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Her eyes held Claudia’s for a moment, as though she wanted to say something, and then she left once more.
Claudia frowned, reaching for the coffee pot on autopilot and filling both cups. She didn’t hand his over, though. She didn’t risk invading his personal space.
She didn’t risk touching him. She curled her fingers around hers and stood, moving to the large windows that, in the day time, framed a view of the formal gardens. On a clear night, the moon might have shone a light beam over the lawn, but not this night. On that night, overlooking the estate, it was wild and windy, and dark clouds blotted out the moon and the stars. It was pitch black. She could hear the storm and the river, though, like nature’s symphony.
“I hadn’t thought about it,” he said with a shrug, after a long moment. “Until a day ago, I thought I would be alone for Christmas. It seemed somewhat futile to have Marta decorate the estate just for me.”
Claudia turned to face him, disbelief etched in her features. “Of course Marta shouldn’t do it. She has her own home to do. It’s your job to decorate Barnwell.”
“Then it will not get done,” he said with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “I have no interest in something as frivolous as Christmas decorations.”
“Frivolous?” She repeated with surprise. “How can you say that?”
He shook his head. “It’s just another day of the year.”
Claudia’s eyes showed her disbelief. “It’s Christmas.”
“So?” He pushed back in his chair, studying her with undisguised interest. “Do I take it from your obvious shock that you are one of those people who make a big fuss of the holiday?”
She clamped down on her lips. His comment was an understatement. Claudia lived for Christmas, and always had. To her, it had long ago come to symbolize everything she didn’t have, everything she’d never known, and what she so badly wanted. It was a time of family and togetherness, of love and kind-spiritedness. It was about traditions that were passed down from generation to generation.
It was a time of year when she could completely overdo it and forget that she was alone. That even when she’d had a mother and father they’d been too busy in their own worlds to bother with her. It was a time when she could watch Hallmark movies about falling in love and dream that it would happen for her one day.
But the truth of her Christmas obsession hardly fitted with the part she was playing, with the image he expected of her.
“I just think you should have a tree,” she said with a shake of her head, sipping her coffee and turning back to the bleak night air.
“If it means so much to you, I will have Patrick collect one tomorrow.”
Claudia shook her head. “Don’t bother. I don’t intend to be here for Christmas. In fact, I expect to be back in my own home within a couple of days.”
Silence greeted this pronouncement, a silence she should have known to see as dangerous. But, in that moment, her heady moment of throwing down the gauntlet, she actually thought she’d won. That he’d taken her statement and accepted it.
“I will keep you at Barnwell until I am happy that you have changed.”
Claudia straightened her spine. “I don’t intend to change.”
“Then you can stay forever,” he snapped. “You are done making a fool of yourself. You are done dragging your father’s name through the papers. Do you know how much he would have hated that? He was a private man, Claudia. He never sought the headlines. How dare you take his money and live your life the exact opposite to what he would have wanted.”
“Don’t.” She spun around angrily, spilling a slosh of coffee onto the tiled floor. “Don’t you dare tell me what dad would have expected of me.”
“He made me your legal guardian. You don’t think we had conversations about it? You don’t think he discussed with me his worries for you?”
“What worries?” She pushed angrily.
“That you would turn out to be just like your mother,” he said quickly, so quickly that Claudia knew he hadn’t meant to admit as much. That he hadn’t meant to give that salient fact away.
She slammed her eyes shut and leaned back against the glass window, her mind running through that assertion.
Benita La Roche had died when Claudia was only six years old. She had a handful of memories of her mother. The way she could only make frittata, nothing else, and she would make them for Claudia’s breakfast and dinner, always arranging sultanas in the shape of a smile on top. Despite the fact Claudia hated sultanas and wasn’t especially fond of eggs. The way she would sing opera all day long, wandering around their enormous house making music out of air.
The way she would dance with Christopher.
The way she would drink.
The way she would argue when she was drunk.
The way she would go away for days at a time, without warning, leaving Christopher and Claudia alone at home. And on those days, Claudia would have eaten all the frittatas in the world if it had meant she could see her mother cook them, singing as she’d set the eggs in the little cocotte she used.
