Chapter 9 - The Meeting at Dawn
The brownstone was warm, smelling of cinnamon tea and beeswax candles.
Rachel stood in the foyer, her eyes wide with shock and fury as Vincent stepped through the threshold, tracking snow onto the entry mat.
"Claire, are you out of your mind?" Rachel hissed, pointing an accusatory finger at Vincent. "What is he doing here?"
"Go to bed, Rachel," Claire said gently but firmly. "Please."
Rachel looked between Claire's determined expression and Vincent's bowed, trembling posture. She shook her head, whispered a sharp curse under her breath, and retreated up the stairs to the guest room.
Vincent stood on the mat, not daring to step onto the polished oak floors. He slowly pulled off his soaked coat and his heavy work gloves.
His hands were rough, calloused, and covered in faint purple diving scars where extreme pressure had ruptured tiny surface capillaries.
From the top of the stairs, a soft, rhythmic babble drifted down into the silence.
Owen was awake.
Claire walked to the foot of the stairs and looked back at Vincent. "Take off your boots."
Vincent obeyed instantly, his fingers shaking so badly he struggled with the wet laces. He followed her up the stairs like a condemned man walking to an altar.
The nursery was dimly lit by a soft amber nightlight shaped like a crescent moon.
Inside the crib, Owen stood on his sturdy little legs, gripping the white wooden rails, wearing fleece pajamas covered in little blue sailboats.
When he saw Claire, he let out a delighted squeal, bouncing up and down.
Then his bright blue eyes shifted to the tall, shadowed man standing behind his mother.
Owen stopped bouncing. He tilted his head, his wide eyes studying Vincent’s bearded face with intense, solemn curiosity.
Vincent stopped in the doorway, his hand gripping the doorframe so tightly his knuckles turned gray. His entire six-foot-two frame began to shake with silent, overwhelming sobs.
"Go to him, Vincent," Claire whispered from beside the crib.
Vincent took three agonizingly slow steps forward. He sank to his knees beside the crib rail, bringing his eyes level with his son's.
"Hi," Vincent choked out, his voice barely a breath. "Hi, little man."
Owen reached a tiny, chubby hand through the wooden slats. His small fingers, soft and warm, touched the coarse stubble on Vincent’s cheek.
Vincent closed his eyes and leaned his face into the baby’s palm, letting his tears soak Owen’s tiny wrist.
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"I'm sorry," Vincent wept into the baby's hand, his forehead resting against the crib rail. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there."
Owen didn't pull away. He let out a soft coo, his other hand reaching out to touch Vincent’s silver-streaked hair, as if recognizing the blood that ran through his own veins.
