Remember Me

Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

Skye

“P lease have a seat, Scarlet.”

Finn’s raspy voice catapults me back to the present. He’s led me to a sprawling art-filled great room. Bathed in natural light, it’s sparsely decorated with contemporary furnishings, a tasteful combination of creamy leather, polished metals, and gleaming dark wood that showcases the large abstract canvases on the soaring white walls.

Still shaking inside and not the least bit recovered, I do as he asks, settling into one of the oversized sofas. He lowers himself onto an armchair across from me. Leaning back, he crosses an ankle over his knee as I fold my hands in my lap.

“Help yourself to some water.”

My eyes flit to the two bottles of Evian on the coffee table between us. “Thanks, but I’m good,” I lie, my emotions in a jumble and my mouth desert-dry.

His eyes meet mine. “Scarlet, I was very impressed by your credentials and well-traveled background as well as by your glowing recommendations.”

I nervously thank him. “Why did you decide to homeschool your daughter?” Our little girl! I can’t wait to meet her!

He looks at me earnestly. “Numerous reasons. For one, I’ll be traveling a lot this year, which would mean pulling her out of school for long periods of time to be with me.”

“I see.” He’s obviously devoted to her. “Where exactly are you going?”

“I’m an artist and have several exhibitions set up at galleries around the world. After Los Angeles, I go to London, Paris, and Hong Kong.”

Wow! He’s come so far. He must be mega-successful. Pride soars in my chest. “That’s amazing.”

He humbly shrugs. “Personally, I’d rather stay put and paint in my studio. You, of course, will accompany us because I don’t want my daughter to miss a day of her studies. I assume you have a passport.”

Nodding, I tell him I do. My mind flashes back to my own childhood, globe-trotting with my parents. “The knowledge she’ll get from traveling the world will be immeasurable.”

“I agree. One of the reasons I hired you is that you’re multi-lingual. I would like you to incorporate some basic foreign language skills into her curriculum. By the way, she has a knack for languages.”

Just like me .

“She already speaks fluent Spanish.”

“That’s wonderful. She should be able to pick up French easily.”

“Yes, she’s extremely smart. In fact, she’s been tested and shown to be gifted though she’s rather small for her age. The administrator of the private school I thought about sending her to felt she would be very bored in kindergarten or even the first grade. She already reads at the third-grade level, but putting her in the third grade with kids much bigger than her felt wrong to me. I thought it better she learn at home.”

“You made a good decision,” I comment, knowing from a story I did on bullying that smaller kids are easy prey.

“Another reason I’ve chosen to homeschool her is for her safety. I’m quite renowned, and I didn’t want the paparazzi to hound her.” He pauses. “Or have to worry she might be taken from me.”

Kidnapped. Inwardly, I shudder. The investigative reporter in me wonders: Has their life been threatened? The unsettling thought circles my mind as he grabs one of the bottles of water.

“You’re very protective.”

“I’ve had to be. I lost my wife. I can’t lose her. She’s everything to me.”

My stomach clenches at his first mention of me. I debate whether or not to ask him about his wife as he twists open the bottle cap. My heart hammering, I go for it.

“How did your wife die?”

His eyes darken. “A car crash.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. It’s been a while.”

My curiosity is piqued. I’m bursting to hear what circumstantial details he knows. Signaling that he doesn’t want to talk about it, he takes a long swig of his water.

Holding the bottle in his left hand. I notice for the first time he’s no longer wearing his wedding band. Or a different one. A glimmer of hope flickers inside me. Maybe he’s never remarried.

After another sip, he sets the bottle down on the table. “There’s one more reason why I’m overprotective and have decided to homeschool my daughter.” He pauses. “She’s rather sickly.”

My chest constricts. My stomach dips. The C-word? Oh God, no!

“What do you mean?” I spit out the words, unable to mask the alarm in my voice.

“She has asthma and is prone to attacks.”

Though I silently sigh with relief, a wave of sadness sweeps over me. I try to imagine my skinny, pale little girl when a bright raspy voice lights up the room.

“Hi, Daddy! Is this my new teacher, Ms. Callahan?”

I look up. An adorable, wide-eyed little girl hippity-hops toward us, her two cinnamon braids flying behind her. I force myself to stay glued to the couch when I long to run up to her, lift her into my arms, and smother her with kisses. I can’t help but gasp.

She’s the spitting image of me!

The me I used to be.

The miracle of all miracles.

My daughter!