A smile played around the corner of Nick’s mouth. “Not possible. I’m perfect, you see.”

“Except when you floss in front of the television.”

“At least I don’t leave all my shoes on the ground by the door.”

“I can’t walk that far in half of them! If you love me, you’ll let me put a shoe rack in the coat closet.”

Nick did a pitch-perfect imitation of Bea. “No, Rebecca. You’re not a farmer.”

We giggled, the tension mostly broken.

“This part is always so easy with us,” I said. “We have to get better at the rest.”

My head fell on his shoulder, and we watched as everyone in the rowdy croquet game in the distance turned to scurry inside for the countdown.

“Happy New Year, Bex,” he said. “I hope we get this one right.”

“Me too,” I whispered as a cheer went up inside the house.

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FOUR

With every day that passed, the ache of our miscarriage throbbed a bit less. Ultimately, along with time, what really helped bring me back to myself was art. It was restorative to concentrate on creating with my eyes and hands; to take blankness and craft it into something better, and believe that my body would be able to do it again, too. And because art requires a singular focus, an almost meditative kind of attention, I didn’t think about anything other than the leaf or the cloud or the blade of grass that I was trying to re-create. I had to be in the moment, and my brain could push everything else to its edges.

The view from our bedroom terrace had a gloomy beauty this time of year, and I’d taken to starting my day out there in a puffer coat, sketching for as long as my schedule let me. Today, the dense cloud cover had brought the park’s wintry grays into the starkest relief, so I’d made an enormous travel mug of coffee and was elbow-deep in its shadows when an urgent rapping came on the glass door. I turned to see an anxious Greevey.

“Ma’am, you have a guest,” he said, querulous and urgent.

“Who is it? Tell them I’ll be down in a minute,” I said, glancing down at my charcoal-smudged hands.

“I tried to keep her in the reception room,” he said through clenched teeth, just as I heard a familiar imperious voice behind him: “This isn’t nearly as hideous as it used to be.”

I forgot myself and covered my mouth with my hands. “El…er, Your Majesty?” I called out, wincing privately at Greevey.

“Hurry up, Rebecca, I haven’t got all day,” was her reply.