Part 6
Gabriel heard the anxiety beneath it.
Amelie’s mother had spent the afternoon moving through the estate in a pale gold dress, greeting relatives, correcting florists, kissing Amelie’s cheek every ten minutes. Her mother was warm in public and difficult in private, but Gabriel had never thought of her as dangerous.
That did not mean anything.
Poppy said, “The lady smelled like roses.”
Amelie looked at the floral arch.
“Everyone smells like roses today,” she said quietly.
The child looked at her.
“I know.”
Gabriel carried Poppy to the edge of the courtyard where a low stone bench sat beneath a small olive tree. He sat down with her still in his arms. Amelie remained standing for a moment, then came over and sat across from them.
The distance between them was less than three feet.
It felt like the beginning of a much longer distance.
Gabriel looked at Poppy’s face again.
The resemblance was not a mirror. It was not the kind of thing a stranger would see immediately. But there were moments when her expression shifted and he saw a version of himself at that age, caught in family photographs with a stubborn mouth and watchful eyes.
He had always hated those photographs.
His father stood beside him in most of them, one hand on his shoulder. Gabriel used to think that hand looked protective. As an adult, he learned it could also look like possession.
“What is your last name?” he asked Poppy.
The child looked confused.
“Hale.”
“Poppy Hale?”
She nodded.
“Do you know your middle name?”
“June.”
The name caught him off guard.
Marin’s grandmother had been June Hale. A woman with bright red hair and a laugh that filled rooms. Gabriel had met her only twice. The second time had been at a birthday dinner where June asked him whether he loved Marin enough to become inconvenient.
He had laughed.
June had not.
“Do you have a picture of your mom?” he asked.
Poppy nodded.
She reached into the small champagne-colored backpack hanging from one shoulder. The bag was worn at the edges and had a tiny rabbit charm tied to the zipper. She pulled out a photograph.
It showed Marin sitting on a park bench beside Poppy when Poppy was younger. Marin’s hair was darker than Gabriel remembered, cut shorter at the shoulders. Her face was thinner. Her smile was present, but tired.
Poppy held the picture out.
“That’s Mommy.”
Gabriel took it.
His hand shook.
Amelie watched him.
“Is that Marin?” she asked.
He nodded.
The air changed.
Amelie had known the name before this day. Gabriel had mentioned Marin once, early in their relationship, after they had been together long enough that the topic of old loves became unavoidable.
“She was important,” he had said.
Amelie had waited.
“Is she still important?”
He had looked at his glass.
“No.”
It had been the answer she needed at the time.
It had also been incomplete.
Marin had not been part of his daily life. She had not called. She had not written. She had not existed in any way he was forced to acknowledge.
But importance did not disappear because a person had been absent.
It simply changed shape.
“Did she ever tell you she was pregnant?” Amelie asked.
Gabriel looked at the photograph.
“No.”
Poppy watched him.
“Did she tell you I was coming?” she asked.
His throat closed.
“No.”
“Why not?”
He looked at Amelie.
Then back at Poppy.
“I don’t know.”
Poppy seemed to accept that answer more easily than Amelie did.
“My mommy said people can be too scared to tell the truth,” Poppy said.
“Was she scared of me?” Gabriel asked.
The child looked down at the rabbit charm.
“She said she was scared of what would happen if you found out.”
The words settled over the courtyard.
Amelie’s hands were folded in her lap.
Gabriel felt the old instinct rise in him again: explain. Offer context. Say he was not the man Marin had feared. Say he had never hurt her. Say he would have helped if he had known.
But every version of that explanation contained a hole.
He had not known.
He had not looked hard enough to know.
He had believed Marin’s silence meant she wanted distance because that belief allowed him to keep moving forward.
“Did your mom ever try to call me?” he asked.
Poppy nodded.
“She called a lot.”
Gabriel went still.
“When?”
“Before I was born. And after.”
“How do you know?”
“She said phones are bad sometimes.”
Amelie looked at him.
May you like
Gabriel’s stomach tightened.
He remembered unknown calls. He remembered missed voicemails he did not listen to. He remembered changing assistants at the firm after one of them began screening messages too aggressively. He remembered his father telling him to stop taking personal calls during negotiations.
