What a lonely way to grow up. What a lonely life Donovan had growing up.
As if summoned by my thoughts, the door behind me opened, and Donovan stepped out onto the balcony. "Two cigars and a glass of whiskey and I still didn't hear all the highlights of his stock picks this quarter." He came up next to me and held his hand out in my direction.
I looked down at his offering. A tumbler of scotch.
I accepted it and threw back a large swallow, enjoying the instant warmth that it provided.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, swirling the liquid in his own matching tumbler.
“That my amazing, loving, supportive, understanding parents both died too young. And yours are still alive. And that it’s not fair.” I regretted it as soon as I said it. I turned to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry. That was terrible.”
“Raymond and Susan are terrible,” he said, doubling down on my statement. He took a swallow from his drink and looked out over the distance. “I wish I could have met your parents.”
God, I missed them. So much sometimes that my insides felt raw.
And sometimes I barely thought about them. That's how life went.
But wouldn't that have been something, for them to have met Donovan? For Donovan to have met them. “I don't know what would've happened if my father hadn't died—what would've happened at Harvard when I returned. But I wouldn’t have made it to Harvard at all without the life insurance from my mother’s death. So I suppose I can’t wish that she’d never died and still have you.”
He turned so that his back was to the railing, and he could face me better. “Do you still want me after tonight? After meeting them?” He nodded toward the house, as if it were a stand-in for his parents.
“I do.” Maybe even more than I did before.
“You know they aren’t me, don’t you? I would never ask you to give up any part of who you are to fulfill some outdated societal role.”
I sighed, because he couldn't understand how many times a day I was asked to do just that. How many times a day a woman in a world of men was asked to fulfill some outdated societal role—it was too many times to count, too many to know, too many to solve between the two of us and two tumblers of scotch.
“It could be kind of fun though, if you pretended that you might.” I peered over at him and let him imagine the filthy kind of ways we could play 1950s housewife.
“You’re such a dirty girl.”
“Come on inside and let me prove it.”
I put my hand in his and, together, we walked out of the lonely night.
Chapter 17
"Damn. That's some yard.” I stood with Donovan on the terrace that ran along the length of the back of the house. And I was in awe. It was the highlight of Pinnacle House—the views. No doubt about it.
Our morning had started late. We’d eaten breakfast in bed. Donovan had brought it up on a tray, egg casserole with gourmet coffee and orange juice, and a side of roasted potatoes. He hadn't said it was the reason, but I presumed we stayed in our room in order to miss his parents. Which we did.
After our meal, we dressed for the day. I bundled up in layers with a warm sweater over my T-shirt and jeans, as per Donovan's instructions. Then he gave me the tour.
We started inside, walking from one room to the next, Donovan pointing out the use and function of each. But despite the size of the house, there was nothing very remarkable about it. Most of the rooms were rarely used, but were acted as showcases instead. The second living room had a Christmas tree that had been professionally ornamented, he’d told me. The guest rooms were all decorated with impersonal taste, as though being staged for a house sale. Even a bed and breakfast had more personality. The master suite on the lower floor was closed off, so I couldn't see if it was more lived in, and Raymond had locked himself away in his study so that room was also off limits.
I did get a glimpse into Susan's life in the country house. Her personal space, as the family called it, was located on the other end of the top floor, as far from the study as possible. She'd gone to spend the day in town at some local antiques fair, so we snuck a peek into her room. It was good sized, large enough to hold a desk and sitting area as well as a bed and dresser. Like the guestrooms, it hadn't been personalized. I did notice a few items lying around that indicated an actual human spent time here—reading glasses on the desk. A glass of water on the nightstand.
"Does she sleep here?" I asked. Even if she didn't sleep with her husband, there were plenty of other rooms in the house available. She didn't have to fit her entire life at Pinnacle House into her office.
Donovan shrugged. "I'm not even sure she really sleeps."
How strange to not even wonder about the people that you live with, to share a roof and a table with walking mysteries.
Though I supposed it had been a long time since he had lived with them for real.
"What about your things?" I asked when we'd gone through the whole house and I’d seen nothing that reminded me of Donovan. "Are the remnants from your childhood stored away somewhere here?"
"Whatever I didn't take with me when I moved out, they threw away."
"Saves on storage, I suppose." Actually, I was wondering why the Kincaids even had a child. Between the lack of warmth and the erasure of his existence here, it was hard to imagine they’d really wanted him in the first place.
"I didn't have anything I wanted to keep. There wasn't anything here that I was attached to. What I like about this house is outside."
And that is how we ended up on the terrace looking out over the endless property beyond.
The land closest to the house was tiered and landscaped. The first level had a pool that had been covered for the season. The next level appeared to be a long stretch of lawn that was now just a bed of snow. A stone wall surrounded it, and beyond were trees and hills and land. Endless, as far as the eye could see.
It was the kind of yard meant to be played in. It was the kind of yard that needed children.
"It's beautiful. Absolutely stunning." I put my gloved hand in his as we walked down the icy staircase to the lawn below. "But what did you do here? Were you one of those little boys who climbed trees? Did you capture bugs and hang them on the bulletin board in your room? Did you swim? Did you have friends around here that you met in secret forts just beyond the property line?" I tried to imagine him. He'd been on the rowing team in college, so sport wasn't completely out of the realm of possibility in his background.
He shook his head dismissively. "There are no neighbors for miles. All that land is protected. No one can ever build on it."
"Then what?"
His lip lifted into a bashful smile. "I snowshoed.”
“Snowshoed?" I was taken aback. "Like those flat things that trappers used to walk on?"
"Are you making fun?"
I shook my head. "I'm just surprised. I could never have guessed that. How did you get into snowshoes? I didn't even know that was a thing people still did."
We were at the bottom of the stairs now, treading through the yard, our boots sinking into snow that had drifted two feet deep.
"Well, as you can see, the snow was very wet in Connecticut. Not like that dry powder you have in Colorado. As a kid…" He trailed off, his jaw working as he got caught in his reminiscing. "Let's just say there wasn't much to keep me in the house. Or near it. Out there in those woods it's quiet. You can hear your own thoughts. I discovered early that I could hear myself better out there than I could in that house, silent as the house is.