In the end, his vision blurred with tears, David had signed the papers, then scribbled a handwritten letter to Justin telling him how much he loved him and hoped that one day they’d meet, and given the letter to Milla to put in with the other papers, which included her own letter.
She only hoped that one day Justin—Zack—would read the letters and be curious enough about David and her to get in touch. She hoped the Winborns wouldn’t destroy the papers. She didn’t think they would, especially the legal papers, but they might well put them in a safe-deposit box and never tell Zack about his natural parents. She hoped not, but she wouldn’t blame them if they did. She knew how fiercely she herself had fought to protect him, so why should she expect them to do less?
She had accomplished what she’d set out to do, all those long years ago. She had done it knowing that she would be left with ashes. She just hadn’t known the taste of them would be so bitter in her mouth.
The kitchen door opened and Diaz came in, carrying some paper bags. She’d been so preoccupied that she hadn’t heard him drive up. He gave her a sharp look but didn’t say anything, instead concentrating on putting up the groceries he’d bought.
She wasn’t fully aware of him, certainly not with the hyperawareness she normally felt around him. He was just there, like part of the furniture. The grief and pain that filled her blotted out everything except a peripheral acknowledgment of his presence.
“Which do you want?” he asked. “Cereal or bagel?”
He wanted her to decide? What difference did it make what she ate? “Bagel,” she finally said listlessly, because it wouldn’t involve having to deal with a spoon.
He toasted the bagel and even spread the cream cheese on it, then put it on a saucer in front of her. She tore off a piece and chewed. And chewed. The bite kept growing bigger and bigger in her mouth until she thought she was going to choke.
She was sitting here eating just as if she hadn’t given her son away yesterday.
She shoved back from the table, overturning her chair. Catlike, Diaz whirled to face her, balanced to respond to any attack she might level at him. In a sudden burst of blind fury, she grabbed from the dish drainer the pot he’d used to heat the soup the night before, and threw it as hard as she could at the wall. It hit with a clang and crashed back to the floor. She grabbed the spoons and threw them, then the bowls. The bowls broke with a satisfying crash.
Sobbing, she wrenched open the cabinet doors and began grabbing out whatever she could reach: plates, saucers, bowls, cups, and glasses. She threw each one with as much force as she could muster, screaming in wordless agony as she hurled plate after plate, sending shards of glass flying around the room.
Diaz didn’t move except when a thrown missile came flying too close; then he merely ducked a little to the side and stood his ground. Silently he watched her systematically destroy the kitchen, staying out of her way until the enraged burst of energy was abruptly spent and she collapsed to her knees, sobbing.
Then he picked her up and carried her back to her bedroom, placing her on the bed. Milla curled on her side and cried herself to sleep.
When she woke several hours later and stumbled out of the room, the kitchen had been cleaned and swept, and once again Diaz was gone.
He finally returned, carrying a cardboard box containing a mismatched set of dishes, including saucers and coffee cups. He went back outside and returned with another box, from which he unloaded about a dozen drinking glasses and several bowls. Nothing matched. He unpacked everything, then put it all in the dishwasher and turned it on.
Her head pounded with a dull headache, her eyes were sore and swollen, and her throat ached. “I’m sorry,” she croaked.
“No problem.”
She took a breath. “Where did you get the dishes?”
“I found a yard sale. It was either that or drive to Kitty Hawk to a Wal-Mart store.”
Considering how deserted the Outer Banks were this time of year, finding a yard sale was nothing short of a miracle. In a moment of clarity, she had a sudden image of this dark-clothed predator prowling through a yard sale and buying up old dishes. He wouldn’t even notice how out of place he seemed, but anyone else who happened to be there certainly would have.
He made sandwiches and she ate hers, then she put on her sneakers and coat and headed out to the beach. She walked for what felt like hours, with a cool breeze blowing in her face and her mind so numb she could barely think. Not thinking was good. At last she turned around to go back, and when she did she stopped short at the sight of Diaz following her. He had stayed back about thirty or forty yards, giving her privacy but still watching over her.
He stopped and waited. He had his hands stuffed in the pockets of a black jacket, and his dark eyes were narrowed against the breeze as he watched her approach. She knew it was irrational, but his following her made her angry. As she walked by she snapped, “Afraid I’ll drown myself?”
She was being sarcastic, but his quiet “Yes” stung her to silence. She walked on, blinking back tears. She didn’t want to cry. Her eyelids were so puffy and sore that she wanted never to cry again. She remembered thinking the night before about running into the ocean, and though the grief and pain were so agonizing almost any relief would be welcome, she knew she’d never do that. Surrendering wasn’t in her nature. If it had been, she wouldn’t have been able to hold on to her determination all those years.
She’d always been the idealistic dreamer in her family. Who would ever have thought that just beneath her skin was a layer of stubbornness that went all the way to the bone?