11. Duncan
11
DUNCAN
The crackle of the fireplace fills the otherwise quiet room as I sit on the couch, scrolling through work emails on my laptop. Dinner is ready, keeping warm in the oven. I’ve been waiting for her, not sure if/when she planned to emerge from her self-imposed retreat. The snowstorm outside has blanketed the world in silence, its muffled presence pressing against the large windows of the living room.
Sometime around 5:30 P.M., I hear soft footsteps on the stairs. I glance up to see her walking down the stairs, carrying an armful of sheet music, her auburn curls catching the warm light from the overhead chandelier. She’s changed into something simple — black leggings and an oversized cream sweater that falls off one shoulder — yet on her, it feels like haute couture.
She stops just shy of the living room. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Not at all.” I set my laptop aside, taking in the charcoal streaks on her cheeks. “What’s all that?”
She looks down at the stack in her arms. “Work. Would you mind if I played for a while?”
“Not at all. Would you mind if I stayed?” The prospect of watching her playing again sends a rush of warmth through me.
She seems genuinely confused by it. “Why?”
I can’t help but smile. “I’d love to hear it.”
She shrugs. “But it’s not perfect.”
“Are you stalling?”
“No.” Her lips twitch into a faint smile, and she moves toward the piano. “You’ll have to sign an NDA, though. Caleb handles those.”
“He does?” I didn’t know that.
She shrugs. “I told you. This is work.”
She sets the sheet music on the stand, takes a moment to arrange it, then sits, her fingers poised above the keys. I watch her as she begins to play, the first notes soft and measured before they bloom into a melody that fills the room with raw emotion.
I don’t recognize the piece, but the sound is hauntingly beautiful, her interpretation imbued with something uniquely hers. It’s like she’s peeling back layers of her soul, exposing it for the world — or just me — to see. The music stirs something deep within me, emotions I’ve buried for years, and I let it wash over me. She pauses every three minutes or scribbles something on her music sheet, plays it again, then moves onto the next one. They must all be original pieces, hence the NDA.
At some point, I head for the kitchen to get dinner ready. The table is half-set; I had been preoccupied earlier, waiting for her. Now, I finish the task, placing plates, silverware, and glasses. The aroma of dinner wafts through the air, mingling with the sound of her playing.
When she stops abruptly, I turn to find her standing by the piano, her gaze fixed on me. I hadn’t realized I’d stopped moving, a plate in one hand, tears streaming silently down my face.
She angles her chin in my direction. “Are you okay?”
I manage a shaky laugh, wiping at my face with the back of my hand. “Your music... it took me back.”
She tilts her head, as though trying to decipher me. “Back where?”
“Somewhere I didn’t expect to go tonight. It was worth the trip, though.”
She looks like she’s about to say something but stops, her gaze softening as she notices the set table. “You cooked?”
“I did. Figured I’d wait for you before eating.” I gesture toward the spread — roasted chicken, wild rice pilaf, sautéed green beans, and a loaf of freshly baked bread — on the dining table. “If you’re up for a break, I’m starving.”
Her expression shifts, a flicker of something I can’t quite place crosses her face. But then she practically sprints to join me. I can’t help but notice how her eyes light up as she takes in the food.
She takes a bite of the chicken and lets out a small, involuntary hum of approval. “This is amazing.”
I grin, leaning back in my chair. “Glad you like it. It’s an old recipe I picked up years ago.”
“Picked up?” She takes another bite. “This isn’t a skill that one just picks up. Not like this.”
“Cooking was a survival skill for me, but over time, I grew to enjoy it.”
“You clearly have a knack for it.” She makes another small sound of approval, and it’s oddly gratifying. “You really are full of surprises, Duncan. First, the piano, now this. I’m impressed.”
“Why?”
Her expression softens slightly, like she sees through me. “You’re not what I expected.”
Even if she must not have the best impression of me from the twins, an unexpected warmth blooms at her words. “Umm, thanks?”
Her lips twitch into a faint smile. She leans back in her chair, studying me. “That was a compliment, Duncan.”
I scrub a hand through my hair and lean forward, my elbows on the table. “I know.” Seems absurd for me to point out the obvious, but still. “I didn’t think…”
“I know.” She gives me a sad smile.
We settle into a rhythm, the clink of utensils filling the space between us. After a long pause, I decide just go for it and ask. “What was that you playing earlier?”
Her fork pauses midway to her mouth. “Work.”
“You said that. Care to elaborate?”
She thinks for a few seconds. “Just some music I’ve been working on, for a… project.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“No. Caleb is serious about his NDAs. He won’t like it if I talk to you without one. He will especially hate it since you are… well, his father.”
“Okay.” I’m not sure I understand the need for secrecy, though.
She gives me a pointed look. “And it’s still a rough work in progress, so there isn’t much to share.”
“Well, rough or not, it’s incredible.”
“Thanks?” She shifts in her seat, then changes the subject. “Chloe said you have a recording studio somewhere in this house, and that you put one in all your houses. Is that true?”
So I’m not the only one who has trouble accepting compliments. Good to know.
I laugh softly. “There was, but she oversold it. I dabble in music, and the realtor had me convert the recording studio back into two bedrooms, since that was better for its resell value.”
“Uh-huh. You own a top-of-the line Steinway it’s her soul.
After our plates are empty and the table cleared, we clean up together. She washes while I dry. The entire time she teases me about my meticulous technique and the lack of a dishwasher in this ridiculously expensive kitchen. It feels nice. Comfortable. Like a strange little moment of normalcy in the midst of everything.
Once the last dish has been put away, I lean against the counter, crossing my arms. She’s wiping her hands on a towel when I ask, “Do you want to do something?”
She tilts her head. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. Play a game, maybe. Or watch a movie. Whatever you want.”
“Why?” Despite the pointed nature of her question, but there’s no malice in it.
“Because I want to spend time with you.” It’s the truth, so I don’t bother dressing it up.
She blinks, and something flickers in her expression. Conflict. Hesitation. A trace of curiosity. But then she nods, albeit reluctantly. “Okay, but I pick the game.”
“Deal.” I don’t bother masking the smile that forms as she turns away, heading for the living room.
“I hope you’re good at Scrabble, ‘cause I won’t go easy on you,” she calls over her shoulder, and I can’t help but laugh.
“I’m counting on it.”
Famous last words.