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Sutton loved Christmas – she’d always decorated the hell out of the house and cooked for an army – bought them all the ridiculous things mothers bought their grown sons. New socks, the latest gadgets. She even knitted them ugly scarves.
A lump tried to form in Severin’s throat, but he swallowed it down.
“We’ll figure it out. Unless you’re not coming?”
“Ilse and I both got a week off. If you don’t let us stay here, we’ll camp out on your doorstep.”
Severin nodded, not really believing him. Something would come up. He’d probably never see his brother again. Maybe he’d die as soon as he left to go home. It hurt, but he shut off his feelings about that. If he’d learned anything in life, it was that there was nothing he could do to make people stay.
“No more Christmas scarves,” Church murmured.
“You hated those.”
“Well, we both did, but how many women would teach themselves to knit just so they could make hideous scarves for ungrateful teenagers who kept insisting they didn’t need a mom?”
She’d made them new ones every year out of some sort of need to keep them warm and safe. The scarves had taken on a whole new level of jocularity when Ilse had started to come for Christmases. She called their scarf modeling antics Nordic skiing porn. They now had a whole shtick that went along with the scarves, including calling each other Sven and Bjorn, and throwing around skiing-inspired sexual innuendo. Sutton would always roll her eyes, but she laughed as much if not more than the rest of them.
As much as she’d arrived in their life as hired help, Sutton had made them a family again.
If there was one thing Severin could trust, though it was that all good things in his life came to a precipitous end.
Minnow had made him happy. Sutton had been taken in exchange. Some people would argue that those were coincidences, but he knew better.
He’d been stupid to think otherwise.
Chapter Thirteen
Severin stopped talking the day after Sutton’s cremation – pretty much the moment Church left, as though holding things together for his brother had taxed him to the point of exhaustion. Although he hadn’t shown much emotion, she’d thought maybe he was working through things in his own way.
Now, though, he’d sit alone by the hour, staring off into space, his expression grim. At first she’d given him time, taking care of the cooking and the house, fielding phone calls, and sitting quietly with him so he didn’t feel alone. It was hard to know if she was helping, though. He ignored her, never making eye contact, and rarely seeming to notice anything that happened outside of his own head.
Church kept calling – he’d gotten home safe, and was struggling with his grief and the demands of the new job, but he had Ilse there to help him. It was weird how because he was one of the only people she spoke to in a day, he’d gone from stranger to friend, and now almost to family. She missed the daily calls from Sutton too. She always had nuggets of information and wisdom for Minnow to turn over in her head during the quietest times of her day, and now she’d lost that source of insight. Rodrigo had been with them for the ceremony when Sutton’s ashes had been buried, but work was busy, and sometimes a few days would pass before he was able to call.
Two weeks in, she’d almost given up on getting Severin back. Emotionally, he’d walled himself off somewhere she couldn’t get to. It hurt that he wouldn’t even speak to her.
How long could she stand by a man who was this messed up without jeopardizing her own sanity? Living with him now was like solitary confinement. She’d gone into town a few times, just to get out, but every time she left, she felt like a traitor. She was worried about what he might do.
After taking a bath and finishing off a mystery novel, she went looking for Severin. He’d been sitting in his study most of the day, but when she went to check on him, he was gone.
Distant clattering led her downstairs. Clad in only her robe, she followed the sound, calling for Severin. He didn’t answer.
A blast of cold air brought her to the double doors leading to the backyard.
Severin was there, doors propped open, dragging a familiar wooden dresser outside.
She clutched her robe more tightly around herself as the wind whipped at the hem.
“What are you doing?”
He ignored her, hefting one end of the heavy wood, and wrestling it out the door in an impressive display of muscle.
“You’re moving the rest of her things out now? It’s dark.”
When he didn’t respond, she closed the doors behind him and ran back upstairs to get dressed. In jeans, a sweater, her coat and boot
s, she left her room expecting to find him in the driveway, only to meet up with him where the servant’s hallway met the main hallway. This time his arms were full of other things – pictures, books, and a few trailing pieces of clothing.
“Where are you going with that? Don’t throw out pictures!” Horrified, she plucked a few from under his elbow, then an album from the crook of his arm.
