17. Gabriel #2
I freeze for a moment, my hand hovering over the door handle. “What’s that about?” I haven’t spoken to Mr. Beaumont since the wedding.
“Something about Vérité’s next board meeting.”
Oh, right. He gave me a board position after our marriage. With all of the chaos in my life over the past month, I actually managed to forget about that, somehow. “Okay, great,” I say. “Thanks.”
I settle in behind my desk, steel myself, then answer the call.
“Hello, Mr. Beaumont.”
“Jonathan, please,” he says genially. “You’re family now, after all.”
“Right. Jonathan,” I correct myself. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I wanted to call and let you know about a few things before the upcoming board meeting. First of all, you can make it, right? It’ll be on Thursday the tenth. You can dial in if you need to.”
“I’ll be there,” I assure him. I always prefer to attend these sorts of meetings in-person. There’s usually a lot of nuance in body language that you can’t get from a screen.
“Good, good,” Jonathan says, sounding satisfied. “We’ll be covering several key points, but I wanted to bring a few items to your attention ahead of time. I’m emailing you the agenda now. If you have a minute, I’d love to go over it together.”
“Of course.”
Jonathan takes me through the bulleted list in my inbox.
Vérité is welcoming a new investor, announcing a new line, and preparing for Milan Fashion Week.
None of it concerns me much, but I listen attentively anyway, nodding at the appropriate moments even though he can’t see me.
There’s always a certain level of corporate theatre in these conversations, but it’s important to keep up appearances.
When he’s done, Jonathan says, “Thanks for your time, son.”
Something inside me twists at that. I’m not sure I want anyone to be calling me “son” now that my father has passed away. But I don’t comment on it. “It’s no problem. I’ll see you at the board meeting.”
“It’s an honor to be working with you,” he says. “We have a real admiration for your firm. But you know that, of course.”
Most people in business, in almost any sector, have an admiration for Thorne Enterprises.
The company is a giant. I smile, quietly proud.
“Well, it’ll be great to have some crossover between our two companies.
And hey, I don’t know if you’ve heard much about it, but Alexis’s new project could be a great fit for some cross-promotion. ”
“Alexis has a project?” I can practically hear Mr. Beaumont’s raised eyebrow. “We haven’t even had her come into the office in weeks.”
“I know,” I say, almost through gritted teeth. It’s difficult—more difficult than it should be—to hold my tongue sometimes when talking to the Beaumonts. “It’s something she’s been working on by herself.”
“Ah. I see.”
“It’s a charity initiative. Something that’s focused on accessible fashion and building a community space here in LA. Could be a good way to show Vérité’s involvement in something that goes beyond just products. Some good exposure for the brand.”
There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. I can almost hear him processing the idea, but when he responds, his tone is neutral, giving little away.
“Hm, yes. We can discuss it at the board meeting.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me. His lack of enthusiasm for his daughter’s project is beyond irritating, especially given how good an idea it is. “Of course. Just thought it might be a natural fit.”
“Thanks for bringing it up,” he says, sounding more distant now, the conversation winding down. “Anyway, I have to run, and I’m sure you do as well. I’ll see you at the meeting.”
“Looking forward to it. See you Thursday.”
When I step into the foyer of my house, the warm scent of something sweet greets me.
I’m confused for a few moments. Usually, the place just smells clean, like polished wood and citrus cleaner.
I’m not sure what’s going on until I catch the sound of laughter drifting in from deeper inside.
High and light, unmistakably Peyton’s, followed by another melodic laugh I recognize as Alexis’s.
A lower, more familiar chuckle that sounds like Margaret.
The puzzle pieces click together, and I realize that the sweet scent is something baking.
I shrug off my coat, hanging it by the door, and set my briefcase down.
I don’t know if this house has ever smelled so inviting.
I make my way toward the kitchen, curiosity tugging at me.
The closer I get, the more distinct the scent becomes.
Vanilla, definitely, with a buttery undercurrent and the faintest hint of something fruity. Strawberries, maybe?
Margaret, Alexis, and Peyton are all in the kitchen, surrounding the central island together.
Peyton stands on her tiptoes on the stepstool, gripping a piping bag stuffed with pink frosting.
Her brow is furrowed in fierce concentration, her tongue poking out just a little at the corner of her mouth as she carefully squeezes a swirl onto the cupcake in front of her.
