Then she turned to Daniel. He had grown thin and stooped, and a lonesome, estranged look had settled on him like a case of grief. His eyes had lost their shine. Yet his face, rugged and unshaven, tugged at her with unexpected tenderness.
“Your mother is ill,” she said. “I don’t think she can last much longer.”
His shock was sincere. Without taking her eyes off him, she acquainted him with everything she had seen, her encounter with the maid, and suggested he replace her as soon as possible.
“This is the first I’ve heard of her illness,” he said. “I’ll go over there this minute and take care of the maid. You see, I haven’t spoken to Mama since we—we…” He floundered and dropped his eyes, suddenly lost in a world he no longer knew or cherished.
She believed him, and it was the steady pull of her gaze that made him lift his head again. For a moment he lingered, uncertain what he should do. And then in a broken voice he asked her, “Is it true you’ve found someone?”
She did not drop her eyes. Nor did her expression change. In her mind, she was again hearing the sounds of Independence Plaza from those faraway days—the blind violinist and his symphony, the masked monkey jigging to clapping hands, the seer whispering inside the Cave of Enchantment. And then before the bitter memories rose and smote her, she gathered everything that had been saved and told him, “Hannah’s a dear friend. I should be so lonely without her.”
His face fell. But before her answer could sink any deeper, she suddenly leaned and grasped his hand, the first such gesture since their divorce. Her smile was kind and tender, and as he watched her half in wonder and half in disbelief, she laid down the words that would bring them back to each other.
“Your mother is dying. She’s in pain and she has no one but you. Bury her, and come back to me.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am indebted to my agent, Alex Glass, for his passion and tenacity, and for always providing me with the right answers.
My editor, Kerri Kolen, not only understood the book on all levels but managed to make the editing process a genuine pleasure. I am incredibly fortunate to have her on my side.
Cat Cobain, from across the Atlantic, might have called her notes “pesky,” but I call them invaluable. Her enthusiasm is simply infectious.
Special thanks to Lara Lea Allen, the first reader of the manuscript, for loving it enough to pass it along.
To every wise soul who has ever put a book in my hand and encouraged me to read, I thank you always and forevermore.
Erick Setiawan, Of Bees and Mist
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