Miriam offered to find her concert drawing.
Poppy immediately shook her head.
“It doesn’t matter now.”
Cassian recognized the sentence.
He had heard adults say it about things that mattered enough to hurt.
“It matters to me.”
“You already missed the good part.”
He did not tell her there was still time to make it just as good.
She was right.
There had been a moment when she came home excited and wanted her father.
He had missed it.
“I did,” he said.
Poppy looked up.
“I’d still like to see it whenever you want to show me.”
She thought.
“Not tonight.”
“All right.”
The permission to leave something unfinished seemed to settle her.
After dinner, she asked for a familiar film.
Miriam put it on.
Cassian sat beside Poppy while she leaned against his arm.
His work phone vibrated twice.
He switched it off.
She saw him do it.
He did not turn the gesture into a promise that phones would never interrupt them again.
He simply stayed for the film.
Tonight, that was something he could do.
When Poppy went upstairs with Miriam, Cassian found Viola in the study.
His personal phone lay on the desk.
Beside it was a vase of white flowers he had sent her from Boston.
The sight made him feel briefly foolish.
Then angry.
Then very still.
“Tell me about the calls.”
Viola stood near the bookshelves.
“I answered because you left the phone.”
“What did you say?”
“That you were busy.”
“And that I didn’t want her.”
“Not like that.”
He waited.
She looked at the door.
“Children hear one phrase and make it into something enormous.”
“Then give me the whole phrase.”
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Finally, she answered.
“I said you didn’t want another interruption.”
“Were you with me?”
“No.”
