Chapter 6: The Weight of Quiet Water
Newport in November was not a tourist town.
The harbor shops were half-shuttered.
The whale-watching boats were dry-docked.
The streets were mostly locals — fishermen, retirees, the woman who ran the hardware store and seemed to know everyone's name.
Amy had been there four days.
She had developed a routine without meaning to.
Tea at the window before the harbor woke up.
A slow walk along the breakwater after breakfast.
Lunch at the café next door, where a man named George always had the same table and always nodded at her without asking anything.
Afternoons in the bookstore, helping Ruth shelve returns and straighten the display tables, because Ruth had asked once and Amy had said yes and now it seemed to be a thing.
She had not called Daniel.
She had not called anyone except her obstetrician in New York, who had referred her to a midwife in Newport named Dr.
Okafor, who had seen her on day two and said the baby was fine and Amy's blood pressure was better than expected given the circumstances.
"What circumstances?" Dr.
Okafor had asked.
"Stress," Amy said.
Dr.
Okafor had looked at her over her glasses.
"The kind that's behind you or the kind that's still coming?"
"I'm not sure yet," Amy said.
Dr.
Okafor had nodded as though that was a perfectly reasonable answer.
On the fifth morning, Ruth knocked on the door with tea and a question.
"There's a man downstairs," she said.
"He's been standing outside for about twenty minutes.
He's not from here."
Amy's cup stopped halfway to her mouth.
"What does he look like?"
"Tall.
Dark coat.
Looks like he hasn't slept in a week." Ruth paused.
"He hasn't come in.
He's just standing there looking at the sign."
Amy set the cup down.
"Did he ask for me?"
"No.
He asked if we had a poetry section."
Amy almost laughed.
"We don't," Ruth said.
"I told him we had one shelf.
He bought three books he clearly didn't want and then went back outside."
Amy stood up and went to the window.
Daniel was standing on the harbor street below, holding a paper bag from the bookstore, looking out at the water.
He was wearing the navy coat she had given him two Christmases ago.
His shoulders were carrying something heavy.
"How did he find me?" she said, mostly to herself.
"Claire," Ruth said simply.
"I'd guess."
Amy watched him for a moment.
He didn't look up.
He didn't look toward the window.
He just stood there with the bag of books he didn't want, looking at the water, and she could see from the way he was standing that he was not going to come in unless she let him.
"Send him up," she said.
Ruth left without comment.
Amy sat back down at the table.
She wrapped both hands around her tea.
She heard his footsteps on the staircase — heavier than she remembered, or maybe she was just listening differently now.
He knocked twice.
"Come in," she said.
Daniel opened the door.
He looked worse than she had expected.
The shadow under his eyes was deep.
He hadn't shaved.
He was holding the paper bag like he'd forgotten it was there.
He looked at her.
She looked at him.
"You found me," she said.
"Claire," he said.
"She called me.
I didn't ask her to."
"I know.
That's Claire."
He stepped inside but didn't come further into the room.
He stood near the door as though he wasn't sure he had the right to take up more space than that.
"Are you all right?" he said.
"I'm fine."
"Amy—"
"I'm fine, Daniel.
Sit down."
He sat in the chair across from her.
He set the paper bag on the floor.
He looked at the harbor through the window for a moment, then back at her.
"I know about the envelope," he said.
She was quiet.
"My mother told me.
She didn't tell me what was in it.
But I figured it out." He stopped.
"I should have figured it out weeks ago.
I should have—" He stopped again.
Amy looked at him.
"Say it," she said.
"You're pregnant."
The word sat between them in the small room above the harbor.
"Yes," Amy said.
Daniel put his face in his hands.
She watched him.
She didn't reach for him.
She waited.
When he looked up, his eyes were wet.
"How long?" he said.
"Four months."
"The prenatal appointments."
"Yes."
"The morning you were sick."
"Yes."
"The weekend I went to London."
"I was going to tell you that weekend," she said.
"And then you left."
He flinched.
"I know."
"I was going to tell you at the gala." Her voice was steady.
"I had the envelope.
I had the photograph.
I had a note." She looked at the window.
"And then I watched you dance with her."
"Amy—"
"I'm not angry," she said.
"I want you to understand that.
I was angry for a long time.
But I stopped being angry somewhere between the airport and here, and what I feel now is something different."
"What do you feel?"
She looked at him.
"Tired," she said.
"And clear."
He leaned forward.
"Tell me what I need to do."
"I don't know yet," she said.
"But there's something you need to tell me first."
"Anything."
"Vanessa," Amy said.
"I need to know the truth.
Not a version of it.
Not the part that makes you look better.
The truth."
May you like
Daniel looked at his hands.
And then, for the first time since Chicago, he told it.
