"What?"

"That's why he doesn't love me. I remind him of her. And I'm the reason she's dead."

I wrapped my arms around her shoulders. "Don't be sad. Don't let Timothy take this from you. You have a right to know about your mom."

"I know, and I'm not sad. I just understand." She admired the picture again. "They looked happy. He . . . he looked happy."

"Of course he was happy-you were safe."

Everly turned to me. "Thank you." Her eyes were sincere.

I tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. "I love you."

"You have no idea."

She slept with the article tucked beneath her pillow.

We couldn't hold each other and savor during the night, but there was something charming about finding her hand clutched on my arm as we slept, her toes pressed to my leg, and a need to have my face buried in the bouquet of her hair.

And charm threaded itself into the composition of my life the moment I closed my eyes to dream that night. On a cloud I spotted the hourglass of my life stretched over the planes of Earth, and with one swift kick of wind it blew over with nothing yet comprised or fallen. All I saw was the morning sun waiting patiently for me to crawl out of bed. All I felt was the hope of a new day. And that was charm at its finest.

I left Everly sleeping the next morning, unaware of all the new charm and hope blossoming inside of her own dreams. It wasn't until one month later, when we lay in our bed in Red Pine, our lips lost to fever, that I was told of such dreams. She laughed against my mouth as my hands traveled along the softness of her bare skin beneath the covers.

"I have two heartbeats," she whispered.

"I love you too, Everly." My mouth went for hers, but she pulled back slightly.

"I'm being serious."

"So am I."

She inched away, eyes staring up at me. "I have two heartbeats."

"That's impossible unless you're being metaphoric, Peach."

She took my hand that rested on her hip and slid it slowly to her abdomen. And I almost laughed at her, but then her eyes told me a different story. They showed me grains of sand and birthday wishes. They glowed with irrevocable love and awe.

With fervor she repeated, "I have two heartbeats."

"Wh ...when?" I stammered. "Since when?"

She framed my face and leaned in for a kiss. "Fireworks."

She smiled at whatever she saw on my face, but then shrank away when I didn't say anything.

"Are you upset?" she asked.

I shook my head because I still hadn't formed words for this revelation.

"I . . . I wasn't sure if you'd be angry."

"Why in the world would I be angry?" I replied.

"Your mom died." She looked down at the comforter. "And that might be the fate of our child growing up. Not to mention I might have . . . I mean, CIPA is genetic."

There were too many words and worries suddenly in the room. I rushed for her mouth, quieting all doubt with the seal of a binding kiss.

Against my lips she swore, "I'm sorry."

And I was so angry, so completely outraged that she would feel guilty for something our love created. My ire wasn't aimed at her, I knew it was something Timothy embedded, but it crossed me all the same. No parsimonious feelings should ever be allowed to live amongst such wealth.

"Do you want to hear it?" I asked.

"Hear what?"

"Your second heartbeat."