Haven knew the feeling well, and now she was torn—sad for not being with her mama but excited about finally being a part of it all.
The DeMarcos didn’t decorate much, except for a flimsy fake tree put together out of a box, but Haven helped Carmine string on the lights. A few colored ornaments had been added in the days that followed, and Tess hung mistletoe in the doorway.
Dr. DeMarco’s presence had been scarce during the past weeks. Most nights he didn’t come home until after the sun had risen and only stuck around long enough to shower and change clothes. Haven didn’t ask any questions, but she found it odd he left her on her own so much.
Did he finally believe she wouldn’t try to run again?
She still cooked every night, even though Dr. DeMarco usually wasn’t around for it, and she started eating at the table with the family. The nights Dr. DeMarco came home he never acknowledged her. She would occasionally catch him giving her uncomfortable looks, like he was preparing for something to happen that never did.
Haven had grabbed a soda from the kitchen and taken a sip when a car pulled up outside. The familiar Mercedes parked near the porch, and Dr. DeMarco headed straight into the house. His voice filtered inside as he stepped into the foyer, his phone to his ear. He shrugged off his coat, and his eyes fell upon her. His gaze lingered there as he ended the call.
“Can you go to my office? I’ll be up in a moment.”
He posed it as a question, but it wasn’t negotiable. She nervously made her way to his office and sat in the chair across from his desk. The room was silent, except for the ticking clock on the wall behind her, and it seemed like forever before she heard his footsteps on the stairs. Her heart beat erratically as he neared, and she held her breath instinctively when Dr. DeMarco stepped inside.
sat down in the doorway and leaned against the wall in the shadows, watching him play in a trance. She was mesmerized hearing so much emotion pouring from his fingertips. It was the same tune in a continuous loop—as soon as it would wind down, he’d start it up again.
She recognized it. Though different in tone, the notes louder and fluid on the piano, it was the same one he strummed on his guitar at night.
Her eyelids grew heavy as she listened, but she fought sleep, captivated by the music. She eventually lost the battle, and the next thing she knew she was being jolted around. Her eyes snapped open, startled when her gaze fell on Carmine. They were on the second floor, and she was cradled in his arms. She gave him an apologetic look, hoping he wasn’t upset she’d spied on him, but he merely smiled. “We have beds, tesoro. You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”
20
Haven stood in the doorway of Carmine’s bedroom, exhausted from broken sleep and wanting nothing more than to take a nap, but much more pressing things needed to be dealt with.
Scanning the mess, Haven contemplated where to start.
“Look, I have no idea what you’ll find,” Carmine said. “I’m gonna apologize in advance for it all, so I don’t have to keep saying it as we go.”
He walked over to his dirty clothes and tossed them in his hamper as Haven tentatively navigated her way through the room. “Don’t you want to separate them?” she asked.
He froze, holding a pair of pants. “Separate them how?”
“A pile of whites and a pile of colors will work.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He mock-saluted her. Her smile disintegrated, and he sighed at her fallen expression. “I’m kidding. I can handle separating clothes . . . just forgot I was supposed to.”
He dug the clothes back out of the hamper and made two piles as Haven picked up his schoolbooks. She set them on his desk and shifted the stacks of paper around to organize a bit.
“So, uh . . .” Carmine held up a white shirt with navy blue stripes. “Would you consider this a color or a white?”
“Color,” she said, looking at the piles. “That white shirt with the green design is a color too.”
Carmine picked up the shirt and tossed it on the other pile. “How can you tell?”
“The tag says not to use any bleach.”
“You read my tags?” His voice was serious, like they were discussing something scandalous.
She smiled. “Yes, I read them when I do your laundry.”
“And you remember that?”
“Of course.”
“Well, you didn’t tell me to read the tags.”
Haven held back her laughter, knowing it would only make his irritation worse. When Carmine finished separating the clothes, she took the hamper of whites downstairs to start a load. She pulled out a few things that were obviously not bleachable and set them aside to wash with the next load, not wanting to make it a big deal.