Page 39 of The Seven Miracles of Beatrix Holland

Beatrice stopped walking and turned to face him.

Don’t cross your arms. He always knows when you’re nervous.

Helpless to stop herself, she crossed her arms. “You let a woman steal my sister from me. You let a daughter go . Did she matter that little to you? I don’t know who you are anymore, and I’m not sure I ever did. ”

His eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “You’ve always known me. I’m the one who loves you most.”

“Did Naya know?”

“No. She… suspected I was hiding something. But I never told her.”

Beatrice gave a half laugh. Was she glad that Naya had also been kept in the dark? Of course she was—maintaining that kind of secret would have eaten Naya alive. But oh, how heartbreaking. “So she never knew who you were, either.”

“Both of you knew exactly who I was. Who I am. A man who would do anything to protect those he loves.” His gaze fell to the sand. “I’ll never forgive myself for the shame of letting Cordelia go, though.”

“Nor should you.” She walked away from him.

“Beatrice—”

Her stride didn’t slow, even when she tripped over a piece of driftwood. She wheeled her arms, keeping herself upright and moving fast. When her father caught up with her, when he grasped her arm, she was panting. He must have had to run.

“ Please ,” he panted, his face streaming with tears.

She pulled her arm away sharply, but she slowed. Then she stopped, digging her toes deeply into the sand, finding the chilly dampness under the top layer of warmth.

This hurt—it hurt so much, and honestly, she could admit that this betrayal was small compared to some. Her father had just loved her very much. The one he’d truly betrayed was Cordelia, not her.

Still, her very soul ached.

He breathed heavily, recovering.

This was on him. This was all on him.

Finally, when he’d stopped wheezing, her father said, “What’s it going to take, Beatrice?”

“For what?” There was no reason to make any of this easy.

“For you to forgive me.”

Beatrice couldn’t help it—she laughed. “You think you can snap your fingers and I’ll just forget the fact that you lied to me about everything for the entirety of my life?”

“Just tell me what it will take.”

“A fucking miracle, Dad.”

He glanced to the left, where the surf was breaking. “Watch out.”

A wave larger than the others crashed, racing up the sand toward them. It wouldn’t have been big enough to knock either of them over, but instinctively, they dodged backward.

Beatrice felt something cold and hard catch her heel just before she went down with a thump. Any other day, the fall onto her backside would have made her laugh. Today, though, the jolt felt like just another slap in the face.

Her father reached out his hand. “Need help?”

“Absolutely not.” She brushed the sand off her palms. What had she tripped over anyway? It hadn’t felt like driftwood or seaweed… Scrabbling at the place her heel had caught, she felt it. Rounded glass, partially buried.

Naya had loved finding old glass on the beach, the sharp edges worn down.

She’d even resembled the glass at the end, something Beatrice had thought but never said.

Her sharp elbows and knees had softened, her chiseled jaw melting.

Her brown skin, always soft, had felt like the lightest silk.

Only her voice, always sharp and bright with love, had never dulled.

Beatrice pushed more sand aside.

“Careful. It could be broken.”

She didn’t look at the man who’d lost the right to tell her how to do anything.

The glass was buried deep, but at least it gave her something to do for a minute or two, a reason to avoid looking at him. It was a squat beer bottle, remarkably still whole, though the green glass was worn and clouded. Wedged in the neck of it was a cork, but the bottle felt empty and light.

“Wouldn’t that be something,” her father offered, “if there was a message in there? You remember that day we sent those messages out?”

The memory flooded back. The three of them on Venice Beach on Mother’s Day.

She’d been what, fifteen? Sixteen? Naya had just started struggling with chronic bronchitis and various respiratory infections that never really cleared up, even though the COPD wouldn’t kill her for another twenty-seven years.

Beatrice had been so scared—looking back, she realized they must all have been.

It had been Naya’s idea, of course: the green bottles, the yellowed paper with the artfully burned edges, the quill pens they’d dipped into a pot of purple ink.

They’d each written letters, corked them, and tossed them into the water off the pier.

Beatrice’s letter had been a kind of prayer for Naya, she remembered.

Also, she’d mentioned Tony Valdez and the hope that he’d kiss her someday, even though he’d never spared her a second glance in the quad.

The poignancy of the memory felt too intense. She didn’t want this.

But she did want to pop out the cork to see if someone on the other side of the world had put a message in this particular bottle. She had a tiny corkscrew attached to the house key she was still idiotically carrying.

Her father plopped onto the sand next to her.

The cork crumbled, but then it was out. This was silly—it was just an old beer bottle, right?

She held it up and peered inside.

“Anything?”

Beatrice swallowed. “Paper.”

“Seriously?”

Her first finger was just long enough to fit down the neck, if she pushed and twisted—yes, here it came. Here they came, rather.

Two sheets of yellowed paper, burned on the edges.

At the top of one page, Mitchell, my love. And on the other, My darling Button.

Scanning the end of the first page, there it was: Love, Naya.

Beatrice’s own words rang in her head.

A fucking miracle.