Chapter 28
Margot--Six Months Later
It's been six months, and Ross and I are doing great. The trial is officially over. And tonight, for the first time, I’m not locking the bedroom door. He’s welcome. But first, we're hosting a dinner party. It’s something we’ve never managed.
The dining room smells of rosemary and garlic, a sharp, grounding scent. The table is a mismatched collection of plates and wine bottles, with candles perched in their necks.
I place the last fork down and look around. My paintings cover the walls, chaotic and colorful against the neutral tones. The table itself is Ross’s handiwork, sturdy, sanded wood he built over the past few weekends.
A knock at the door breaks my focus.
I open it to find Wren standing there, waving a bottle of wine.
“I brought the good stuff!” she announces, brushing past me.
“You didn’t have to,” I say, laughing as she hugs me.
“Of course I did. A dinner prepared by the infamous Ross Calder demands good wine.”
“Don’t overstate my skills,” Ross calls from the kitchen. He’s bent over the counter, plating the chicken, brow furrowed in concentration.
The doorbell rings again. Chan and Elias step inside. Chan holds up a glass dish.
“Dessert,” Chan says. “No pressure, but if anyone asks for seconds, it’s mine.”
“Now we’re in trouble,” Wren says, eyeing the dish.
I slip to the cabinet to grab the wine glasses, my nerves humming.
Dinner is loud. Ross brings out the roast chicken, setting it down on a trivet.
“Ta-da. Roast chicken, from scratch.”
“You did this?” Chan asks, brow raised.
“Believe it or not, there’s more to my life than takeout,” Ross says. He glances at me, a quick, shy look that belies his confident tone.
“To Ross!” Elias raises his glass. “For stepping up his game.”
Chan concurs. “Yes, and for giving great advice. Best decision I ever made, listening to you. The new firm is great.”
Ross flushes but grins.
Midway through the meal, Ross’s phone buzzes on the table. The screen lights up. I feel a reflexive tightening in my chest, the old fear that he might disappear into a crisis.
But he glances to read without touching it, then flicks his eyes back to the group.
“Good news,” he says lightly. “The Hemlock project got approved.”
He says it like he’s commenting on the weather. No urgency to leave. No mental checkout.
Wren catches my eye and smiles.
“Cheers to that,” Chan says, clinking his glass against Ross’s.
“Here’s to affordable housing,” Elias adds.
The evening flows easily. We trade stories, embarrassing college memories, bad dates, the kind of history only old friends hold. Ross is in the thick of it, laughing, shoulders relaxed.
When the door finally clicks shut behind them, the house falls quiet. But it isn’t empty.
We clear the table together. The scent of roasted garlic still lingers in the air. Ross takes the serving bowl from my hands, his fingers brushing mine.
“I’ll wash, you dry,” he says, pulling on yellow rubber gloves. “You know how messy I can be.”
“Deal.”
I watch him at the sink. He scrubs the roasting pan with the same focus I used to see him apply to blueprints. But here, with his sleeves rolled up and soap suds on his arms, he looks different, lighter.
When the counters are wiped down, he glances toward the garage.
“Hold on,” he says.
He disappears for a moment and returns holding a small wooden box.
“This is for you.” He sets it on the table.
“What is it?” I trace the wood grain. The dovetail joints are tight, the edges sanded smooth.
“It’s not jewelry,” he says quickly.
I open the lid. Inside, resting on felt, is a key.
I look up at him. “A key?”
“To a cabin by the lake,” he says. “Elias bought a run-down place on the lake. I traded labor for equity, spending my Saturdays helping him fix the roof so we can have the keys every other weekend.”
Oh, so that’s what he has been doing. I wasn’t worried, because he and Elias carpooled every Saturday, but I thought it was for a client. “You’ve been renovating a cabin?”
“Yeah.” He leans against the table. “I wanted a space for us. It’s rustic, but… it’s ours. Partly.”
I turn the key over in my hand. It’s cool and heavy.
“I know it’s not the luxury we used to have,” he says, watching my face closely. “But I thought it could be a place to reconnect.”
“It’s perfect,” I say, my voice thick.
“I promise, the roof barely leaks anymore.” He offers a tentative smile.
“Tell me about it,” I say.
He begins to describe it, the wooden beams, the view of the water, the work that’s still left to do. As he talks, his phone sits on the counter, screen dark and forgotten.