I guided my daughter over to the dessert table, settled her onto a lounger, and placed a lemon square in her hand. She ate it slowly, swinging her feet, peaceful again as though nothing had happened.
But I couldn’t let it go. That pallor. The way he’d nearly dropped her.
“Grief,” I muttered to myself. “Kids and grief. That’s all it is.”
I couldn’t shake it.
Except it wasn’t the sort of shock a strange remark from a child should create. It was the kind of shock someone displays when another person, without realizing it, has said exactly what they’ve been terrified of hearing.
Rachel’s words from the office kitchen came drifting back into my mind.
What that might be doing to your standing at the firm.
I got to my feet. I told Mia to remain there with Mrs. Peterson from accounting, then headed toward the corner where Harold had disappeared.
