Chapter 21 Dominique #2
Before I could think too hard about it, I spoke, gaze fixed on the stovetop.
On the past. Singing in the shower. Dances in the living room.
“Angelique dreamed of being on stage. She loved the theater. Musicals especially. Her voice was… beautiful. Mesmerizing. We got season tickets every year to the Toronto productions. The ones on the big stage. Once, for her birthday, we flew to New York. There’s nothing like seeing a show on Broadway. Are you familiar with Les Misérables?”
“I saw the movie with Hugh Jackman and Russell Crowe. I enjoyed it.”
I smiled sadly. “Yes. It was good. We saw it twice on the big screen when it came out and once on stage in Toronto when it played. It was Angelique’s favorite. She knew every word and could sing every song.”
A faint intake of surprise stirred the air, and Kobe’s next words came out on a whisper. “Oh my god. Cosette.”
“Yes. Like the child in the story. Fantine dies and leaves her in Valjean’s care. It was Angelique’s dying wish that she be named Cosette.”
Kobe’s hand landed on my lower back. He turned me to face him and cradled my jaw, angling my chin so I would look at him.
I struggled to make eye contact. The pain of remembering brought an ache to my chest. I waited for the tears, but they didn’t come.
I waited for the strangling chokehold that crippled me and often sent me to my knees. It remained absent.
Grief was present. It burned under my skin, but it had taken a new form. A softer form. It lingered but was no longer debilitating.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“No. Don’t be sorry.” Kobe’s tender words penetrated the fog. “I know talking about her isn’t easy, but thank you for sharing.”
“I’m better, Kobe. I’m getting better. Slowly. It’s not fair to you that I—”
“Stop it. She was part of your life for a long time. I don’t expect you to forget her overnight.”
“I couldn’t if I wanted to.” I glanced at the kitchen doorway, listening to Cosette play. “That little girl is a constant reminder.” I met Kobe’s concerned gaze. “Have I ruined this?”
“Not at all.”
Dinner passed with constant interruptions from Cosette, who was curious about Kobe and continuously bounced into the kitchen to stare at the stranger in her house.
They exchanged smiles several times before Cosette shed the last of her reservation and decided Kobe was worthy of seeing all her toys, hearing all her songs, and watching all her dances.
It was impossible to engage in a deep conversation, and we eventually gave up.
After dinner, Kobe volunteered to entertain Cosette while I cleaned up the kitchen.
By the time I joined them in the living room, Kobe was seated on the floor by the Christmas tree, surrounded by Cosette’s endless collection of Polly Pockets, the two deeply entrenched in playing house.
As was typical, Cosette was the boss, telling Kobe where to put the furniture and directing him along.
Kobe didn’t flinch and followed every instruction, giving all the characters in her story unique voices.
I remained out of sight for a time, observing their interactions, silently tickled at how easily Kobe handled a toddler he barely knew—and he a man with no kids of his own. The sturdy cop side of him had vanished as he invented dramatic conversations.
Cosette giggled and reciprocated, alternating between French and English. Kobe, although bilingual, stuck to one, and I wondered if Cosette had informed him to speak English as I so often did with her when she mixed her languages.
This man on my living room floor was the Kobe who volunteered with the Big Brothers organization, who coached baseball in the summertime.
The same man who had been forced to grow up too soon.
Who left home at sixteen and somehow managed to make his way in the world all by himself.
Levelheaded and mature, yet still a kid at heart, and he owned it.
He recognized his contrasting characteristics.
Kobe didn’t pretend to be someone he wasn’t.
The handsome detective noticed me spying from the doorway a short time later and blushed, cutting his gaze to the spread of dolls in front of him. “Busted playing with dolls,” he said under his breath. “I’m in a world of trouble, Cosette.”
Cosette didn’t understand his statement and glanced between us.
“C’est l’heure d’aller se coucher,” I said, informing her it was bedtime. “Clean up your toys.”
Cosette crossed her arms and pouted. “Non. Je veux jouer.”
“Playing is all done. Bedtime. Show Kobe where the toybox is.”
“Je peux tu prendre un bain?”
“No bath tonight. In the morning, before we go visit Maman.”
“Come on. I’ll help,” Kobe offered, collecting the dolls. “Where do they go?”
Cosette reluctantly gave in and sulkily sang the tidy-up song from daycare as she put the toys in their bin.
When they finished, I collected Cosette and stalled. “I’ll be a few minutes.”
