2. Duncan
2
DUNCAN
Present Day
Manhattan, New York
“So, Dad ,” Chloe’s voice comes through the phone, clear but distant. “I’ve been thinking.”
I can’t help the frown that forms.
Each time my daughter calls me that, each time she enunciates the word Dad like she just did, it’s almost always followed by not-so-good news.
As in, I know you’re not going to like what I have to say but I’m gonna say it anyway because I don’t give a flying fuck about your feelings type of news.
It’s the twins’s tell. Both her and her brother do it. I haven’t been able to figure out if they realize when they’re doing it, or just don’t care.
Which is fine. I’m a big boy. I can take it… most of the time.
Chanting that mantra to myself, I run a hand through my graying hair. “About?”
“Vermont,” she deadpans. “I’m not going.”
Even though I knew this was coming, my frown deepens as I grip the phone a little tighter. “We’ve been planning this for months, Chloe. Spending Christmas together.” As a family , I almost add — but I don’t.
Translation: I have been planning this for months. It was probably an after-thought for the twins.
“I know, but…” A belabored sigh filters through, and I can picture her running her hand through her hair like she always does when she’s about to drive the knife even deeper into an already gaping wound. “Caleb and I talked last night, and he’s not coming. Since it’s just the two of us, it’ll be pointless, don’t you think? We’re not that close anyway.”
Not that close?
What do they think I’ve been trying to do for the past fourteen years?
Nothing, apparently.
As I perch my 6-1 frame on the edge of the couch, coffee mug in hand and phone pressed to my ear, and absentmindedly stare out the window at the gray New York skyline, I make yet another pro-con list of how much of a blessing and a curse that the twins are so much like me.
Well, it’s more of a curse, really. It’s not fun, having the worst parts of your personality reflected back on you in such a brutal, no-holds-barred manner. And by my own children, no less.
Caleb would rather stay in London and spend Christmas with his very new girlfriend’s family. They’ve been dating for all of three weeks — that I know of — and somehow she gets precedent over me.
Serves you right, Duncan.
Truth is, at fifty-five, I’m used to navigating the cutthroat world of hedge funds with ease. But this — forming some semblance of a relationship with my two adult children — is a hurdle I am yet to overcome. It’s not my fault that I missed out on the first eighteen years of their lives. Given my stance on the subject of having biological children, I don’t blame their mother keeping their existence from me until she no longer could.
But that was then, and this is now.
How much longer do the twins intend to punish me for it?
“Chloe, I—” I try again, but she cuts me off.
“Look, I just don’t see the point in going all the way up there for a couple of awkward days. You know how it is.”
“Actually, I don’t.”
Another sigh. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?” she asks, in her brisk, no-nonsense tone — yet another trait she takes after me.
“Nope.”
I should, and any decent-ish father would, but I can’t find it in me to.
Caleb had been upfront with his reasons when he called yesterday afternoon. He’d sounded content, more than he has in years. Like his sister, he still keeps me at arm’s length, and even though he’s direct and blunt, he tempers it with kindness most of the time.
That, and his excitement was palpable, even across the Atlantic. How could I begrudge him that?
Chloe, on the other hand, remains a closed book to me.
She blows out an exasperated breath. “It’ll be sad and pitiful if it’s just the two of us. I’ll feel guilty the whole time. I think it’s better if we just… don’t , and I’m sure you have much better things to do with your holidays. Throw that lavish Christmas Eve party like you do every year. Your friends will appreciate that more.”
Her words hit harder than I expected, but before I can find the right words, she throws in a, “Anyway, I’ve got to run. Merry Christmas, Duncan.”
And just like that, she hangs up.
I stare at the phone in disbelief, her last words hanging in the air.
We’re not that close anyway.
That part, I already knew. But for her to toss in a nonchalant Merry Christmas and hang up?
After everything I’ve done to extend an olive branch, to keep some semblance of family tradition alive, she just shrugs it off like we’re strangers?
Then again, the twins both do it to me. Caleb is usually much nicer about it, while Chloe uses the bull in a china shop approach every time, with little to no regard for who gets caught in the aftermath.
The irony isn’t lost on me, either.
Both styles are tactics I employ professionally, but only when they suit me and are necessary to getting the job done. And yes, sometimes my professional and personal life blends together, but ever since the twins came into my life I’ve tried to be better about it. Tried, and not always succeeded. Either way, the sting of rejection mingles with the bitter aftertaste of my morning coffee, now cold and forgotten in my hand.
I can’t help it but shrug. It’s a setback. One of many setbacks. It doesn’t mean I stop trying, even if this is only one-sided. They are my flesh and blood, and I have a lot to make up for where the twins are involved. I couldn’t make it up to their mother, and now it’s fourteen years too late.
But I can’t — or rather, I shouldn’t — let this put a damper on the holiday spirits. With that resolve in mind, my grip loosens around the phone as the frustration quickly fades, replaced by something deeper — something older.
It’s been ten years since I last spent Christmas alone.
Truth is, I love everything about the holidays. Yet, as someone who hasn’t been in a long-term or committed relationship for over a decade, I don’t enjoy spending the holidays alone, and I’m not afraid or ashamed to admit that out loud.
Again, the irony isn’t lost on me, either.
The last time I spent Christmas alone — or had planned to, anyway — was ten years ago in Aspen. It had, admittedly, been a low point in my life, and one of my making. I’d fucked up yet another thing with the twins, something I did a lot of back in those days. I don’t remember what that was, but, like a coward I’d booked a room at the St. Regis to get away, to hide from the holiday altogether.
