Chapter 6 - A Christmas in April
The rain had finally stopped, leaving behind a crisp, brilliant spring afternoon that flooded the sunroom of the twelve-bedroom house on Long Island with golden light.
Outside, the sprawling lawn stretched down to the edge of the blue harbor, where a gentle breeze ruffled the budding dogwood trees. Inside, the long dining table—the one long enough for fourteen people—was no longer empty.
In fact, it was covered in finger paints, half-eaten peanut butter sandwiches, and a very serious architectural project involving twenty-four graham crackers, three tubs of marshmallow fluff, and a gummy bear named Walter.
"Mommy, look! I made a helicopter!"
Emma held up a sticky, collapsing structure of graham crackers that looked vaguely like a trapezoid with frosting oozing out of the sides.
Claire sat across the table, laughing as she wiped a streak of pink frosting off her nose with a paper towel. She wore a simple cream-colored sundress, her brown hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders. The dark circles under her eyes were gone, replaced by a radiant, effortless warmth that made the vast, echoing room feel like a real home for the first time in eighteen years.
Vincent walked in from the kitchen carrying a massive silver tray loaded with four bowls of artisan vanilla ice cream topped with an absurd, mountain-sized quantity of toasted marshmallows.
He had ditched the charcoal suit and tie. Today, he wore a simple black cashmere sweater and dark jeans, looking less like a feared syndicate boss and more like a man who had finally put down a very heavy burden he'd been carrying since he was fifteen.
"If she bounces off the walls," Vincent said, setting a bowl down in front of Emma with mock solemnity, "remember that your cousin Rachel approved this menu."
Claire looked up at him, her gray eyes shining with an affection that still made Vincent’s chest tighten in the best possible way.
"Rachel is banned from giving dietary advice for the next ten years," Claire said, smiling as she reached out and brushed a smudge of marshmallow fluff off Vincent’s cheek with her thumb.
Emma immediately seized the moment. "Mr. Calder?"
"Yes, Emma?"
"Are you still lonely?"
The room went quiet for a second, save for the sound of gulls crying over the harbor outside.
Vincent looked down at the little girl in the red coat—the child who had crossed Manhattan with twenty-eight dollars in a piggy bank and a crooked rabbit in her arms to rescue her mother’s blind date. Then his eyes drifted to Claire, who was watching him with a soft, knowing smile that asked for nothing and offered everything.
May you like
Vincent pulled out the chair beside Claire, sat down, and pulled Emma’s marshmallow-covered graham cracker helicopter closer to inspect it with profound critical seriousness.
"Not anymore, Emma," Vincent said, taking a spoon of ice cream. "Not anymore."
