Seattle, Washington
1930
Celia circled the teacup with her hands. It had long since grown cold. Honey lined the bottom of the cup in a congealed mass; a thick film covered the tea's surface. She didn't notice any of it. The unanswered questions that had lurked in the back of her mind for the past month threatened to engulf her. She had bitten her tongue—literally, once—to keep from asking Jack for an explanation for his aimless lifestyle, for the child he let run wild. He didn't owe her any explanations, did he? They were little more than acquaintances. And yet the moment he appeared in the kitchen they all came tumbling out, one after another, like a set of matroyshka dolls.
Jack listened silently, his expression never changing. When she finally stopped to draw a fresh breath, he poured a fresh cup of tea and slid it across the table to her. Celia accepted it gratefully, though she was unsure what the gesture meant. He folded his hands in front of him on the table. Not for the first time did she find herself studying his hands to avoid studying his face.
Though that, in its own way, was worse.
When he spoke, it was a simple, "I'm not her father."
Celia pursed her lips. "What?" she asked. Jack rolled a pencil between his fingers. His blue eyes studied the grains in the table. He really is beautiful, she thought, a sigh escaping from her throat. He looked up, but ignored it. "I'm not her father," he said again. "It's kind of simple."
It took Celia a moment to find her voice. "Where's her mother?"
He dropped the pencil. His tone became clipped. "She's in the Père Lachaise."
Celia's eyes widened at the meaning of his words. "So, she's—"
"Yeah," he said, cutting her off. His chair scraped the floor as he stood up. He swallowed a wince as a sharp pain shot through his leg. "Her mother's dead, and I'm not her father. That what you wanted to know?"
"Don't be angry. I didn't ask because I wanted to upset you." She motioned for him to sit down. "There's no reason to go."
Jack eyed the chair briefly before sitting down. He didn't have to move for Celia to notice the heavy air of restlessness gathering around him. He kept his eyes level with hers, waiting for her to speak.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't realize…it just doesn't seem like an appropriate life for a girl her age. My concern is for Cosette—you must understand that, whatever ill will you may feel for—"
"Ill will?" Jack asked sharply. "For who?"
"For her mother, first off," Celia said patiently. Jack stared at her. Without warning, he laughed. "I don't see what's so amusing," Celia said, clearly annoyed. "You obviously don't like this woman. You never speak of her. I had to force the fact that she's dead out of you."
"And you think that's because I don't like her?" Jack was incredulous. "That word…that word doesn't begin to explain how I feel about her. You think that because I don't talk about her…what would I say? Really. What would I say?" He didn't give Celia time to answer. "And why would I keep her daughter?"
"Yes. Why isn't she with her father?"
"I'm not sure her father knows she exists," Jack said. "And I don't care either way."
"But if she isn't yours, what right do you have to her? Shouldn't she be with her family? Shouldn't her family be informed of her existence?"
"You're assuming a blood relative and family are the same thing," Jack replied, moving to leave. "And they're not."
"So, you think you're the best person to take care of her. Is that it?" Celia followed him to the door. Her voice rang out accusingly. "How can you? The child never had a stable home until a few weeks ago. She's ignorant—"
"She is not ignorant!"
"Intellectually gifted though she may be, she's ignorant as to what being a girl entails."
"Maybe she should be ignorant about that," Jack said quietly.
"Honestly, do you hear yourself? You sound—" Celia stopped short as Cosette rushed into the room. Her shoes were untied. Her dress was smudged. Her dark red curls tumbled freely down her back, heedless of the purple ribbon hanging from one side. "Cosette, what have you been doing?" Celia asked.
"Climbing."
Celia shot Jack a disapproving look. "Climbing?" she said. "At your age? Don't you think there are better things a girl of ten could be doing?"
"I think I could be climbing better," Cosette replied. "But I know you don't mean that."
"That's right," Celia said. "Of course I don't. And what do you need to climb better for?"
"What do I need to sew better for?"
Celia shot Jack another look. A shadow of a grin lingered about his lips. "You could mend the tears in your dress," Celia said with barely suppressed irritation. "There are enough to keep you occupied all day."
"If I mend my dress that means I have to wear my pants," Cosette pointed out. "I don't have anything else." Celia frowned. "But, of course, since you don't want me to wear them, I guess it has to stay the way it is."
There was something in her tone, the use of politeness as a veil perhaps, that made Rose's voice ring in Jack's ears. Cosette wore Rose's impassive expression; her eyes glowed with the same silent laughter. "You should do it," he said.
Cosette looked up at him in surprise. "You mean it?" she asked.
"Yeah. How else are you going to learn to sew up people? It's the same thing. And pants rip, too."
He held Celia's gaze until after Cosette's footsteps faded. "She doesn't know," he said.
"You haven't told her?"
"Would you suggest I do?"
Celia shook her head. "No, I suppose not," she said. "Without anyone to take her, you would just be upsetting the child needlessly. But won't you reconsider—"
"No," Jack said firmly. "I've never considered it."
"I don't understand why just mentioning it upsets you so much, or why you're suddenly so tight-lipped. It's a perfectly reasonable question. You're a single man with a young child—seemingly with no home, no connections at all—why wouldn't I eventually ask about her mother? About where you came from?" She sighed. "Jack, I've tried to keep quiet, but I can't have you and that child in this house unless you give me some explanations."
"Fair enough, I guess." Jack dropped into the nearest chair, displeasure written on his face. "Or we could go," he added. "Staying forever was never my plan."
"That's nonsense. Your leg isn't even healed yet, not completely. You're still limping," she said matter-of-factly.
"I already limped."
Celia drew herself up to her full height. "Fine. It doesn't matter to me whether you cause yourself unnecessary pain. But it does matter what you do with that child, and I'm not going to be satisfied until you explain to me just why you think her family isn't fit to take care of her, but you—a vagabond—are."
Jack chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "I have heard that so many times…" A faraway look came into his eyes. "It was her mother they were talking about at first." Celia eagerly leaned forward as Jack, her presence already forgotten, began to speak again.