“No problem. Take your time.”
I glanced around the living room, zeroing in on the curio cabinet. “Do you want to pour a couple of drinks?”
“Sure. I can do that.”
I returned fifteen minutes later to find Kobe sipping from a tumbler while admiring the various Christmas decorations strung on the tree.
He’d turned the lights on, and the clear bulbs chased one another around the branches.
The effect nauseated me, but Cosette had chosen them.
I hadn’t put any presents beneath the tree yet, out of fear that a toddler might lose impulse control the second my back was turned and tear into them early, so the hat-tip to Christmas felt only half-realized.
“Is she sound asleep?” he asked, turning from the tree.
“Not yet, but she’s reading quietly in bed. It usually doesn’t take long.”
Kobe motioned to a tumbler on the coffee table. “It’s not a smoky Mortician but someone has decent taste in scotch, so it’s not half bad.” He held his glass in a cheers motion.
“Small pleasures.” I helped myself to the drink, sipping. Kobe hadn’t added mix, and the strong alcohol seared a path down my esophagus.
Kobe laughed when I blew out a wheezing breath. “Sorry. I didn’t know how you liked it.”
“It’s perfect.”
“At least I poured it into a glass. Teenage me would have sucked it right out of the bottle.”
I sipped more cautiously the second time, eyeing him. “If you drank your tequila directly from the bottle in Mexico, it’s no wonder your memories are hazy.”
Kobe guffawed. “We don’t talk about Mexico. Besides, tequila is my ex, remember. Scotch and exploring Europe is my future.” He upended his glass and licked his lips approvingly. “It’s tasty.”
The corner of my mouth twitched. “I fear if that’s how you drink your scotch, you won’t be traveling anywhere but to the bathroom. It’s meant to be sipped.”
Kobe chuckled and set his glass aside. Clasping my hand, he drew me closer. “I love it when you smile. It lights you up, and those dark shadows you carry around fade.”
The comment should have stung, but it didn’t. It warmed me more than the alcohol. “Why are you so easy to be around? I’m not exactly a catch.”
“That’s your opinion.”
Kobe’s attention moved to the tree. This man had hooked his claws in me and seemed determined to bring me back to life. I wanted to give him something in return, and I had a feeling, I knew the perfect thing.
“What are you doing for Christmas?”
Kobe cut his gaze from the tree. “Likely working. Pretending the holiday doesn’t exist, like I do every year. Why?”
“I’ll be making princess pancakes with strawberries and whipped cream, suffering endless rounds of The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, and not the original 1966 version but the god-awful one with Jim Carrey.”
“Hey. I love that guy. Don’t knock our fellow Canadian comedian, and how the hell do you know the date the original Grinch was made?”
“I’ve had to defend my stance on which version is better for many years. I’ve since armed myself with as many facts as possible.”
“Ah, I see.” A wistful longing took the place of Kobe’s smile. “It sounds like you and Cosette will have a fantastic day. I don’t know what a princess pancake is, but if it involves a metric ton of syrup, I bet it’s fantastic.”
“Join us.”
“No.” His answer was instant. He shook his head and stepped back, putting distance between us.
I grabbed his hand, keeping him close. “Why not?”
“Because Christmas is a time for families, and I’m not part of—”
“Stop it. My family was destroyed two and a half years ago. Do you know how hard it is to get through Christmas without her? I hate setting up that godforsaken tree and seeing it every day. She picked those decorations, and now I have to look at them and try not to fall apart.
“I hate pretending to be festive. I hate the holiday music that every person at work insists on putting on and listening to, day in and day out. It started on the first of December, I’ll have you know.
I hate the icicle lights, the tinkling bells, the way you can’t go anywhere without it being shoved in your face.
If I could ignore it all, I would, Kobe, but I can’t.
I do it for Cosette because she deserves a joyful holiday.
She deserves to experience Santa and Christmas carols and presents.
Join us and maybe this year won’t hurt so much… for either of us.”
Kobe stared into the amber liquid inside my glass, his hand still clasped in mine, squeezing like he feared letting go. Funny, wasn’t I the one at risk of falling apart?
“Okay.” Kobe glanced up from under dark lashes, and in that moment, he seemed impossibly young and vulnerable. “I’d really like that. I haven’t celebrated Christmas since…” He let the sentence hang before shrugging. “I’ve never really celebrated Christmas. Not properly.”
“Then it’s settled.”