Her heart sank. His voice didn’t match his gaze. Dejectedly, she replied, “A salad is fine,” and turned away.

Claire had thought the years of separation while in Everwood were unbearable. That was nothing compared to the pain of having him in front of her, yet—inaccessible.

During the drive to Emily’s, they calmly—too calmly—discussed their separation. After some debate, they both agreed to keep it temporarily concealed. The Vandersols wouldn’t understand, and the charade would be easier on Nichol. They planned to ease her into it, after she moved to the estate. Claire’s hands began to tremble as they pulled up to the Vandersol’s home. Surprisingly, Tony reached over and covered hers with his. It was the first contact since the balcony. His tone was kind and reassuring, “It’ll be all right.”

She didn’t move or attempt reciprocation; instead, she enjoyed the sensation of his warm touch and replied honestly, “I’m scared, what if she doesn’t want us?”

“She will.”

Turning toward him, she asked, “I haven’t even asked, have you seen her?”

He shook his head. “No, pictures are all. I was just released yesterday, and she was never brought to me. It was probably better—a little girl shouldn’t be visiting her father in a federal penitentiary.”

Claire looked at him in surprise. “Yesterday? And you’ve accomplished all of this?”

“Like I said—I had help. I’ve been planning my release for some time.”

She looked back down at his hand on her lap as her neck straightened. “And our divorce—how long have you been planning that?”

Pulling his hand away, he rebuked, “Claire, not now. Let’s not go back there.”

A new thought came to her mind. With it came fire that instantly dried her once moist eyes. She suddenly needed to know the answer to a burning question. “Is there someone else?”

“What?”

“Is—there—someone—else?!”

“No!”—his volume rose—“I told you, I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you.”

“Well, you obviously don’t want me! And you’re Anthony Rawlings. You were in prison and your wife was crazy; nevertheless, you’re still Anthony Rawlings. You would eventually get out of prison, but your wife would always be crazy. I bet there were letters of devotion, propositions, and proposals.”

“Claire, our daughter is waiting.”

Sudden rage boiled within her. While she’d been living in a fantasy world, was he communicating with another woman or women? The intensity of her stare grew as she asked again, “I’ve already asked this once, don’t make me ask again. Is there someone else?”

“Claire, calm down.”

Her hand contacted his arrogant expression. Tony stared in disbelief as he seized her fingers. “What the hell was that?”

“You never answer my questions. Tell me, were there letters? Did women write to you promising anything you wanted, all for the chance to take my place?”

“You’re getting yourself all worked up. Calm down; Nichol is waiting.”

She glared as her voice lowered. “I deserve to know.”

“Yes.” His eyes glowed in the illumination of the dashboard. “Are you happy?” His growl deepened as he continued to painfully hold her seized hand. “There were letters—I didn’t respond. I don’t give a damn about anyone—anyone but you. Hell—I even—”

Claire’s heart raced. She waited for him to finish his sentence; instead, he released her hand and turned away. She prodded, “You even what?”

“We’ll finish this discussion another time.” It wasn’t debatable. He’d said more than he’d wanted, and he wasn’t saying any more. That conversation was done. “Now, do you plan to join me, or do you plan to sit in the car all evening?”

Rubbing the fingers of her right hand, she replied, “I plan to join you.”

When Emily met them at the door, they wore the masks of the perfect smiling couple. It was all right—Emily wore a mask too. “We told Nichol she had some special guests coming to see her.” Despite Emily’s show of strength, Claire heard the sorrow in her sister’s voice.

Walking into the living room, they both stopped when Nichol came into view. Without thinking, Claire grasped Tony’s hand. Once she realized her action, she quickly let go, thankful that he hadn’t pulled away.

The last time they saw their daughter, she had been less than three months old. The little girl before them was nearly three years old, and the most beautiful child Claire could ever recall seeing—even prettier than her pictures. Her wavy, brown hair, held back with barrettes, framed her beautiful face. Her thick dark lashes fluttered as big brown eyes peered upward. She’d been sitting on the floor playing with a dollhouse when she turned to see Aunt Em’s friends.