10. Duncan
10
DUNCAN
The faint light of dawn filters through the snow-covered windows as I shower, the brisk water doing little to dampen the hum of anticipation thrumming through my body. I dress quickly, pulling on a warm sweater and jeans, then head downstairs.
The storm hit hard overnight, leaving a thick blanket of snow covering the driveway and the surrounding trees. No one’s going anywhere, not today or anytime soon. I don’t mind, but I know Odette will. From the way she bolted from the room last night, I can tell she can’t wait to get away from here. I hope I can change her mind on that.
Then again, there’s so much I could’ve done differently in the last decade. And had I known she was this close all this time, I would’ve tried harder with Caleb and Chloe. I hope it’s not too late to try.
The kitchen is quiet, save for the gentle whir of the grinder as I prepare the coffee. The beans are fresh, a blend from a local roastery I discovered years ago. I measure them carefully and pour them into the grinder, savoring the aroma as they break apart. The espresso machine hisses softly when I load it up and let the rich brew begin to pour.
While the coffee drips into the pot, I retrieve a few boxes and wrapping paper from storage. I wander through the first floor, taking down some of the Christmas decorations. Not much, just a third of it. Enough to ease the holiday implosion going on here without completely dismantling it.
Because she’s not wrong. The company I hired went overboard with the decorations. It looks great in pictures and on video, not so much when one is in the thick of it. As someone who loves all things Christmas, I can’t imagine what that’s like for her. If taking down a few ornaments helps her feel more comfortable, I’ll do it.
As I’m taping up the fourth box, the sound of soft footfalls on the stairs pulls my attention.
“Coffee,” she mumbles, her voice low and husky from sleep.
She’s in pajama bottoms and a spaghetti-strap top, her auburn curls falling in soft waves around her shoulders. She’s stunning in this state, completely relaxed and her expression unguarded. She’s more than stunning, she takes my breath away.
Straightening, I offer her a small smile. “Good morning. Coffee’s almost ready. I got it.”
She blinks at me, as though surprised by my chipper tone. “Morning to you too,” she replies, though it’s grudging, and she folds her arms as she leans against the kitchen island. “You’re up early. Why?”
“I’m always up early.” I move to pour the coffee into two mugs. “Thought I’d get a head start on the day.”
Her eyes shift to the taped off boxes in the living room. “Sick of Christmas already?”
I shrug, handing her a mug. “Figured I’d make the house a little less... festive.”
She lifts a questioning brow as she takes it. “You don’t seem like the type to tone down Christmas. This place was made for it.”
“It was.” I grin, unbothered by her bluntness. “Looks like we’re stuck together for a while, so I thought it might make things more comfortable for you.”
Her lips press into a fine line, and for a beat she looks almost embarrassed. Then she sniffs the coffee and her expression softens slightly. “You grind your own beans?”
“Of course. Only way to get the best flavor.” I take a sip of my own and lean against the counter. “What do you think?”
She hesitates, then takes a tentative sip. Her eyes widen, though she quickly schools her expression. “It’s... fine.”
I laugh, the sound filling the room. “Fine, huh? Coming from you, I’ll take that as high praise.”
She narrows her eyes at me, but there’s no real malice in her gaze. “Are you always this cheerful in the mornings?”
“Depends on the company.” My smile widens. “But I think I’ll make an exception for you.”
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the faintest twitch of her lips before she takes another sip. Warmth spreads through me that has nothing to do with the coffee.
“This is... strange, isn’t it?” she asks suddenly, her green eyes still swirling with emotion.
“Yeah, it is.” I can’t help but smile, a small, sad smile.
She lets out a soft, humorless laugh. “It goes without saying that Chloe and Caleb don’t know about us. You and I… happened before I met them. Before we became friends.”
All I can do is nod, my heart pounding in my chest. There’s so much I want to say, but I don’t know where to begin. Not without food, at least. “What do you want for breakfast?”
She arches a brow at me, her tone laced with skepticism. “You cook?”
I chuckle softly, setting the mug down. “Is that so hard to believe?”
“A little,” she admits, crossing her arms. “You don’t exactly give off the ‘chef’ vibe.”
I pull out eggs, cheese, and vegetables from the fridge, plus a loaf of crusty bread from the pantry. “I learned how to cook at an early age. My mother didn’t want to, so if I didn’t, we would’ve starved.”
There’s a pause, but I can sense her eyes on me, searching, as she processes what I just said. Finally, she sets her mug down next to mine. “I’ll have whatever you’re having, then.”
“French omelet with some toast and fruit. Sound good?”
“Sure. What can I help with?”
“You can cut up the fruit.” I grab a small cutting board and some fresh berries, oranges, and kiwis, handing them to her. “Think you can handle that?”
“I think I can manage.”
She sits at the island, slicing and dicing with surprising precision, while I crack a few eggs into a bowl and whisk them up. Every so often I catch her eyes on me as I move around the kitchen. The steady sound of the knife on the board and the sizzle of eggs in the pan create a comfortable rhythm. I’m pleasantly surprised by how domestic this feels. Snowstorm or not, it makes me glad I came to Vermont anyway.
After a while, she breaks the silence. “What about your dad, then? Did he teach you?”
I glance at her as I fold the omelet with practiced ease. “He left when I was five, but he was barely present before that. My mother kept me around for the welfare checks. She left me to my own devices, as long as I didn’t interfere with her social life. Meals were more of a fend-for-yourself situation.”
She frowns slightly, her hands pausing mid-slice. “That sounds lonely.”
“It was.” I plate the omelet and start on another for her. “How about you? Family dinners every night?”
“Not exactly,” she quips as she resumes her work. “As long as I wasn’t seen or heard, my mom and grandparents left me under the care of their housekeeper. I ate all my meals with the servants. They were my real family. They taught me how to cook, and so much more.”
There’s a touch of wistfulness in her voice that I’m dying to ask. “Why do you refer to yourself as a stain on the Ehrenberg family name?”
“Not me, my grandparents did. I never knew who my dad was. Neither did Mom, or so she claimed. If she knew, she took his name to the grave.”
I finish cooking, and we assemble everything on the island. Two plates of omelets, buttered toast, and a small bowl of fruit for each. It’s simple but hearty. The conversation turns to lighter and safe topics as we eat. She tells me how she ended up coming here, that Chloe suggested it as a getaway, though she’s vague about why she took her up on the offer. I don’t press, but I do tell her the real reason I’m here. That I’m putting the place on the market in January, and also that I’m meeting the realtor here on the 30th. She doesn’t ask why, but she’s also not surprised that the twins don’t know that either.
When we’re done, she surprises me again by helping with the cleanup. We move around the kitchen in sync, wiping down counters and loading the dishwasher. For a moment, it almost feels normal. But then, as quickly as the connection forms, it breaks. She excuses herself and heads upstairs, leaving me alone in the kitchen.
The silence is louder now, the house feeling cavernous again. I tell myself I don’t mind. This is what I came here for, after all — peace and solitude, and also to say goodbye to this house. Yet I can’t help but glance toward the stairs, wondering what she’s doing and why I suddenly wish she hadn’t left.