheek countless times.
I hung back, awkward in the close family setting, and spent most of my time in the pool playing with the kids, throwing weighted rings to the bottom over and over again so they could retrieve them like tireless puppies. Tiffa joined me after a while, and the kids piled on her eagerly, little wet bodies scrambling to hold on as she giggled and dunked herself – and them – several times. I was surprised by her physical play and the obvious affection she had for her nephews. I wondered suddenly why she didn't have any kids of her own. She seemed much more suited to motherhood than poor Alice, who sipped an alcoholic beverage in a nearby pool chair and squealed every time one of the boys splashed too much. What had the woman been thinking having three children one after the other? Maybe, like me, she hadn't been thinking at all.
Tiffa had met and married Jack, a native Las Vegas boy, when he was completing his residency at the Cancer Institute her father had left England to work for. Tiffa could have stayed in England when her parents and Wilson moved to the States. Alice was married by that time and had remained in England. But instead, Tiffa had taken a job at a small art gallery on the upper east side of Salt Lake City, anxious to stay close to her family and gain new experience. She and Jack had been engaged and were married in a matter of six months. And six years later, they were still obviously giddy about eachother. They had moved to Vegas when Jack had taken a permanent position with the oncology unit at Desert Springs Hospital, and Tiffa had been hired as a curator for The Sheffield.
My eyes swung to Jack, tan and handsome in a pale blue polo and khaki cargo shorts, manning the barbeque like a true-blue American man. Alice's husband Peter wasn't contributing much to the preparation, but he hung close to Jack, listening to him talk and laughing at something Jack said. The two men seemed nothing alike, but I had liked them both immediately.
Peter was the nephew of an Earl – I was stunned to discover there were still Earls and such in England – and, according to Tiffa, richer than the Queen. I didn't know what Earls did, but apparently when your wealth rivals that of royalty, there is a lot to manage, which Peter was reportedly good at. Maybe that was what had attracted Alice, although he had other qualities that endeared him to me. He was homely while Alice gleamed, quiet while Alice scolded, and gentle while Alice seemed harsh. His smile was shy and his manner unassuming. And his hair was as red as that of his offspring. I sincerely hoped they were all wearing sunblock. I was naturally brown, and even I had slathered on the 50.
I climbled out of the pool and walked quickly to where I had removed my sundress. I had made Wilson stop at a Target on the way, and I had grabbed a boring blue one piece that drew as little attention as possible. I hadn't wanted to wear the black string bikini that had survived the dumpster heap six weeks ago. Somehow, pregnancy and string bikinis didn't appeal to me. Some women worked it, I supposed. To me it just looked tacky, like those horrible facebook pictures where expectant women bared all and their husbands kissed their bellies awkwardly. I was five months along, and my stomach was a neat little mound, but compared to what it had been, it felt gigantic. I wondered if it would be sleek and concave ever again.
Wilson and his mother were still deep in conversation, sitting on deck chairs under blue striped umbrellas as they had been every since we'd arrived. Wilson had introduced me to his mother as a “friend and a tenant” and had not embellished further. Joanna Wilson seemed to accept my status, though she had raised her eyebrows slightly and asked about Pamela when she thought I wasn't listening. Apparently, Joanna was good friends with Pamela's parents.
I tried to keep my back to them as I exited the pool, but when Joanna stopped talking midsentence, I knew I hadn't hid my stomach well enough. I pulled my sundress over my head and tried to pretend I hadn't noticed the telling pause. She resumed her conversation a half-beat later, as if she'd never stopped, but when I stole a peek at Wilson he was looking at me with an indecipherable expression on his face. He hadn't misunderstood her reaction either.
“Tiffa? These steaks are done, baby. Let's eat,” Jack called out to his wife, who was cackling like a witch, the littlest red-head on her back, the other two in full squirt gun assault.
“We're dining inside, aren't we?” Alice spoke up from under her umbrella. “I can't endure this heat for another instant.”
“We can do both,” Tiffa called, climbing out of the pool without relinquishing the little monkey on her back. “I had catering brought in, and everything is sorted in the flat. Jack will bring the steaks down. Anyone who wants to can come back up here and eat or stay inside where it's cool.”
Jack and Tiffa had also invited a handful of close friends to the get-together, which was a relief to me. The larger group made it easier to be inconspicuous. Most everyone made their way down the circular stairs that connected the roof to Jack and Tiffa's apartment. All of the penthouse flats, as Tiffa referred to them, had private stairs leading to the rooftop pool and gardens. I tried not to think about how much a place like that cost and marveled again at the differences between Wilson and me. He had received a trust when he turned twenty-one, which had enabled him to purchase the old mansion in Boulder City. I had no idea how much the trust was. I honestly didn't want to know, but from the off-hand way Tiffa talked, it was millions. Which might explain the little gasp from Joanna Wilson when she had seen my belly. Millions of dollars? Millions of reasons why she would want Wilson to steer clear of someone like me. I understood, I really did, but it didn't ease the embarrassment I felt for the rest of the afternoon.
