Page 23

“What?” Caleb asks from the doorway. He sounds faintly offended.

“You live on vodka and lemons,” I manage.

“I don’t live here.”

“Clearly.” I wipe my eyes. “Where do you live?”

“An apartment downtown. And hotels. Depends what the work is.”

I put the lemon back. Then I peel the plastic off the first range knob, because I can’t leave it there another second. It comes away in one long, satisfying curl. I do the second one, and the third, and all of them. When I turn around, he’s watching me with an expression I can’t read.

Behind me there’s a big window over the sink. I go and stand at it.

The garden’s beautiful. It’s long and wide and green, sloping all the way down to a low wall and the lake beyond. There’s a stone terrace right outside the window, with nothing on it. There’s an old oak tree in the middle of the lawn, with one low branch that’s worn smooth at one spot.

A swing used to hang there. I’d bet anything. Some other family’s children used to swing on it.

I stand there for a long time.

I don’t notice I’m doing it. I’m just looking. And somewhere in my head, without asking permission, the house starts to change.

A big wooden table on the terrace, with mismatched chairs. My sisters around it on a Sunday, all of them talking at once. Arina arguing with Garick about something. Milana with her feet up. Theo at the grill, because Theo would definitely be at the grill whatever the weather. The windows open and the kitchen behind me steamed up and smelling of dill and onions and something in the oven.

And the swing back on that branch. A little girl on it, kicking her legs. Dark hair, maybe. Gray eyes.

“What are you thinking?” Caleb asks.

His voice is right behind me. I didn’t hear him cross the kitchen.

My face goes hot.

“Nothing,” I say.

“Tell me.” His voice is firm and insistent, but has an element of something to it that feels a lot more like need.

I close my eyes. I could lie. I’m good at it. I’ve been telling people it’s fine and I don’t mind for most of my life.

He’d know, though. I’ve known him less than a week and he always seems to know.

“I’m thinking about Sunday dinners,” I say quietly. “Out there, on the terrace. A big table, everyone around it. My sisters, and their husbands, and whoever else turns up. Too much food. Too much noise.” I swallow. “And children. In the garden. On a swing, on that branch. Running in through the back door with mud on their shoes and nobody minding. A house that’s loud all the time. A house where people feel safe the second they walk in.”

He doesn’t say anything.

I open my eyes. I can see him in the window glass, faintly, standing behind me.

“I know it’s silly,” I say. “It’s your house. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to...”

“It isn’t silly.”

He turns me around by the shoulders, very gently, until I’m looking up at him.

“I brought you here for a reason,” he says. “I told myself it was because it’s safer than your father’s house. Fewer people know about it. Better walls.” His thumbs move slowly over my shoulders. “That’s true. But it isn’t the real why.”

“Why, then?”

“Because I wanted to see you in it.” His voice drops. “I wanted to know if it could be what I’ve been picturing since yesterday morning.”

“What were you picturing?”