Good. Robert said, and his voice had something in it that Marcus had almost never heard there before. Something uncomplicated and warm. That's how it should be. He called you because you earned it, not because of me.
You made the introduction, Marcus said. And you made everything after that. Robert said firmly. Don't argue with me about this. Marcus, I'm recovering from a heart procedure.
Marcus laughed. You were discharged 6 days ago. The recovery period is longer than they tell you, Robert said. Is it significantly? Marcus shook his head.
All right, he said. Merry Christmas, Robert. A pause. And then Rafart said, Merry Christmas, son. Not Marcus, not William's son.
Marcus held the phone for a moment after the call ended. He sat in his kitchen with the December night outside and the sound of his daughter somewhere upstairs and the word Robert had just used ringing through him like something struck. Son. He hadn't known he needed to hear that word from someone until it arrived and rearranged something deep in his chest. He put his phone down on the table and sat there for a while, just breathing, letting himself be in the exact moment he was in instead of moving on to the next one.
Christmas came. Olivia cooked. She arrived at Robert's house at 9:00 in the morning with two bags of groceries and took over the kitchen with the efficient authority of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing and was not interested in suggestions. Robert offered two. She ignored both.
He sat down and drank his coffee. Marcus brought the girls at noon. Zoe came through the door at full speed and announced that she had helped make cookies, which was partially true. She had been present in the kitchen during cookie production. Nadia came in behind her carrying a dish covered with foil with the careful attention of someone transporting something irreplaceable, which she was.
It was the sweet potato casserole that Marcus made every year from his mother's recipe. The one the girls had requested specifically. The house smelled like everything Christmas is supposed to smell like. Robert stood in his own kitchen doorway and watched it fill up with people and noise and the specific productive chaos of a family cooking a meal together and his face did the thing it had been learning to do. It opened.
Not all the way, but enough. Marcus came to stand beside him. How are you doing? Marcus said quietly. Robert looked at Nadia carefully handing the casserole to Olivia.
At Zoey climbing onto a chair to see what was on the stove, at Olivia turning from the counter with a look of affectionate warning at Zoey that was already more natural than formal. I don't have the right word for it, Robert said. Try, Marcus said. Robert was quiet for a moment. He looked at all of it.