He takes a big bite of the sandwich. Apparently the tension that is floating in the air between us does little to quiet his appetite. His index finger pops up as he chews hurriedly. "She had her own bedroom at our place. Maisy helped her decorate it."

"Was she there a lot?"

"She'd take the train into the city a couple of times a month."

I adjust the napkin on my lap. "Is it hard for the two of you now?  I'm just wondering if you two ever talk about Maisy?"

"We did the other day," he begins before he stops to finish the last of the beer in his glass. "She was there with Maisy when I went to meet with the real estate broker. She tried to tell me I was making a mistake."

"A mistake?" I parrot back. "Your mother thinks leaving Maisy was a mistake?"

"My mother thinks it's all a mistake." His hand flies through the air to circle the space above us. "She thinks I should have tried harder with Maisy. She doesn't understand how I fell in love with you. She wants me to keep the house and let Maisy live there. She thinks I'm just like my brother."

I pinch the bridge of my nose, as I feel a headache wash over me. Maybe it's just anxiety. After all, I just heard that the mother of the man I'm falling in love with is his ex-girlfriend's biggest fan.

Dane pushes the plate that is sitting between us aside. He reaches forward to grab hold of my right hand. "I love my mother. She's everything to me but she's wrong about this. You're the woman for me. Maisy and I didn't belong together and I'm nothing like my brother."

I smile at the faint grin on his face.  "I thought my mom was difficult."

"I don't live my life for anyone but myself, Bridget." He brings my hand to his lips. "I can't make my mother happy. She wants to move to New York and right now she wants to live with Maisy. That's her decision. It has nothing to do with me and you."

***

"You're not going to invite me up to your place to show me your drawings?" He winks as the question leaves his lips.

"My drawings?" I cock a brow. "Isn't that some old pick-up line men used to use years ago?"

"If I had drawings, and a place to live, I'd use it only on you."

I throw my head back in carefree laughter. "There is something I should show you but I can't today. I'm meeting a friend. He's showing some of his stuff at a museum in a few weeks and they've agreed to include a few of my drawings."

"You're talking about Brighton Beck, aren't you?"

"I am," I say bluntly. "Do you know who he is?"

"He was at the hospital the night you were hit by the car." He cradles my cheek in his palm. "I knew it was him right away but I was too torn up over you to say a word to him."

"You like art." It's a statement, not a question.

"I've always liked it," he confesses. "I used to take Cleo to some exhibits before..."

"Before the disagreement?" I offer, wanting to move the conversation along. "What exactly happened between you and her?"

He reaches up the scratch his ear. "It's too complicated to get into now. It seemed like a big issue at the time, but now I realize I was wrong."

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."