Canada. “I think you need to explain that.”
He drinks from his glass and licks his lips before he continues. I force myself not to get lost in the sight of the wet trail on his lips.
“After I’d been in the river, I developed a pneumonia that almost killed me. I was slipping in and out of consciousness. I don’t remember much of it, just… that I couldn’t get enough air.”
“I had pneumonia too.”
“Yeah, but you were treated in a hospital, with antibiotics.” He doesn’t care to hide the bitterness in his voice.
“So…”
“When I finally got care a lot of the damage had already been done. I live at half capacity at most. My lungs are badly scarred. I’ll never run a marathon again.”
“You’ve run a marathon?”
He is quiet.
“Are you ever gonna tell me more about yourself?”
“I just did,” he answers softly.
“Did you run a marathon?”
He smiles and suddenly the heat from the fire seems hotter on my cheeks than a moment ago. “Yes.”
“Wow,” I say as I wave my hand in front of my face, trying to cool myself off. “That’s impressive.”
“Yeah, it is. It was exhausting. But fun.”
I sit and contemplate that for a few moments, taking another sip from the creamy yellow liquid. I’ve never thought he had an actual life outside of the killing business, and it hits me hard how little I know about him. How is it that I feel like I know him so well? I know how he reacts to things, what makes him smile and—God, yes—what makes him angry, what triggers him, his preferences in bed... I have no idea, though, what has shaped him, what made him into the Christian I met a little more than three years ago. For the first time I realize I want to know.
“Huh,” I say, and take another swallow. The bourbon burns in my chest and makes my heart beat faster. I sink deeper into the chair and close my eyes, listening to the wind that pulls and tears at the old house. I jerk as he suddenly speaks.
“What? A little more information than you wished for?”
I open one eye and peek at him, finding him grinning. “Oh, no, no. I’m sorry. I got lost in thought.”
“You want pajamas to go with that toothbrush?”
“Yes, please.”
“Sure. I’ll get you something. If you tell me what you were thinking.”
I regard him. “How very you. There’re always terms.”
He spreads his hands. “I’d be helpless without them.”
Chapter 29
Christian
She inhales deeply, on a little shudder, then lets it out in a heavy sigh. “I was thinking that I don’t know that much about you.”
I tilt back my head, leaning it against the backrest, and study her. “You’d be surprised, Ker. You know more about me than anyone else.”
“That’s not saying much.”
“Maybe.”
She raises the glass toward me, her index finger pointing at my chest. “You know a lot about me.”
“In a way, yes. It was my job. And then… it spiraled a bit out of control.” I grimace. More than a bit.
She looks down and fiddles with a loose thread at the edge of the checkered throw blanket. My whole being reaches toward her. I want to take that little hand and hold it tight until she knows she is safe with me.
“Are we enemies, Kerry?”
She goes absolutely still, then she slowly raises her head and meets my gaze, the fire making her eyes gleam. “No… I don’t think so,” she whispers.
“Good.”
Silence mounts between us and it gets increasingly harder to breathe.
“So, uhm… you went for a walk today?” Kerry’s eyes dart to the fire and then back to mine.
I laugh. “That was an awkward moment just then, wasn’t it?”
Kerry hugs the blanket tighter around her and stares into the fire, shifts, shifts again.
I glance at her occasionally and finally our eyes meet. “I’d almost given up hope on that,” I say.
“On what?”
“On being non-enemies.”
“I don’t think we’ve been enemies for a long time,” she says slowly, her voice huskier.
“But that’s not the same as being friends, is it?”
She shakes her head.
“Are we friends?” I ask.
She’s silent a few moments. “I’d say we’re friendly.”
My heart jolts. “That’s a start.”
“Yes.”
“All right.” I slap the armrest and stand. “Let’s go get you those pajamas and a toothbrush. I’m a man of my word.”
“I thought you were bad at keeping your promises,” she blurts out.