The summer sun set late and brought a welcome respite from the desert sun. When the sun went down in Vegas, the heat wasn't just bearable, it was beautiful. I even liked the way it smelled, like the sun had stripped away all the grime and the desert oasis had been washed in fire. Indescribable, until you breathed it in. I didn't think any place in the world smelled like Vegas.
The party moved back up to the roof with the setting of the sun, and I basked in the dark heat, an icy sweet tea in my hand, eyes on the sky, waiting for the fireworks to start. Wilson had been at my side off and on through the evening, and neither of us commented on the awkward moment earlier by the pool. Joanne Wilson was gracious and polite to me whenever circumstances demanded, but I had caught her looking at me several times throughout the evening.
As the hour for the fireworks neared, I trudged back down the stairs for yet another trip to the bathroom – curse my pregnant bladder! – when I overheard Wilson and his mother talking in Tiffa's kitchen. The stairs from the pool ended in a tiled area – a large jacuzzi and a sauna sat just to the left, a laundry room and a large bathroom with an enormous shower to the right. Straight ahead, through a large stone archway lay the kitchen, and though I couldn't see Wilson or his mother, it was impossible not to hear them, especially when I played such a prominent role in the conversation. I stood motionless at the foot of the stairs, listening as Wilson denied any special feeling for me. His mother seemed aghast that he would bring me to an outing where so many would assume I was his girlfriend.
“Darcy. You can't be dating a girl who is expecting, darling.”
“I'm not dating her, Mum. Blue is my friend, and she lives in my building – that's all. I'm just looking out for her a bit. I invited her on a whim.”
“And what's with that name? Blue? It sounds like something Gwyneth Paltrow would pick out.”
“Mum,” Wilson sighed. “I could say the same about Darcy.”
“Darcy is a classical name,” Joanna Wilson sniffed but dropped the subject and resumed her original argument. “It's just a shame that pregnancy comes so easily to those who don't want it and then not at all for those who are desperate to be mothers.”
“I don't hear Tiffa complaining,” Wilson replied, sighing.
“You don't, do you? Is that why she's always got Henry in her arms even though he's three years old and more than capable of walking? Is that why I caught her watching Blue like her heart was broken?”
“That's not Blue's fault.”
“What is she going to do with her baby?” Joanna queried. “Where is the father?”
“I'm sure she plans to keep it. The father doesn't seem to be in the picture, not that it's any of my business, or any of your business, Mum.”
“It's just unseemly, Darcy. You'd think she would be a little embarrassed to accompany you here in her condition.” I felt her disapproval skewer me from my head to my red toenails. I wondered why she was taking my presence so personally. I hadn't known Tiffa wanted children or was unable to have them. I wondered now if it really was hard for her to have me around. The thought made my chest ache. I liked and admired Tiffa Snook. She was one of the nicest and most genuine people I had ever met. I wondered if it was an act, or if she felt the same way her mother did.
I slipped into the bathroom to avoid hearing more, knowing it would only make me feel worse. I had enough money to catch a cab, and although it was probably cowardly, I wasn't going back up on that roof or anywhere near Joanna Wilson, or any of the Wilson's for that matter.
I hadn't asked to come. I hadn't hung on Wilson or pretended a relationship or a status that didn't exist. I hadn't acted “unseemly,” whatever that meant. I used the bathroom and washed my hands, squaring my shoulders as I opened the door. Joanna Wilson stepped through the archway as I exited, and a flash of chagrin crossed her face before she continued up the stairs to the roof.
I stood in the foyer, frozen with indecision. I was tempted to leave and just shoot Wilson a text and tell him I was tired and didn't want to stay any longer. But my phone was in my purse, and my purse was still on the roof sitting next to the deck chair I had been parked in most of the evening.
“Blue!” Tiffa was descending the stairs with a sleeping Henry in her arms. “Have we worn you out, duck? You aren't the only one.” Henry was still in his swim trucks, and his head was a tousled mop of red, resting on her shoulder. She stroked it absentmindedly.
“I thought I would put Henry to bed. I think he's done for the night. Gavin and Aiden are still awake, although Aiden's starting to whinge and rub his eyes. I don't think it will be long before he's unconscious, too.”
“I'm am a little tired, I guess,” I took the excuse she offered. “I thought I'd get my purse and maybe catch a cab so Wilson doesn't have to leave yet.”
“Darcy won't want that. Plus, I think he's keen to get home. He was looking for you.” Tiffa moved through the archway toward a section of the apartment I hadn't yet seen. She called over her shoulder. “Come with me while I lay Henry down. I didn't get to visit with you today. Your pieces are selling so well we need to start strategizing about establishing a bigger presence – more pieces, larger pieces.” Tiffa talked as she walked, and I followed her obediently, postponing my departure.
Tiffa laid the little boy down, and he sprawled across the bed, dead to the world. He was completely limp as Tiffa removed his swim trunks. When she sat him up to put on his pajama top he bobbed and swayed, drunk with sleep. We both laughed, and Tiffa guided him back against the pillows, kissed him, and pulled a light blanket over his small form.
“Good night, sweet boy,” she whispered as she looked down at him.
