Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
I find myself standing outside her door, reading and re-reading the hand-painted “Freya’s Room” sign as if it reads “Keep out”. The hallway is quiet except for the distant hum of the ocean. My pulse flutters in my throat. Carolyn didn’t ask me to build any bridges. In fact, her advice was clear. Stay well away from the child. One wrong word and I could undo whatever fragile thread is left between “Carolyn” and this little girl. I knock, three light taps, barely louder than my heartbeat.
“Freya? Can I come in?”
A long pause. I’m already bracing to be ignored when a small voice answers, “Okay.”
I push it open slowly. The space inside is a child's haven, walls painted a soft lavender with murals of fairy-tale forests, the air sweet with the faint strawberry scent of baby shampoo and crayons. A canopy draped in gauzy white hangs over a small bed like a cloud. Toys scatter the rug—plush bears in bow ties. Morning sun pours through a large window, turning everything bright and golden.
Freya is curled on the window seat, hugging her knees to her chest. The Velveteen Rabbit is open beside her. Her curls are a wild halo, catching the light, and her eyes big and guarded, flick up to me and then away.
I hover in the doorway, feeling wrong-footed and clumsy. “Mind if I…?” I gesture toward the window seat.
She shrugs, tiny shoulders barely moving. “You can if you must.” Then she ignores me and goes back to reading her book.
I lower myself onto the cushion beside her, leaving a careful gap. The seat is warm from the sun. Our knees are almost touching. For a minute, the only sound is the page turning.
She’s still mad at me. I can feel it radiating off her in waves, arms wrapped tight around the book, mouth pressed into a stubborn line.
“I’m really very sorry about the vase, Freya,” I say quietly, meaning every syllable. “I never should have told Daddy, but it kind of slipped out accidentally. I know that was very careless of me, I should have been more careful, and I hate that I’ve hurt you.”
Her fingers tighten on the book. She doesn’t look at me, but her bottom lip wobbles.
“I promise I’ll make it up to you,” I add softly. “Whatever you want. Anything. Just ask, okay?”
Silence stretches. Then, so quietly I almost miss it. “Okay.”
I start to stand, slowly, like any sudden move might spook her, when her small voice stops me.
“You can have tea with me if you want.”
I turn, and she’s already sliding off the seat, book abandoned, padding over to the corner where her miniature kitchen lives. A pink plastic stove, tiny cups, and a battered stuffed rabbit wearing a crooked bow tie on one of the three stools in it. She glances back, eyes hopeful but braced for the usual no, the one Carolyn, it would seem always gave.
My heart cracks right down the middle. Freya is not a hateful child. She is an adorable ray of sunshine.
“I would love to have some tea with you and Mr. Rabbit,” I say, and I mean it so fiercely my voice almost shakes.
Her whole face lights up, like someone flipped a switch. We settle on the little stools, knees touching.
“Earl Grey or English breakfast?” she asks.
“Earl Grey, please.”
She pours imaginary tea from a plastic teapot, and she passes me a plate of plastic chocolate chip cookies. We clink cups.
“Sugar?” she asks politely.
“One cube, please,” I say with equal politeness.
Graciously, she drops one cube into my cup. The rabbit gets two sugars.
While we “sip”, I reach out and gently touch one of her curls. “Do you ever wear your hair in a French braid? I think it will make you look like a Princess.”
She nods shyly. “I like it. But nobody here knows how to do it.”
“I do,” I say quickly. “Do you want me to braid your hair for you?”
Her eyes go huge. “Really? How come you never told me before?”
I shrug. “I never thought about it. So… do you want me to?”
Two minutes later, she’s perched between my knees while I brush and part her baby-fine hair, weaving two neat little braids, tying them off with the pink ribbons she dug out of a drawer. She smells like strawberry shampoo and warm sun, and when I finish, she grins happily at the mirror. Then she twists around and throws her arms around my neck without warning, nearly knocking me over.
“I love them. I look so pretty.”
“Yes, I agree. You look very pretty.” I nod and feel a genuine affection for her. How Carolyn can think this little angel is hateful I will never know.
We go back to sipping our tea. I ask what else she loves, genuinely curious, and her answers tumble out. She likes watching the flowers grow in the garden, but hates the “creepy” back corner where some scary shadows live. She loves painting, but she can’t paint well. She likes making chocolate cupcakes with pink icing, but nobody will allow her in the kitchen.