I spin around. Her eyes widen, as if she realized what she just said. Oh, yes, I am. With her I fucking am. This gentleman thing is getting old. Clearing my throat, I take the half-stair in three long strides and pull open the closet in the corridor opposite one of the bathrooms, pulling out a pile of what she needs. As I turn, I find her close. Too close. Her sweet scent reaches my nostrils and something primal in me awakens. A couple of steps away there’s a bedroom with a door we can lock, Cece’s asleep, and my cock suddenly screams for her touch.
“It’s nice to have the both of you here. Good night.” I push the items into her arms and dart toward my room without waiting for an answer. I’m trying to keep my promises. I really am.
I lie and listen to the whining and cracking for what feels like hours, tossing and turning, repeating the moments in front of the fireplace over and over. She’s here. In my house. They both are, breathing life into it. For the first time in the ten years I’ve owned it, it feels like a home and not just a house with my bed in it.
Preparing a lavish breakfast, I then go and wake my sleepyhead of a daughter. She widens her big brown eyes as she sees me.
“Daddy? Daddy’s house?” She looks around her. “My room!”
“Yes, sweetie, now go see if Mommy’s awake and tell her there’s breakfast.”
Cecilia darts out of bed and follows me into the corridor. I point to the almost closed door next to us. “She’s in there,” I whisper. “Go hop on her bed.”
My daughter swings open the door with full force and bounces into the room. I’m quick to get out of sight
“Mommy! Slept at Daddy!” Cecilia squeals.
I smile. I had no idea it would mean so much to her, if I had known I’d have gotten her to sleep here much sooner.
“Bwekfast!” There are bounces and steps. Kerry groans. “Mommy come,” shouts the little one, and then: “Mommy’s in pajamas, Daddy!”
Slicing the last of the avocado, I can’t help feeling a bit smug, thinking about the robe I hung on a chair in her room a little earlier. I wonder how pissed she’ll get.
Pitter-patter of little feet, and soft steps of slipper-clad adult feet make me turn. Kerry has a little blush on her cheeks, and she pinches the robe as she raises an eyebrow.
“You couldn’t resist sneaking in, could you?”
“Did you mind?”
She purses her lips before she scoffs and turns toward the table. “Oh my goodness! Who’s going to eat all this?” she gasps.
“Me,” says Cecilia and jumps up on a chair, reaching for the avocado. Her little fingers manage to grab hold of a good chunk of the slices before Kerry grabs her. “Yum! Cado!”
“Let her,” I say. “There’s more where that came from.”
Breakfast is a little awkward. Cecilia is chatty and chirpy. Kerry keeps stealing glances my way when she thinks I’m not looking. She devours toast, her black coffee, avocado, tomato, and cucumber, with cottage cheese. There’s also prosciutto, poached eggs, and three different marmalades.
“More coffee?” I hold up the pot.
Kerry darts up, wiping her mouth, and then begins the process of getting crumbs of egg off Cecilia. “We should be going. Be right back.” She takes Cecilia’s hand and pulls her with
her. When she comes back, our daughter is clean, and Kerry has dressed.
I stretch out my legs and put my hands behind my head, studying her. She’s got my favorite jeans on. The flowery ones. The ones that fit so snugly around her ass. I wonder if my gaze burns her as much as the sight of her scorches my gut. She agreed to celebrate Christmas here. I caught her in a weak moment right after her mom had told her she’d be going away to the Bahamas for a week with a man.
Wondering if she regrets it, I take a bite out of a lovely piece of toast, butter half melted, slices of avocado and some grains of salt on top. It tastes wonderful, full of sin, just like her. Reluctantly, I follow her to the hallway. I don’t want them to leave.
She grabs her jacket and bag, hiking Cecilia higher up on her arm. “Well... we’re off.”
I lift my chin in acknowledgement. “See you guys on the twenty-fourth.”
Kerry nods and then stiffens. “We said Christmas Day.”
