I don't push. If he wanted me to know, he'd at least give me a generalized account of what happened, without all of the pointed details. I can't ask for more than he's willing to give. "Disagreements have a way of fading away once time passes."
"I just wish I could talk to her again." He rakes his hand through his hair. "There's a lot I want to say to her."
I study his face. I only see compassion and goodness there. He may have fallen in love with someone who wasn't right for him and he may have to face the consequences of leaving her each and every time he speaks to his mother, but at his core, he's an honest man who has been nothing but loving and supportive to me.
"You can talk to her again." I tap his chest. "I know where to find her."
Chapter 14
"What is this?" He holds the small white card in his hands. "What is this number?"
I don't want to veil the truth of how I know where Cleo is behind any lie. I have to confess. "It's her room number at the hospital."
"Cleo is in the hospital?" His hands visibly start shaking. "Is she okay? What's wrong with her?"
For the briefest of moments before I pulled the card free from the pocket of my jeans, I wondered if his own mother had told him about Cleo since Vanessa saw the two of them together at the hospital. "She had her baby."
"She did?"
I don't know any details. I can't offer anything other than that card with the blue ink. "Vanessa told me that when she saw Cleo at the hospital with your mom last week that she wasn't pregnant. I asked about her at the reception desk and the woman working there told me Cleo was admitted. She actually called her Cleo Durand."
"Durand," he says the name softly. "She married David."
It's another name that holds no meaning to me. I feel the same emptiness that I did when he first mentioned Cleo a few days ago. These are people who are part of his past.
"David was one of Cleo's doctors." He taps the edge of the card against his palm. "He loves her so much."
"What happened to Cleo?"
His eyes dart up to my face as he shuffles nervously on his feet. "You mean why she can't walk?"
I nod, not wanting to give a voice to my curiosity. I've never known anyone in a wheelchair. I don't know the politically correct way to ask the obvious questions. I don't want to be insensitive but since I stood next to her in the museum that day, I've wondered how someone so bright and positive could find strength when her life is impacted in such a fundamental way.
After I'd left the museum and had walked home, I'd relished each step. I knew then and I still know now, that I was virtually unscathed after the police car hit me. My life could have been very different now and I doubt that I'd have the same grace and acceptance that Cleo does.
"There was an accident when she was an infant." He folds the corner of the card. "Her mother was holding her in her arms in the car. It was a short trip to the store. I think Cleo was four or five months old then."
It's true what they say about life changing in an instant. I listen, not wanting to interrupt.
"Her dad was driving and when they got home, he told her mom to wait so he could help her get out of the car," he pauses to look back down at the card. "She was in a rush to get inside so she opened the door and stepped out."
"What happened?" I ask anxiously.
"Her mom tripped." He shakes his head as if to ward off an image that is crossing his mind. "She dropped the baby on the concrete. She dropped Cleo."
I don't need to hear more. The medical details of how she was injured or the impact that it had on her development, don’t matter. What does matter is that Dane is pulling me into his arms and right now, there's no place I'd rather be.
***
"I'll go see her tomorrow after my shift." He tucks the card into the back pocket of his jeans. "I need time to think about what I'll say."
Even though I've wrapped my arms around him and I've nestled my cheek into the soft fabric of the t-shirt that is covering his broad chest, I still feel as though there's a barrier between us. I want to offer comfort, or at the very least, understanding, but I don't know where to start. "Can I help? We can talk about it if you want."
"I do want to talk about it." He tenderly kisses my forehead. "As soon as I clear the air with Cleo, I want us to talk, Bridget. I want to talk about our future."
Our future? It's what I want to talk about too because a future with him is the one thing I want more than anything.
Chapter 15
"What would you say if I told you to move to Paris?"
"Bonjour?"
He cracks a wide smile. "You'd need to learn more than that. I can teach you the language. I speak fluent French."
Of course he does. Beck lived in Paris before he met Zoe. I didn't gather that tidbit of Brighton Beck's past from his wife or from his very detailed Wikipedia page. I got that from an article I read in one of the trashy gossip magazines I used to read when I lived in Connecticut and worked at the local supermarket. He moved there with one woman and ended up having an affair with another woman. I've never actually discussed that with Zoe because I want to keep our friendship in one piece. Bringing up her husband's playboy past would only hurt her.
"Why would I move to Paris?" I ask in my best French accent.
He cocks a dark winged brow. "Don't use that accent there. You'll offend the entire population the minute you open your mouth."
I pull my hand up to my lips to mask the giggle I can't contain. "I won't be offending anyone. I'm not moving to Paris. I live in New York."
"I went to Paris and my career took off."
No. He went to Paris and his libido took off. "You were famous before you went to Paris."
He tilts his head to the left. "I'm not famous."
I roll my eyes as much to make him laugh as to accentuate how ridiculous that statement is. "There's a graduate class at Yale that only covers your art, Beck."
He leans back and crosses his arms over his chest. "How do you know that?"
Zoe told me but not before I'd read about it myself. I've followed his career since well before I met him. He's one of the major players in the art world today. His water color paintings routinely sell at auction for six figures. He's gifted and humble enough to appreciate the talent of others. The fact that he runs a studio in the city that offers art classes to underprivileged youth is often noted in the press. He downplays it though and it's one of the reasons I strive to have a career just like his.
"I know a lot about you." I brush a piece of lint from my sweater. "I was a fan before you met Zoe."
"You were the only person in the pub the night I met her who knew who I was."
I had practically fawned over him. I'd rushed to get him a drink and when I brought it back I had hoped to launch into a rant about how much I admired him. My goal was to mention my own pencil drawings. I never had that chance because by the time I returned with his whiskey in hand, he was mesmerized by Zoe.