“Yes, I—” He had read it three times but he could not remember what it said.
“I left earlier than I had planned. I wanted to...” Her eyes looked shiny. “I wanted to see Celeste’s grave. And the baby. I came to see the baby.”
“Of course.” He had not been able to revisit his wife’s grave site. After watching them lower the coffin into that dark hole that day, he doubted he would ever be able to visit. The pain behind his eyes throbbed.
“This is most awkward,” she said. “If you do not mind, I need to sit down.”
He guided her to one of the straight-backed chairs in the wide hallway that served as his waiting room. “Sam, bring some tea.”
“No, please. I am quite all right now.”
He tipped up her chin and peered into her chalk-white face. “And some sandwiches,” he called. “You look half-famished, Miss Von Dannen.”
“Yes, I am, now that I think about it. I was in such a hurry to get here, you see.”
Zane nodded. He did not see. She had not come for the funeral; the wire he’d received had explained she was away on tour. Still, she must be anxious to see the baby.
Sam appeared with a tray of tea and a plate of tiny sandwiches, the kind he served when Zane skipped too many meals or spent too many long hours at the hospital.
“Come into the dining room, Miss Von Dannen.” Zane guided her to an upholstered chair at one end of the carved walnut table. She fell on the sandwiches at once and he poured the aromatic tea into the blue china cups. Sam had used the good china, he noted. It reminded him of when Celeste— His hand shook, and he clattered his own cup back onto the saucer.
She ate in silence, and he sipped his tea and watched her. Couldn’t help watching her, in fact. She was a bit older than Celeste, more settled somehow. Less excitable. Then he remembered that Winifred Von Dannen was a professor of music in St. Louis, at the same academy where Celeste had studied. Of course, someone of her stature would not be young, at least not as young as his wife had been. In fact, Winifred Von Dannen was well-known in the East. A pianist, like Celeste.
“I was more hungry than I thought,” she said. She replaced her cup on the blue-flowered saucer and looked up, straight into his eyes. The ripping inside his chest tore at him. She looked so much like Celeste.
“Now,” she said. “May I see the baby?”
The doctor paused outside one doorway in the spacious upstairs hall, laid one hand on the brass knob and hesitated. Winifred waited. Did he have some intimation of why she was really here?
“I think she is asleep,” he said softly. “At least for the moment.”
“Oh?” Winifred knew absolutely nothing about babies.
“She rarely sleeps through the night,” the doctor explained.
Ah. That would explain the dark circles beneath his tired gray eyes. He looked as if he had not slept in weeks. Months, perhaps. But of course there was his grief, too.
For a moment her throat grew tight. She had been in Europe when she had heard the news of her sister’s death. She had cried and cried for weeks. But a man losing his wife...she could scarcely imagine such anguish. Even for a man she detested.
The doctor quietly opened the door and preceded her into a warm, comfortable room with a large bed and a paper-strewn desk under the window. Oh! This must be his bedroom.
Next to the quilt-covered bed stood a white wicker bassinet on wheels. He gestured toward it. “She sleeps in here so I can hear her when she cries at night,” he said. “She likes to be rocked.”
Holding her breath, Winifred tiptoed forward. A tiny face peeked out from the pink flannel blanket, her eyes wide open. Blue-green, just like her own and Cissy’s. Winifred’s heart did something odd, and a clenching feeling under her breastbone left her short of breath.
“She’s so beautiful,” she murmured. Tears stung her eyes.
“Yes.” He smoothed a long, slim forefinger against the pink-and-white skin of the baby’s cheek. “Her name is Rosemarie.”
“Rosemarie,” she breathed. After their mother.
“Rosemarie... Winifred,” he added after a slight hesitation.
Winifred’s tears spilled over. “Cissy named her after me? Really?”
“Of course,” the doctor said. “I would not lie when it comes to my daughter. It was Celeste’s last wish.”
Oh, God. Oh, Cissy. Cissy. For a moment she could not speak.
“Would you like to hold your niece?” He reached into the bassinet, lifted out the pink bundle and offered the baby to her.
“Oh, no. I mean, yes, I would. But—but I really don’t know how to—I mean, I know very little about handling babies.”
The doctor gave her a long look, then laid Rosemarie into her arms. “You can learn.”
Winifred looked down into the blue-green eyes. “Can she really see me?”
“Probably not, at least not clearly. But if you talk to her, she will hear your voice.”
“Oh.” How did one talk to a baby? All at once she felt awkward and out of place and ignorant of the most basic things of life. All she knew about was music and teaching.
“Go on,” he urged in a quiet voice. “Try it.”
Winifred inhaled and exhaled twice, working up her courage. She felt as fluttery as on the opening night of a concert, excited and terrified and thrilled at the same time.
“H-hello, Rosemarie. My, you are so beautiful. You look like Cissy, did you know that?”
“Cissy?” the doctor murmured.
“Celeste. I call—called her Cissy. She called me Freddie.”
“That I would never have guessed. She always referred to you as Winifred.”
A tiny fist waved toward Winifred’s hand. She extended her forefinger and the baby latched onto it. “Oh, just look,” she whispered.
“She likes fingers,” the doctor said, a hint of a smile in his voice. “Thumbs, especially.”
Winifred could not speak. The small hand, the knuckles wrinkled and rosy, the tiny fingernails so perfect, kept its grip on Winifred’s finger. Her senses swirled again; she must still be dizzy from the altitude.
“Shall I take her?” the doctor asked.
“No, I— Could we wait until she releases my finger?”
He laughed softly and nodded, watching her.
“Rosemarie,” she breathed. “I am your aunt Fred—your aunt Winifred. And you are my only, most precious, most beautiful niece.”
The little mouth opened and a soft cry came out.
“She’s hungry,” the doctor said. He walked to the door and opened it. “Sam?”
In three heartbeats, the houseboy appeared, a glass bottle of milk in one hand and a towel in the other. Expertly he lifted the baby out of Winifred’s arms and cradled her in his own. Then he began walking up and down in front of the curtained window, crooning something in a strange language while Rosemarie gulped milk through the rubber nipple.
“Does he—Sam—have children of his own?” Winifred asked quietly.
“Sam? Sam is not married. Not many Chinese women are admitted into this country. And an American woman would not be acceptable.