He loved these first moments of awareness, hearing Loree’s breathing, feeling her warmth, knowing they would be his for the remainder of his life. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and gingerly moved away from her. She sighed softly and shifted over until she was nestled in the spot where he had been. He brought the blankets over her shoulders. He carried the lamp to the dresser and increased the flame by a hair’s breadth. He glanced toward the bed. Loree hadn’t stirred. He turned back to his task and ran his hand over the wooden violin case she’d given him for Christmas. On the top, someone had carved his name in fancy script. His gift to her—a small music box—had paled in comparison. “If you’re not going to play your mother’s violin, you need to keep it protected,” Loree had told him. “Someday, maybe your son will play it.” His son. He thought of Drew’s tiny fingers and wondered when a child’s fingers would be long enough to play a violin. Houston’s daughter Laurel could probably play.
