Page 25 of Courting Catherine
“And it’s our past.” She rose, as well. When that light came into Suzanna’s eyes, even C.C. knew better than to argue. “I know how much the house means to you, to all of us. Coming back here after Bax—after things didn’t work out,” Suzanna said carefully, “helped keep me sane. Every time I watch Alex or Jenny slide down the banister, I remember doing it myself. I see Mama sitting here at the piano, hear Papa telling stories in front of the fire.”
“Then how can you even think of selling?”
“Because I learned to face realities, however unpleasant.” She lifted a hand to C.C.’s cheek. Only five years separated them. Sometimes Suzanna felt it was fifty. “Sometimes things happen to you, or around you, that you just can’t control. When that happens, you gather up what’s important in your life, and go on.”
“But the house is important.”
“How much longer do you really think we can hang on?”
“We could sell the lithographs, the Limoges, a few other things.”
“And drag out the unhappiness.” She knew entirely too much about that. “If it’s time to let go, I think we should let go with some dignity.”
“Then you’ve already made up your mind.”
“No.” Suzanna sighed and sat again. “Every time I think I have, I change it. Before dinner, the children and I walked along the cliffs.” Eyes dreamy, she stared through the darkened window. “When I stand there, looking out over the bay, I feel something, something so incredible, it breaks my heart. I don’t know what’s right, C.C. I don’t know what’s best. But I’m afraid I know what has to be done.”
“It hurts.”
“I know.”
C.C. sat beside her, rested her head on Suzanna’s shoulder. “Maybe there’ll be a miracle.”
Trent watched them from the darkened hallway. He wished he hadn’t heard them. He wished he didn’t care. But he had heard, and for reasons he didn’t choose to explore, he did care. Quietly he went back up the stairs.
“Children,” Coco said with what she was certain was the last of her sanity, “why don’t you read a nice book?”
“I want to play war.” Alex swished an imaginary saber through the air. “Death to the last man.”
And the child was only six, Coco thought. What would he be in ten years’ time? “Crayons,” she said hopefully, cursing rainy Saturday afternoons. “Why don’t you both draw beautiful pictures? We can hang them on the refrigerator, like an art show.”
“Baby stuff,” Jenny said, a cynic at five. She hefted an invisible laser rifle and fired. “Z-z-zap! You’re zapped, Alex, and totally disengrated.”
“Disintegrated, dummy, and I am not either. I threw up my force field.”
“Nuh-uh.”
They eyed each other with the mutual dislike only siblings can feel after being cooped up on a Saturday. By tacit agreement, they switched to hand-to-hand combat. As they wrestled over the faded Aubusson carpet, Coco cast her gaze to the ceiling.
At least the match was taking place in Alex’s room, so little harm could be done. She was tempted to go out and close the door, leaving them to finish up themselves, but she was, after all, responsible.
“Someone’s going to get hurt,” she began, in the age-old refrain of adult to child. “Remember what happened last week when Jenny gave you a bloody nose, Alex?”
“She did not.” Masculine pride rose to the forefront as he struggled to pin his agile sister to the mat.
“Did too, did too,” she chanted, hoping to do so again. She scissored her quick little legs over him.
“Excuse me,” Trent said from the doorway. “I seem to be interrupting.”
“Not at all.” Coco fluffed her hair. “Just some youthful high spirits. Children, say hello to Mr. St. James.”
“’Lo,” Alex said as he struggled to get his sister into a headlock.
Trent’s answering grin struck Coco with inspiration. “Trenton, might I ask you a favor?”
“Of course.”
“All the girls are working today, as you know, and I have just one or two quick, little errands to run. Would you mind terribly keeping an eye on the children for a short time?”
