“Mommy says mine are storm eyes.”
I looked up at Rachel. She was watching us with a face I couldn’t read.
“My mother used to say the same thing about mine,” I told Lily.
She brightened. “Do storms have birthdays?”
Noah sighed. “Storms don’t have cake.”
Sophie said, “Everything should have cake.”
And there it was—life, stubborn and sweet, going on in the middle of ruin.
Rachel checked her watch. “They need lunch soon.”
“Come to my apartment,” I said before fear could stop me. “We can compare the letters. We can figure out what happened.”
Her expression closed. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“I understand. Then a café. Anywhere public.”
She looked at the children, then at me. “There’s a small place on Spruce with a back table. They know us there.”
“Okay.”
She hesitated. “You should call Noelle.”
The sound of my fiancée’s name struck me with fresh guilt. “I will.”
