Page 23 of Decked By The Grumpy Golem
"No one is driving anywhere in this weather," Martha declares with the kind of maternal authority that brooks no argument. She rises from her chair, already moving toward the cabinets like she's planning a siege. "Lucia, you'll stay the night. I'll make up the guest room."
I brace for Lucia's protest, her insistence on independence, the sharp words that will remind me exactly how unwelcome I am in her life. Instead, she simply nods, her shoulders sagging with what looks like relief.
"Thank you, Mrs. Flintman. I really appreciate it."
Martha beams like she's just been handed the moon.
"Of course, dear. You're family."
Once upon a time, that's exactly what Lucia was to us. Family. What I thought she always would be.
Lucia makes a pained face, then pulls out her phone from her purse, set up on the chair next to her. Disturbed from his sleep by her motion, Cinnamon jumps down from Lucia’s lap and makes a beeline for Martha, who immediately picks him up and starts fussing. The feline purrs loud enough to make the beams shake, reveling in the attention.
“The girls will be so disappointed!” Lucia shakes her head and concentrates on her device. “Tonight was their Christmas concert.”
A few moments pass where she frowns, then mutters to herself as her fingers move over the screen, then finally nods before looking up.
“I texted Mateo and explained the whole situation. He assures me that it’s okay if I make it up to them tomorrow at the library.”
The words hang in the air between us. Did Lucia just tell her family she’s spending the night over here?
Martha fusses around the kitchen with Cinnamon for a few more minutes, refreshing Lucia's tea and pressing leftover apple crumble on both of us despite our protests. Then she pats Lucia's hand and suddenly declares she has a splitting headache.
"I think I'll retire early," she announces, though she looks perfectly fine to me. "Long day of volunteering, you know how it is." She kisses my cheek, her lips brushing my ear as she whispers, "This is your chance."
Then she's gone, disappearing upstairs with suspicious speed. I suspect this headache is pure manipulation designed to leave us alone together.
The kitchen feels suddenly smaller, the air thicker. Lucia traces the rim of her mug with one finger, not looking at me, and I don't know what to do with my hands, my voice, my massive frame that suddenly feels too big for the space.
"This place looks exactly the same," she says quietly, glancing around at the hand-hewn granite countertops, the copper pots hanging from wrought iron hooks, the windows that glow warmly against the storm outside.
I chuckle, softer than I mean to. "Never saw the point in changing what works. Everything here has been built to last."
Something flickers across her expression. I’m not sure if it’s pain, maybe, or sadness. She knows I'm not just talking about the kitchen.
"I need a drink,” I declare, desperate to fill the silence that's stretching between us like a taut wire. "I’m going to get a whiskey. Want one?"
She considers this, then nods. "Whiskey sounds perfect."
I retrieve two glasses, pouring the good stuff from the bottle that my father left behind, aged longer than Lucia and I have been apart. My hands don't shake as I hand her the crystal tumbler, but it's a near thing.
"Living room?" I suggest, because standing here in the kitchen feels too intimate, too much like the old days when we'd sit at this table planning our futures like we had all the time in the world.
She follows me into the living room, where the fire crackles bright in the massive stone hearth my dad built with his own hands. The flames cast dancing shadows on the walls, turning everything warm and golden. We settle on opposite ends of the worn leather sofa.
The room is soaked in memories. Childhood nights building pillow forts in front of this fireplace. Teenage afternoons sharing secrets and dreams. That last perfect summer before everything shattered, when she'd curl up against my side and I'd trace patterns on her skin while she read her romance novels aloud.
"So," I say carefully, swirling the whiskey in my glass. "Tell me about New York. About your life there."
She's quiet for a long moment, staring into the fire. When she speaks, her voice is thoughtful, measured.
"It's good. Different than I expected, but good." She sips her whiskey, the crystal catching the firelight. "I have a nice apartment in Queens. Nothing fancy but it's mine. The publishing world is… competitive. Cutthroat, really. But I've been lucky."
I listen to her talk about book signings and author events, about the small community of writers she's found, about the satisfaction of seeing her stories in bookstores across the country. There's pride in her voice, accomplishment, but underneath it all, I hear something else.
Loneliness.
"Is there someone?" I ask before I can stop myself. "Someone waiting for you to come home?"
