“Yes,” he said simply. “Sometimes they are.” Hazel eyes focused on Nevada. Eden smiled despite the traces of tears still shining on her eyelashes. “The memories aren’t sad, not completely,” she said. “Justbittersweet. Aurora was ten months old, and alive the way only a healthy baby can be. Tears and laughter, going full tilt one minute and sound asleep the next. Sweet little tornado. Her laughter made me think of bright orange poppies.” Eden smiled, remembering, and her smile was as real as her tears had been. Nevada’s throat tightened around emotions he had not permitted himself to feel for too many years. “How long ago,” he asked, his voice low. “Six years. Early in spring. I was sixteen, too old to be a child and not old enough to be anything else,” Eden said, looking past Nevada, remembering another time, another place. “My sister, Aurora, was almost one. She got sick the way babies do, sniffles and short temper and endless fussing. Then she got an ear infection, then another cold, another infection, a cough, and each time she fussed less.”
