Chapter 14 - Learning to Live Without Him
The call came on a Tuesday morning in November.
Roman was with Evelyn.
I was at the Hart Foundation office downtown.
For the first time since giving birth, I had started working three full days each week.
The foundation occupied two sunny rooms above a bookstore.
Nothing like Carter Holdings.
No marble lobby.
No private elevators.
No assistants who jumped when I walked in.
I loved it.
My phone rang at 10:14.
Roman.
I smiled when I saw his name.
Then answered.
"Did she destroy your apartment?"
Silence.
"Roman?"
His voice was wrong.
"Savannah, don't panic."
My entire body panicked.
"What happened?"
"Evie had a seizure."
The room disappeared.
"What?"
"It's over. She's breathing. Ambulance is here."
I was already standing.
"Where?"
"Lurie."
"I'm coming."
"Savannah—"
"Is she awake?"
"Yes."
"Is she crying?"
"Yes."
"Put the phone near her."
I heard my daughter screaming.
Never had a sound been more beautiful.
"I'm coming."
I don't remember leaving the office.
I remember Elena grabbing my coat because she happened to be downstairs.
I remember a cab.
Traffic.
Praying at every red light.
When I reached the emergency department, Roman was standing in the hallway with Evelyn against his chest.
She was crying.
He was crying too.
I ran.
He handed her to me immediately.
"What happened?"
"She was playing. Then she went stiff."
His hands shook violently.
"Her eyes rolled back. I thought she was dying."
A doctor approached.
"Mrs. Hart?"
I'd returned to my maiden name.
"Yes."
"Your daughter experienced what appears to be a febrile seizure."
"She had no fever."
"She does now."
102.8.
The doctor explained that sudden fever spikes could trigger seizures in young children.
Usually terrifying but not dangerous.
Tests were precautionary.
Evelyn would be observed.
I heard half of it.
Roman heard every word.
He asked questions.
Good ones.
Calm ones.
But his face remained white.
We spent six hours in the hospital.
Tests came back reassuring.
Viral infection.
Nothing neurological.
At some point, I realized Roman's phone had been vibrating constantly.
"Answer that."
"No."
"It might be work."
"I don't care."
"Roman."
He checked.
Nine missed calls.
Then his face changed.
"What?"
"Board meeting."
"Northline?"
"No. Carter."
I frowned.
"I thought you're only chairman until December."
"I am."
"What's happening?"
"Acquisition vote."
"Today?"
"Yes."
"You forgot?"
"I didn't forget."
"Then why are they calling?"
"I'm supposed to be there."
I stared.
"Roman."
He looked at Evelyn sleeping against me.
"I'm here."
"You can go. She's okay."
"No."
"The doctor said—"
"No."
I remembered Christmas Eve.
Stay with me. Stay with your daughter.
Roman had looked at his watch.
Now millions of dollars and dozens of people waited for him.
He didn't even check the time.
My eyes filled.
"Roman."
"I'm not leaving."
"This vote matters."
"So does this."
"She is okay."
"I know."
"Then go."
He shook his head.
"No."
His phone rang again.
This time Julia.
He answered.
"Julia."
Her voice was loud enough that I could hear.
"Roman, where are you?"
"Hospital."
"What happened?"
"Evelyn had a seizure."
Silence.
"Oh my God. Is she okay?"
"Yes."
"Then stay."
Roman blinked.
"Excuse me?"
"I said stay."
"What about the vote?"
"I'll handle it."
"You need my—"
"No, I don't."
He stared at the phone.
Julia continued.
"You hired me to run the company. Let me run it."
A smile slowly appeared on Roman's face.
"Yes, ma'am."
She hung up.
I laughed.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Say it."
"You created your own Margaret."
Roman looked horrified.
"God help me."
That evening, Evelyn was discharged.
Roman drove us home.
I invited him inside.
Not because I needed help.
Because I wanted him there.
That distinction mattered.
We put Evelyn to bed.
Then sat on my porch with blankets and hot coffee.
Cold air moved through the trees.
Roman stared at the dark lake.
"I thought she was dying."
"I know."
"I couldn't breathe."
"I know."
He looked at me.
"I understand something now."
"What?"
"Christmas Eve."
My body stiffened.
He continued before I could stop him.
"When you asked me to stay, I thought there would always be another night."
I looked down.
"I thought our family was permanent because I had decided it was."
His voice cracked.
"Today, for ten seconds, I thought Evelyn could disappear while I was holding her."
I touched his hand.
He froze.
"I finally understand why time matters."
Tears filled my eyes.
"Roman."
"I would give anything to change that night."
"I know."
"I can't."
"No."
He turned his hand beneath mine.
Not holding.
Offering.
I let my fingers rest in his palm.
We sat that way for a long time.
Then he whispered, "I still love you."
I looked at him.
"I know."
He smiled sadly.
"You've said that for almost a year."
"Because it's true."
"Do you?"
My heart pounded.
"Do I what?"
"Love me."
I could have lied.
Maybe I should have.
Instead:
"Yes."
Roman's eyes closed.
"But," I continued.
He laughed weakly.
"Of course."
"I don't know what that means."
"I won't ask."
"That's exactly why I'm telling you."
He opened his eyes.
"I loved you when I signed the divorce papers."
"I know."
"I loved you when I hated you."
"I know."
"I love you now."
His hand tightened slightly.
"But I will never go back to being your wife the way I was."
"I don't want her back."
I stared.
"The woman who waited in that kitchen?"
His eyes filled.
"I destroyed her."
"No."
I shook my head.
"Don't give yourself that much power."
Roman stared.
"I lost her because she finally learned she deserved to exist."
His thumb brushed mine once.
"I like this Savannah better."
"So do I."
He smiled.
Then leaned toward me.
Slowly.
He stopped inches away.
Not assuming.
Asking without words.
Every memory flashed through me.
Our first kiss.
Our wedding.
Claire.
The photograph.
The hospital.
Therapy.
Evelyn.
I could kiss him.
I wanted to.
Instead, I whispered, "Not yet."
Roman closed his eyes.
Then moved back.
"Okay."
I started crying.
He looked alarmed.
"Did I—"
"No."
"Then why—"
"Because you stopped."
His face broke.
He understood.
That might have been our most intimate moment in years.
Not the almost-kiss.
The stopping.
Roman left at midnight.
The next morning, a package arrived.
No sender.
Inside was an old photograph.
Roman at seventeen.
Standing beside a blonde woman I recognized as Marianne.
On the back, someone had written:
Ask him why he really hates Christmas.
I stared at it.
The handwriting wasn't Marianne's.
And the postmark was Chicago.
When I called Roman, he went silent.
Then he said:
"I know who sent it."
"Who?"
"My father."
I laughed in disbelief.
"Your father is dead."
Roman's answer chilled me.
"I know."
"Then what do you mean?"
"The handwriting belongs to his attorney."
May you like
And with Christmas only six weeks away, a dead man's secrets had somehow found us again.
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