I move in on her and put my mouth to her ear, whispering: “You don’t have a fireplace, a chimney, anything. Let her have the whole package, the full experience. And who knows, maybe Santa is coming this year.” I take a step back and wink.
Kerry looks a little dazed, then her lips tighten as her eyes darken a shade. She crossed a line by sleeping in my house. She knows it. I know it. Something went down last night, in front of the fireplace. Something innocent, seemingly insignificant, but there’s a shift happening between us, and she’s just as aware of it as I am.
“Sure.”
She grabs the bag tighter and shoulders open the door, almost stomping down the stairs. I can’t help the grin that spreads on my face.
Christmas will be interesting.
Chapter 30
Kerry
The week is intense. We make Christmas decorations with the kids at the daycare and throw a pre-holiday party for the children and the parents one evening. We comfort the ones who panic at the thought of Christmas, and gifts, and meeting relatives.
Cecilia and I celebrate an early Christmas with Mom the day before she leaves. I’m curious about this man who is suddenly more important than Cecilia and me, and she promises to introduce him later. I’m not sure I’m that curious to be honest.
I barely have time to think and all of a sudden, I wake one morning from Cece jumping on me and not from the clock’s annoying buzzing. I pull her down under my blanket for a few seconds of enjoying her warm, soft skin. It’s the twenty-fourth. Everything stills for a moment. I’ve promised to spend the night with Christian. Well, in his house. But that’s quite enough. Cecilia squirms out of my bed.
“Go Daddy? Santa come?”
I moan. “Yes, sweetie. We’re going to Daddy’s today and we get to sleep there too. Again.”
A few hours later find us standing outside the gates to Christian’s house. Outside the greatness of Christian’s house, now decorated with blinking white lights. He greets us with a wide smile and scoops up Cece before I even have time to catch my breath. They disappear into the house while he shouts back to me. “Make yourself at home. There’s some white wine in the fridge if you’d like.”
I look around me as I stroll after them through the hallway. He hasn’t done as much decorating as I figured. There are three Christmas stockings hanging above the fireplace, and a large number of candles in a wide variety of holders, wood, brass, concrete, real stone which are spread all over the living room. It has a romantic feel I don’t quite associate with Christian Russo.
My heart suddenly speeds up. Right, where was that wine?
Christian plays with Cece in the garden, tossing a ball to her and trying to get her to catch. In the simple game I see some of what probably makes him him: he never seems to lose patience, never gives up. I’m sure he is good at whatever he sets his mind to.
I study him while I take another sip from the glass. He doesn’t move around a lot, and when he has to catch the ball, again and again, he walks instead of running. He really seems to have told me the truth about his condition. I wonder what it means for all of us, the fact he is somewhat disabled. Is it chronic? Will it progress? Should I worry?
Why should I worry?
When Cece shows signs of finally tiring of the games, I’ve downed my glass of perfectly chilled white wine, slouching in one of Christian’s expensive patio chairs that he has put back in place after the storm subsided. Two heaters make the semi-enclosed space comfortable. He’s panting soundly when he comes up to me, sweaty and grinning from ear to ear.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, yeah,” he pants happily. “Did you see her catch it? She’s a future Dan Marino, I tell you.”
I laugh. “Dan Russo.” Then I realize the mistake. “Ehm… Jackson. But Dan was more famous for passing anyway. She’d be more like Jerry Rice or Terrell Owens.”
Christian looks amused. “Really? Shows what I know of sports.” Then he winks at me and turns toward the house. “Time for dinner.”
In the kitchen he hands me and Cece one dish after the other and we put them on the counter next to us. Bread, ham, cheese, a Christmas cake, and pudding. Then comes plates, forks, knives, he hesitates for a moment before handing me the bundle of knives and I scoff. Very funny. There’s more: cranberry sauce, smoked salmon, gravy, salami, mortadella, parma ham.
“Who’s going to eat all this?”
“We are,” he grins. “I’ve had bad experiences from being under the same roof as you and I figured a little excess wouldn’t hurt.”
