Page 15 of Quiet Beautiful Things

I whip my head around. “What the hell?” I say to Hannah.

Hannah points at Dr. Stone. “Her. Not me.”

I turn back. “What the hell are you talking about? CPSwascalled. That’s why you’re here.” I motion down the hallway. “That’s whyshe’shere.”

“This place is disgusting,” Hannah interprets as Dr. Stone signs. “Maisy is four-and-a-half years old. She knows no sign language. You haven’t begun teaching her to read. She’s isolated from the whole world. You should be ashamed of yourself. And now that she’s old enough to attend kindergarten this fall, you thought you’d dump her on the residential Deaf school and make her someone else’s problem?” Her head shakes in loathing. “How do you live with yourself?”

My blood boils. “Lady, you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” I turn to Hannah. “Tell her I just got Maisy yesterday. Tell her—”

“Mr. Montana, please,” Hannah urges. “Talk to Dr. Stone, not me.”

I’m sure I’m red in the face when I turn to the woman I thought was my dream girl. But really it seems she’s nothing more than a nightmare.

“Lady?” Hannah interprets. “Did you just call me Lady?” Dr. Stone looks pissed as she signs more forcefully. “It’s Dr. Stone. Or just doctor. Or even ma’am.”

“Fine,” I say, my temple now throbbing. “Well,doctor. Listen up. Until yesterday, I didn’t even know I had a kid.” My arms fly around, gesturing to all the empty bags and boxes. “All this shit is here because Maisy was dumped on my doorstep with nothing more than a suitcase. I had to get everything. Furniture. Clothes. Toys. Shit kids eat. I don’t know how to be a fucking dad. And I especially don’t know how to be a dad to a deaf child. I’m doing my best, but I’m drowning here.

“And then you show up and accuse me of being a deadbeat. You don’t know the first thing about me, so get off your high horse and quit judging me. You’re here because I need help. Not because I want to‘make her someone else’s problem’.” I shake my head. “Jesus, she’s not a fucking problem. She’s my goddamn kid.”

Her expression softens as Hannah continues to sign well after I’m done speaking.

Dr. Stone lets out a long, frustrated breath and paces behind the couch as her hands begin to move. “I’m sorry,” Hannah says for her. “I wasn’t given any of that information. I was told it was an urgent case. I jumped to conclusions when I saw the trash and the broken glass. Let’s start over, shall we? And please call me Ellie.”

Ellie uses her fingers to slowly spell out her name. At least I assume that’s what she’s doing, all I’ve learned isMaisy. Then she brings an open palm toward her face, tapping her middle finger twice on her cheek. Hannah interprets, “This is my name sign.”

Chapter Six

6

Ellie

What the heck just happened?I never go off on parents like that. Not to mention how unprofessional he must think I am. Why did I react so strongly?

I convince myself it’s because of our ‘moments.’ It’s because I had this image of him being a perfect guy in the perfect town, and that image was instantly shattered when I saw the messy house and the way Maisy reacted to him. Some PhD I am.Oh, God, did I really call him a terrible father?

I feel even worse when he explains how CPS showed up yesterday and handed over a child he didn’t even know about. He’s been thrown into the deep end, and he has no idea how to swim. I try to imagine what it must be like for him, finding out not only that he has a daughter, but a deaf one with whom he has no means to communicate.

This guy—this handsome, compassionate guy—is actually quite amazing. He may not be able to swim, yet he jumped in with both feet. He’s trying to show her this is her home. He’s not upset with her. Yes, he’s frustrated with the situation, but it seems he genuinely wants to help Maisy.

“Again, I’m really sorry about before,” I sign. I thumb to the hallway. “Mind if I go back alone?”

“Be my guest.”

Though Hannah is here to interpret, I still focus on his lips. His full, manly, inviting lips. On average, deaf lip readers pick up less than half of what people are saying. I’ve taken numerous advanced courses and worked with countless professionals tobecome proficient at it. Still, even with my extensive training, I only get about seventy to eighty percent. With Blake, however, it seems to be more. Maybe it’s his mouth. Or the way he enunciates. Or the shape of his lips. I look away, heat crossing my face as I realize I’m still staring at those lips.

I gather up blank pieces of paper and some crayons and head out on a quest to find Maisy.

Blake’s house is nice. Especially for a bachelor pad. He must be even more well-off than all those empty, expensive-looking boxes indicate. I recognize a famous piece of artwork in the room that must be his office. I step in and run my hand across a wine rack that’s holding well over a hundred bottles. I remove one and read the label. My eyebrows shoot up when I readMontana Wineryacross the bottom. His name is Blake Montana. Oh my gosh, I have a few bottles of his wine back at my apartment. This guy is a millionaire.

Not that it impresses me. In my experience, most millionaires are jerks, my own family notwithstanding. My dad inherited millions from his grandparents. Beth and I are pretty much set for life. Growing up, we wanted for nothing. Yet our parents instilled in us a good work ethic and a sense of philanthropy. It makes me wonder if Blake’s parents did the same thing, or if he’s just another trust fund kid.

I put the bottle back where I found it and leave the room. The next room I come to is obviously Maisy’s. And now I’m thoroughly impressed. The guy just found out yesterday that he’s a father, and yet this room is decorated as if Maisy has grown up here. Stuffed animals are piled in a hammock strung in one corner. Toy bins line one entire wall and are filled with Barbie dolls, books, miniature ponies, and a hundred other brand-new toys. A white, wooden-frame bed covered with a pink quilt is unmade. I can still see the indentation of Maisy’s head on the pink pillow.

I look under the bed, a place some kids like to hide. But it’s empty.

A flash of platinum blonde ringlets comes from the closet. She was peeking out at me. I sit at the small table in the corner and start to draw. It takes a few minutes, but Maisy’s curiosity gets the better of her and she slowly exits the closet and looks at what I’m drawing.

Her eyes are glued to the paper as I do my best to depict a house.Thishouse. I even draw a bed with a pink duvet cover on it. To the side, I draw two figures. A little girl with yellow ringlets in her hair holding a cat. And a man. I become acutely aware of a warmth spreading from my fingers to the rest of my body as I draw him.

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