Page 67 of The Truth of Us

I looked up at him. The question was simple, but the look in his eyes felt anything but. Because making it meant touching the past. It meant letting the ghost into the kitchen instead of keeping her safely in stories.

I swallowed hard. “Can we?”

His eyes softened. “Of course.”

So we did, or we tried.

My father was excellent at many things. Negotiations. Public speaking. Making senators uncomfortable. Staring down people who mistook politeness for weakness.

Cooking was not on that list.

“Those onion pieces are enormous.”

He looked down at the cutting board. “They are rustic.”

“They are basically quarters.” I replied with a laugh, filling our wine glasses.

“Rustic quarters.”

“Mom would have fired you.” I said and then immediately rubbed at the ache in my chest. This was the most we had talked about her in a very long time.

“She loved me too much.” He replied in a voice thick with emotion.

We spent the next two hours making a mess. A spectacular one. Flour on the counter, sauce on my sleeve, and my father nearly burning garlic while giving a completely unnecessary speech about patience. We drank an entire bottle of wine while I accused him of feigning incompetence, and he accused me of inheriting my mother’s disrespect for his authority. It was the closest Christmas had felt to normal in years.

Not because it didn’t hurt; it did. Every time I reached for something and remembered my mother used to keep it in a different drawer, it hurt. But it was not the kind of pain that destroyed, it was the kind that reminded you something beautiful had existed.

We had sent most of the staff home for Christmas, my idea. My father had looked at me with softness when I suggested it a few days earlier. “Are you sure?”

“Mom would have hated the idea of everyone missing their families so we could eat a pretentious dinner in a house large enough to host a government summit.”

His expression had shifted then. “She would have.”

So Christmas dinner was just us. The table in the smaller dining room instead of the formal one.

Candles lit. Snow pressing against the dark windows. My mother’s pasta in a serving dish that was far too elegant for the chaos that created it. The cranberry-orange loaf cooling on the rack. A bottle of wine between us, one of the ones he had mentioned investing in. I took a sip and tried not to smile, as my father watched me over the rim of his glass.

“Well?”

I swirled the wine as if I knew what I was doing.

“I think you should invest.” I offered.

“Do you?” I could hear the smile in his voice.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I took another sip.

“Because it’s good.”

His mouth curved. “Exceptional analysis.”

“I’m in public relations, not a wine expert…”

“Noted.”