I almost choke. “You’ve had bad experiences—”
“And the remains I’ll give to the Red Cross charity down at Lawson.”
I stare at him. I don’t know this man anymore. He opens the fridge again and backs away with something heavy. Turkey.
“You made a turkey? Did you make all this?” The doubt must be obvious on my face because Christian bursts into a laugh and pats Cece who looks up at him.
“Nah. I made the turkey and the cabbage, the rest isn’t that much really. I just bought it.”
He hands me a bowl of a greenish substance. I sniff it suspiciously.
“What’s this? It smells like weeds. Like boiled weeds.”
“Green cabbage sautéed with spices and with the drippings from the turkey and then cooked with lots of cream. Put it next to the stove with the turkey, we’re heating it.”
“Cabbage? You made cabbage for Christmas? What are you, vegan?”
Christian actually looks slightly hurt. “I’m not a fucking—” He gives Cece a quick glance, “vegan!” He leans closer and whispers in my ear, making me shiver all over. “She said fuck the other day. I’m gonna have to watch my fucking mouth.” He leans away and grimaces and I can’t help but giggle.
“Okay, I’ll try your cooked weeds.”
We work surprisingly well together and soon everything that needs to be heated is in its right places and we’ve set the table beautifully with lit candles reflecting in the silverware. An egg clock starts beeping from the kitchen, but we stand a moment longer together, admiring the beauty we’ve created.
“I didn’t know you owned stuff like this,” I say.
“What? The antiques?”
I nod.
“I’m interested in all things pretty.” He nudges my shoulder with his.
I don’t look at him. My cheeks heat up and it isn’t from anger, or from all the candles. Or, possibly, it may be from the candles and I decide to blame them. I clear my throat. “Let’s eat.”
We find Cecilia – on the floor – with the cake.
“Ce!” I holler.
The cake is in molecules and what isn’t smeared on her lies all over the kitchen floor. I take a long step and pull her up.
“Oh, Christian, I’m so sorry! Ce, what have you done?”
“Don’t yell at her. There’re disasters and then there are disasters. Just clean her up and put on some new clothes and I’ll fix the rest here. When you come down, we’ll eat. If someone’s still hungry.”
He winks at her as she happily sucks at her fingers, completely oblivious to the mess she’s caused.
“Cake! Yum.”
“Yes, yum,” I mutter and drag her off to clean up the little hooligan. I’m sure this is from his heritage, not mine.
When we come back down from the bathroom, Frank Sinatra is singing a soft slow melody. We talk about non-threatening things: with Cece, about Cece, about the food, about the almost-wintery day we had last week. I taste the cabbage on the edge of my fork. Cece ignores it completely.
“It’s… spicy. It’s funny… it doesn’t quite taste like a vegetable, more like meat, or a mix maybe.”
“You like it?”
“It isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”
“Did you think I would eat anything that tasted less than fantastic?”
I frown and study him. “I don’t know if I know enough about you to judge”
He winks and smiles. “Sure you do. You just refuse to acknowledge it.”
“No, I don’t.”
He purses his lips as he wipes off Cece’s face. Then he glances up at me. “We’re gonna have to do something about that one of these days, aren’t we?”
My heart lurches from his gaze. I scoot back my chair and catch Cece before she touches anything. “Honey. A fork is a good tool for eating, you should try it.” I escape Christian’s presence for a few relieving moments while washing her hands, then I put her in front of Disney. Cute Disney. Christmas Disney.
“When Santa come?”
I caress her cheek. “Tomorrow. You’re gonna have to look out for him so he doesn’t get stuck in the chimney.”
“Tomorrow,” she concludes, and then she’s absorbed by Donald and Mickey, and some new characters I don’t recognize.
When I come back to the table Christian has lit more candles and has already put away most of the dirty plates. I find him in the kitchen where he’s stirring a small pot.
“Do you want me to do anything?”
“Mmm, I can think of many things… But I’d be glad if you helped me get the last off the table.”
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