??2??
Julian
Julian Hunter had been melancholy all day. Another wedding anniversary coming up in a few months and only memories of happier times to comfort him now.
“Tell me again about the day you and Mommy got married, Daddy.” Valentina snuggled closer to Julian and rested her head against his chest. She smiled broadly at him, her green eyes fringed by thick lashes that were as raven black as her hair.
He leaned down to kiss the top of his seven-year-old daughter’s head. The familiar feeling of loss swept over him again, but he swallowed and began. “It started out as a beautiful November day filled with sunshine. We got married right here in the house—in the grand living room. Mommy wouldn’t let me see her or her wedding dress before the ceremony. She said it was bad luck.”
Julian smiled as he remembered how adamant Cassandra had been, insisting upon staying apart the morning before the ceremony. “You don’t really believe in bad luck, do you?” he’d asked her, and she’d looked at him, her eyes wide, and said she was just being cautious. Julian considered himself a rational man of science, and his career in medicine had shown him that luck had nothing to do with the course of people’s lives. But he’d decided to humor her.
“Daddy, keep going.” Valentina pushed against him.
“Right. So . . . it was a very small wedding, with just a few of our friends and your grandfather. A young music student from the university played her cello as Mommy came into the room and walked toward me.”
“Did she look beautiful?”
“Yes, Valentina. She looked very beautiful.” An image from that day filled his head. Cassandra standing for a moment at the arched entrance to the room, in a high-necked, long-sleeved sheath that skimmed her slender figure and then fell straight to the floor. She smiled, her eyes meeting his as she walked down the aisle. When he noticed a white gardenia in her long black hair, he was touched by her loving acknowledgment of the flowers he’d given her the night he proposed.
“More, Daddy,” Valentina urged.
“That’s enough for tonight, sweet girl. It’s time for bed.” He gently rose from the sofa, but his daughter remained seated.
“No, please. Can’t I stay up a little longer?”
He reached down and wrapped her small hand in his, pulling her to her feet. “Afraid not, little one. What would Mommy say if she knew I was keeping you up past your bedtime?”
Valentina’s expression darkened. “Mommy wouldn’t care. If she cared, she would come home.”
Julian had no answer for his little girl. He’d tried to explain it to her so many times, but the problem was that there was no explanation.
He thought back to the last time he’d seen Cassandra, and the familiar ache of loss and regret filled him. They’d had their problems like any couple, of course. She could be mercurial and moody. He didn’t like to think about the night they’d had their worst fight, both of them spewing angry words neither could take back. Afterward he’d thought all was lost, that he’d have to raise Valentina alone. But then, miraculously, everything turned out okay. For a while, anyhow. Now, two years later, and not a trace of her. It was unbelievable, really, as if she’d vanished into thin air. But he believed with every fiber of his being that she would be found. It was the only thing that kept him going. Well, that and Valentina, of course. She was the image of her mother, with Cassandra’s face and hair, but her lips were Julian’s, full and generous.
Now he steered his little girl to the stairs, and together they climbed to the second floor. “Teeth brushing and then a very short bedtime story,” he said to her.
“Two stories?” she asked as she walked over to the white bookcases that filled one wall of her pink bedroom.
“Don’t push your luck, little one. It’s late.”
After the bedtime ritual was over and he’d kissed his daughter good night, Julian headed reluctantly to his own bedroom. As he entered, his eyes went right to the antique dressing table, where all of Cassandra’s lotions and perfumes sat just as she had left them, next to the jeweled hairbrush he’d given her on their first anniversary. He walked over and picked it up, raising it to his nose. He imagined he could discern her scent, but he knew he was kidding himself. Placing the brush back on the table, he moved to one of the large closets—her closet—and opened the doors. All of her beautiful clothes hung neatly, untouched since she’d disappeared. He couldn’t bear to get rid of her things. That would mean she was gone for good.