She didn't cry. Crying was a release she hadn't earned. She just sat there in the freezing cold, letting the silence tear her apart piece by piece. It was 6:00 a.m. The sky outside was the color of bruised iron.
Dean walked through the front doors carrying two heavy thermoses and a canvas bag of tools. He expected to find the house empty. He had fully anticipated that Claire Montgomery had packed her bags, called a car, and fled back to the sterile safety of Manhattan. Instead, he found her sitting on the floor of the library. She was wearing a thick gray sweater and denim jeans.
No makeup. No armor. She was sitting cross-legged next to Leo's folded blanket. In front of her, she had laid out a spread of fresh pastries, two cartons of expensive chocolate milk, and a steaming cup of dark roast coffee. Dean stopped in the doorway.
He set his tools down slowly. Claire looked up. Her eyes were red-rimmed, carrying heavy dark circles. She didn't look like a CEO. She looked like a woman who had survived a car crash.
The coffee is for you, Claire said. Her voice was completely stripped of its usual commanding edge. It was raspy, hesitant. I drove to the artisanal place two towns over. They open at 5:00.
It's not instant. Dean looked at the spread. He looked at Claire. He didn't say a word. He walked out to the truck and brought Leo inside.
The boy padded into the room wrapped in his winter coat. He stopped when he saw Claire sitting by his blanket. He looked up at his father, uncertain. Dean gave a barely perceptible nod. Leo walked over, sat down on the edge of the blanket, and stared at the chocolate milk.
You can have it, Claire said softly, keeping her hands in her lap. She remembered Dean's unspoken rule. She didn't open it for him. She didn't push it toward him. She just offered the reality of it.
Leo picked up the carton. He wrestled with the small plastic tab. It took him a minute, his small fingers slipping on the condensation. Claire watched, her heart hammering a strange, erratic rhythm against her ribs. She wanted to help.
The urge to intervene, to fix the inefficiency, was a physical ache. But she clamped her jaw shut and stayed entirely still. Leo peeled the tab back. He took a sip. Then he reached into his small backpack, pulled out a blue crayon, and began to color on his clipboard.
Claire let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. Dean walked over and picked up the coffee. He took a sip. It was good. He set it down on the mantelpiece and picked up a soft rag and a tin of finishing wax.