Page 162 of Blind Prophet

Those four words her father spoke on our wedding day echo in my head. Words I failed to honor.

On the way over, I asked Caroline what she’d told her parents. She said that she’d told her mom we were seeing each other again. That we’re taking things day by day.

Then I asked what she’d told them when we separated. “I told them I wasn’t happy and that it was better if we split.” She held my hand to soften the truth, but it still sliced. The pain didn’t make the fact any less true.

Take care of her.

I let her father down.

If she had ever needed money, I most certainly would’ve given it to her. I chose not to follow my father’s precedent. I never canceled her credit cards or closed down access to her bank accounts. I told my lawyer I wanted a fair prenuptial agreement, not that she ever saw a cent of that because we never filed for divorce. Neither of us did. But she didn’t need the money. Or if she did, she never asked for any. But her father wasn’t telling me to provide for her.

Where I failed is in taking care of his daughter’s heart. I dragged her into a harsh world filled with scrutiny and didn’t protect her. I left her to fend off the vultures while I pursued my dreams and familial responsibilities.

She said that she was suffocating. I should’ve been the one to give her oxygen, but instead, I allowed my world to smother her.

Anne Scott’s hug is quick, nothing like the long embrace she gave Caroline, but I’m off-kilter from her unexpected touch. When she steps back, her husband offers his hand.

“Dorian. Good to see you again, son.”

My throat tightens and doesn’t ease until Caroline’s fingers slip into my hand.

“Come on inside. It’s chilly,” Mrs. Scott says.

It’s actually warmer than in Telluride, but compared to Santa Barbara, the low forties here in Connecticut are chilly.

We crowd the foyer beneath an antique chandelier that’s hung there since Caroline was a child. The scent of cinnamon and pine mingles with something baking—cookies, maybe—creating that unmistakable fragrance of a family Christmas that I never experienced in my own childhood home.

“Oh, Mom, I love the decorations.” Our gazes connect, and an unspoken promise crosses between us.

Next year, we’ll have our own.

Mr. Scott bends for a suitcase handle, and I’m quick to jump in. “I can take these.”

Her father is in good shape, but he’s in his late seventies and doesn’t need to be hauling our luggage up the stairs.

“Oh, I have Caroline in her room,” Mrs. Scott calls up to my retreating back. “And…um…you can take the room across the hall.”

“Mom,” I hear Caroline say, and I’m glad my back is to them so they can’t see my grin. While it’s ludicrous that at forty-one I’d be sleeping across the hall from my wife, the rules are heartwarming in a way. Their insistence on following the rules they themselves grew up with makes me feel like I’m part of something—not just something, their family.

As I open my mouth to say it’s fine, Caroline’s voice rings out, “Mom, we’re still technically married. We never divorced.”

“I don’t see rings,” Mr. Scott says.

A touch of mirth coats his words, but nevertheless, when I reach the landing, I dutifully deposit Caroline’s suitcase in what was once her childhood bedroom. The lavender walls and daisy curtains I remember from our engagement visit are gone, replaced by tasteful beige and navy. Her collection of worn paperbacks and academic trophies, the physical evidence of who she was before me, is all packed away.

It strikes me how little I know about her formative years, how rarely I asked. Another failure to add to my list.

A creak on the stairs lets me know someone is coming.

“You know, they never come upstairs. This is just?—”

“Caroline, it’s fine.” I press my lips to her temple. “Your father’s right.” I lift her hand, my thumb brushing across her bare ring finger. The absence feels significant in a way it never has before.

“Do you still have your rings?” I ask quietly.

“Yes.” Her answer is immediate, certain.

I nod, studying her face. “I’ve never felt their absence quite so much.”

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