The countertop is a chaotic sprawl of mixing bowls streaked with batter, spatulas smeared with icing, open jars of sprinkles scattered like confetti, and a fine dusting of flour.
It’s a mess. A complete, colorful, sugar-frosted mess. And I can’t bring myself to care one bit.
Alexis is leaning slightly toward Peyton, her hands lightly steadying the tray as my daughter finishes her frosting design. Her copper hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, a few escaped strands clinging to her cheek, and there’s a faint smudge of flour dusting the side of her nose.
Peyton finally looks up from her masterpiece and beams at Alexis, her cheeks flushed with excitement and a dab of pink frosting.
“It’s a flower!” she exclaims.
Alexis leans in a little closer, her smile softening into something that makes my chest feel tight.
“That’s exactly what I was going to guess,” she says, smiling.
I’m not sure that’s true, since from my angle, Peyton’s creation looks more like a wobbly starfish, but I keep my mouth shut. I don’t want to disturb this moment.
Alexis reaches out, her fingers light and sure as she steadies Peyton’s small hands.
“A flower needs a center, doesn’t it?”
“Yes!” Peyton exclaims.
Alexis picks up a tube of yellow frosting and helps Peyton guide it toward the center of the pink swirl.
The tenderness in the gesture catches me off guard.
There’s something about the scene—about the way Alexis bends slightly to be closer to Peyton’s height, about the way she and Peyton giggle at the same moment—that sends a jolt through me.
Alexis isn’t just humoring Peyton the way adults sometimes do with kids. She’s with her, fully present.
If Melanie was still with us, would this kitchen look the same right now? Would she and Peyton be standing just like that, heads bent close together, laughing over crooked frosting flowers?
The thought lands heavily, pressing against the edges of my ribs until it hurts to breathe. I don’t mean for it to come. It just does, uninvited and unwelcome, like it always does when I least expect it. Grief has a way of sneaking in through the smallest cracks.
But even as that old ache stirs, there’s something else creeping in alongside it. Something quieter. Warmer. Almost pleasant, a cocktail of grief and affection.
It’s dangerous, this feeling.
Because I hadn’t expected this. I hadn’t prepared for this softness that feels like it’s burrowing under my skin, setting roots in ground that I thought was barren.
It’s Margaret who spots me and breaks my reverie. “Oh, Gabriel! You’re home!” She offers me a guilty grin and gestures at the dough-encrusted bowls on the counter. “We’ll clean up this mess, don’t you worry.”
“It’s fine,” I say, shaking my head. “You guys look like you’re having fun. And it smells delicious in here.”
“We’re making cupcakes!” Peyton tells me brightly.
“I can see that, Bug.”
“You should come put frosting on one!” she urges, holding out the piping bag she’s been using.
I glance at Alexis, who’s watching the exchange with an encouraging smile, and then at Margaret, who arches a brow as if daring me to decline.
“Alright,” I say, rolling up my sleeves. “Let’s do it.”
Peyton grins and hands me the piping bag, her fingers sticky with frosting. With a playful flourish, Alexis sets a cupcake in front of me. “Your canvas awaits.”
“Are you gonna do a flower?” Peyton asks.
“I think I might do a nice blob,” I reply. “What do you think?”
Peyton giggles. “A blob? Don’t be boring, Daddy! You have to make something pretty.”
“Okay. I think I’ll do a smiley face.” That seems like the most my meager drawing skills can handle.
I can see Alexis’s cupcake a few feet away near the other finished creations.
It’s obvious which one’s hers. There’s a perfect little kitten, orange fur and a pink nose, designed in frosting.
Only one person at this island is talented enough to make that.
It looks like it belongs in a bakery display.
Mine, I think, is destined for a more abstract appreciation.
I concentrate, guiding the piping bag. A circle for the face, two little dots for eyes, and a big, slightly wobbly curve for the smile. It’s not perfect, but could be worse. “Voila,” I say, stepping back. “One happy cupcake.”
Peyton peers at it critically, then gives me an approving nod. “It’s good! But it’s not as pretty as Alexis’s.”
“No argument there.” I shoot a grin at Alexis, then become painfully aware of Margaret’s amused gaze from across the island.
She’s leaning against the counter, arms folded, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
I turn away, trying not to look her in the eye as I push another cupcake toward Peyton. “Your turn again.”
Peyton grabs the piping bag with both hands, her little face scrunching up in determination. “This one’s gonna be a butterfly!” she declares.