Even with the door closed, the space beyond feels so vast, so empty, that I step away, skirting the man on the floor. He’s still sucking in deep breaths, as if he’s just completed a marathon. His gaze meets mine, and his eyes hold a spark that’s almost uncanny.
“Give your old man a hand up?” he asks.
Without thinking, I take a few more steps back, bumping into a long dining table that has made a sudden appearance, set with bone china, crystal goblets, and enough silverware to make me wonder how many courses Henry is planning to serve.
“Didn’t think so,” Max says. “Can’t blame you. I wouldn’t help me, either.”
That self-recrimination hits low in my belly. I want to apologize or at least lean forward to help. All I can do is grip a dining chair.
Henry wipes his hands on a tea towel, dispatching the turkey grease. His stride is easy and unconcerned, as if visitors routinely tumble in through the kitchen door. He’s the one to offer a hand.
With Henry’s help, Max clambers to his feet. Then the two men do that forearm-grasping handshake thing. And yes, I’m having a hard time thinking of this man as my father, so for now, he’s Max.
“Mr. Monroe, so good of you to make it.” Henry’s voice holds a hint of trepidation, as if he doesn’t have a full read on this man who claims to be my father.
“I wouldn’t miss this for anything. Appreciate the invite.” He gives Henry’s back a solid slap. “And we’ve talked about this, haven’t we? Call me Max.”
A hint of pink touches those razor-sharp cheekbones. “Yes, of course. Max.” But Henry, as always, rallies. “I just heard from my father. He’s picking up his rental at the airport. He should be here in an hour or so, in time to make his world-famous gravy.”
“Looking forward to it. Besides, I believe he owes me a rematch.”
I’m standing right there, so I see when the house shifts around us. An alcove off the dining area pops up, a cozy space complete with two comfortable chairs, a chessboard of gleaming wood, and a table set with a decanter and two tumblers.
Henry gives Max a conspiratorial grin. “And I believe he’s looking forward to that. But if you’ll excuse me.” He points toward the kitchen.
“Go on, go on. Shout if you need help.”
Henry returns to his oasis of the perfect kitchen. It, too, morphs around him, adjusting to his every whim. My mind whirls, trying to make sense of their nonsensical exchange. I’m still clutching that dining chair as if it’s the only thing holding me upright. Max heads toward the alcove. Once there, he pours a generous amount of amber liquid into a glass and sips.
“Ah.” He swirls the scotch, or cognac, or whatever it is. The sharp scent of alcohol mixes with the sage and the aroma of roasting turkey. “This is some high-quality fantasy your boy has going on here.” He surveys the space, from the stone hearth in the living area to the soapstone countertops and radiant copper pans in the kitchen. “Such attention to detail. Trust me, most people aren’t this meticulous.”
“He’s not my boy,” is the only response I can think of. Because right now? I don’t know if I can trust Max Monroe.
“Sure about that, are you?” He gives the ring on my left hand a pointed look.
“He … we … I’ve only known him a week. I don’t see how—” I break off, unable to form the next words in my mind, never mind my mouth.
“And I don’t see why not. I knew the moment your mother jabbed me in the gut with her umbrella and demanded to know how I breached dimensions.”
“She knew you were a traveler?”
“Well, you come through naked, so I was either that or some sort of vagrant. Either way, she was prepared to deal with the situation. That’s your mother for you.”
My mind replays the events of that day my mother vanished. “But you had clothes.” Absolutely, I would’ve remembered a naked man, and certainly this particular man. “When I saw you with her.”
“Because your mother left me some.”
I sag against the dining chair and then sit down hard.
“I’m glad about that, too, believe me.” Max gives me a sardonic grin. “Don’t need to be running around King’s End buck naked.”
I can feel my brow scrunch, the thoughts pinging around in my head. “But when did she?—?”
“The summer before you returned from the Academy, when she still had the strength.”
“But—”
“Sealed them up in one of those vacuum-packed bags, left me a knife and a key to the front door. I’m competent enough to handle both.”