But then, she happened.
The woman I met ten years ago in Aspen. She’s been lingering in the back of my mind ever since, her image so vivid it’s like I could reach out and touch her.
Auburn hair that caught the glow of the fireplace in the hotel bar. The nervous smile she gave me when we started talking. Those eyes — green, clear, and oh, so innocent — that seemed to see right through me. A warmth about her that made me feel something I hadn’t felt in years, and haven’t felt with anyone since.
Like me, she’d been running from something. What, she didn’t say. She also didn’t tell me her name, and I didn’t offer up mine either. It didn’t matter, tough. That night was the first time in years I felt connected to someone — really connected. I let myself believe, for one night, that maybe things could be different. Perhaps it was because everything with her felt so easy, so organic. Being with her felt right. It was a no-brainer, loosing ourselves in each other, cocooned together in my suite with the snow piling up outside as if it were sealing us into a different world. One where I wasn’t a new- ish dad who kept fumbling and fucking things up with his adult children, One where she wasn’t — well, whatever she was. One where we were just two people with this unexpectedly strong connection.
Then came Christmas morning, and I left, just like I always do. I had a plane to catch, a life to get back to, an emergency to handle. Whatever excuses I could think of, I did. That final image of her — curled up in the sheets, her auburn hair spread out on the pillow like fire against the white — will forever remain seared in my brain. I’d thought about crawling back into bed with her, or leaving her a note, but what would I even say? So I took the easy way out and left before I could fuck that one even further, like I did everything else in my personal life back then.
I shouldn’t have left her, I know that now. At the very least, I shouldn’t have left without saying goodbye. I know now that I should’ve left her that note. It’s something I’ve regretted every single day. Because, as it turned out, there was no way to find her after that. No name, no contact. Just a face that haunts me, especially around the holidays. While she had been a guest at the St. Regis, she hadn’t been staying there under her own name — that much was apparent when I tried to get information about her from the resort staff. The General Manager didn’t know who she was either, but they knew the guest whose name she was staying there under. Because said guest was another VIP like me, they couldn’t give me the name. Their hands were tied by the same protections put in place to ensure discretion, which I understood. It took me twelve months to track down the other guest using other means, and that trail led me to her gravestone. It’s been nine years and three Private Investigators later, yet I’m still no closer to finding her.
How long is too long to keep searching? For all I know, she’s married. Maybe with kids. Maybe that night meant more to me than it did to her. What if she doesn’t remember me? What if she doesn’t want to be found? For all intents and purposes, I was nothing but a blip in her journey. And even if I do find her, and she wants nothing to do with me, what then?
My phone pings with an incoming email, and I pull it up. It’s from the local realtor in Vermont, one I’ve been dodging for weeks.
Subject: Vermont Property Photoshoot in Progress
Good afternoon Mr. Templeton,
The house looks great! The decorating company did a fabulous job transforming the place into a truly picturesque winter wonderland.
The marketing team is on-site today to shoot videos and photos for the promotional materials. They will be wrapped up and gone from the property by the time you and your family’s planned arrival for the holidays. Once I have them, I’ll send over some preliminary proofs in twenty-four hours.
In the meantime, please let me know if you have any specific instructions or concerns to the winter wonderland theme for the property’s presentation. If need be, the team is available for re-shoots. Since you’ll be in town, I’d also like to meet in-person sometime after Christmas. I’ll send you some dates and times to see what works best for you.
Thank you for your continued trust in our services. And, as always, let me know if you need anything further.
Warmest regards,
Soraya Finch
Finch I’ll give her that. She’s quick, organized, and professional. I barely gave her the go-ahead to list the place a week ago, and only approved the final listing twenty-four hours ago, and she’s already got a crew on-site.
I’m tempted to respond to Soraya’s email and tell her to tell the crew to take their time, since I won’t be coming after all. But it’s too pathetic to have to admit to a stranger that the reason I won’t be there is because my adult children canceled on me.
Letting out a breath, I set the phone down on the couch arm, and glance outside. The New York City skyline stretches out beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city’s lights flickering like static against the gray afternoon sky. The silence of the penthouse stretches out, broken only by the faint hum of the HVAC system. The decorations from yesterday’s soirée still adorn the space, mocking me with their festive glitter.
Chloe isn’t wrong. I am known for throwing the most lavish and private Christmas Eve parties. Just last night, this penthouse was packed. People didn’t seem to mind that the fact that this year, I moved that party five days ahead of schedule in order to honor the commitment I’d made to the twins.
I stand and cross to the windows, looking out at the city below. Snow is falling, just starting to stick to the rooftops. It’ll be heavier in Vermont. Picturesque. Perfect for the glossy brochures Soraya will have printed.
It’s just a house , I tell myself. Just another asset. Soon, it’ll belong to someone else, someone who’ll use it. Someone who will fill it with the life I never did.
Then again, the Vermont house was never supposed to end up like this — another thing I own but never use. Another piece of something that once mattered. But time has a way of turning even the best plans into unfinished business.
I stare at the skyline a moment longer before turning back to the couch. My coffee still sits there, untouched. I consider calling Chloe back to try and change her mind, but her words ‘sad and pitiful’ play on repeat in my head. As tempting as it is, I won’t beg — not when she made it pretty clear how she feels about spending time with me.