A Matter of Forever (Fate #4) Read online

  Gladly. I wander in there, still unnerved, to find Callie making sandwiches. I marvel at how she can be here, helping out so easily when her heart is still recovering from what happened between her and Jonah, too. I pull aluminum foil off a bowl to find potato salad. “I’ve been sent in to help. This looks delicious, by the way.”

  She chuckles under her breath as she screws the lid onto a pesto-mayo jar. “Mom got this maggot in her brain back around Christmastime that we all needed to learn to cook. Or at least feed ourselves outside of take-out. It turns out I make a damn fine potato salad.”

  I pass over a chunk of white, smelly cheese. “Jonah mentioned something about this. I guess Astrid taught him to cook, too?”

  “More like, she dragged our sorry asses to some culinary classes. Kellan came for the first couple but conveniently found work excuses to get himself out of the rest.” She extracts a mandolin from a nearby drawer and proceeds to slice the cheese. “Mom totally wised up on this, though. Jonah and I weren’t allowed any outs, no matter how hard we begged.”

  I wonder how that was for her—and for him—to be working in such close proximity to one another. I unzip a plastic bag filled with roasted turkey and lay pieces across the artisan bread she has already laid out. “Will likes to cook, you know.”

  Her hands pause mid-slice, a sliver of cheese dangling off of the mandolin. The look she gives me is almost comical.

  “I’m just saying, if you want some more pointers, I’m sure he can give you some.” I waggle my eyebrows meaningfully.

  A hand falls to her hip as her eyes narrow.

  It’s so hard not to giggle. “He was considering culinary school before coming here. You might want to let him know where you guys went. Maybe they have a program he can look into.”

  Her mouth snaps shut; words come out from between gritted teeth. “Isn’t he busy with the new Métis Council?”

  “I’ve been asleep for five days,” I say cheerfully. “You would know this better than I. Wouldn’t you?”

  The mandolin slaps against the granite counter. “Just put the damn meat on the bread, will you?” And then, more gently, “This is a shitty idea, right?”

  She’s not talking about Will, though. And I don’t take offense at what she says. It absolutely is.

  She glances toward the door between the kitchen and the dining room. “I tried talking to Kellan about this last night. He’s so pigheaded, it’s ridiculous. He legitimately thinks this is the best solution. Why J is going along with this is beyond me.”

  I add the freshly sliced cheese to the partially assembled sandwiches, unsure of what to say. Anything will sound weak: they told me it was for the best; they told me it was temporary; they assured me they were okay with this madness. She’s right, though. I should have said something, fought harder for them to be reasonable despite the circumstances.

  Callie sets the mandolin in the sink and picks up a head of lettuce. “I’m just asking ... be gentle.”

  Ouch.

  She must see just how much that stings, because she says much more soothingly, “Gods, that came out wrong. All I meant was ... Kellan isn’t thinking clearly right now. Neither is J. They’re in their über-defense mode where they become very focused on whatever it is they think is best. I’ve seen them do this time and time again, Chloe. It’s one of their best qualities, and yet also one of their worst, because sometimes they lose focus on what’s best for themselves.” Her fingers touch my arm. “I guess I’m just saying ... a lot of hard decisions were made recently, but good ones, too.” She softens. “The right ones. It’s just, I don’t want Kellan to backtrack on whatever progress he’s started to make in accepting this new reality. And I don’t want J to fall back into his pattern of feeling guilty because he thinks he doesn’t deserve happiness. And I also don’t want to see you twist yourself in knots and get sick again over matters beyond your control. So, be gentle—with them, and with yourself.”

  It’s a promise I hope to the gods I can keep.

  I’m in my new kitchen, making myself some dishes when there’s a knock on the door. As Jonah is in what we’ve designated our joint office in the back half of the apartment on a conference call with the Elders Subcommittee, I go to answer. It’s my mother, holding a potted plant.

  Something in me twists in an odd sense of pleasure and regret.

  She shifts the fern-like, flowering plant to a hip. “Hello, Chloe. May I come in?”

  I immediately widen the doorway and step to the side. “Oh. Right. Please—I, uh, didn’t know you were coming. I’m sor—”

  “No need to apologize,” she says quietly as she brushes past me. Familiar yet bittersweet wafts of perfume curl around me. “If anyone should, it’s me. I didn’t call ahead to see if you’d even be home.”

  I lead her to the living room and we stand there, awkward in the bare bones of the new foundation we’re building together, me with my hands twisting together like I’m still a little girl in her presence, her gripping the plant. Finally, she says, “I brought you this. Thought you might like it.” She glances around at the mostly empty room. “Plants always seem to make new homes feel lived in.”

  I take it from her and set it down on a nearby drafting table the renovators left behind. “Thanks. I appreciate it.” And I do—really, sincerely do. My mother has brought me a gift. A housewarming gift. The sky is no longer blue and I’m upside down and everything I know suddenly feels very different than it did just two minutes before.

  Her smile is hesitant yet sincere. “Any time you want any plants, just let me know.” A quick glance at the balcony has her adding, “Roses would be beautiful out there. I have some species that are very hardy and well adapted to Annar’s seasons. I’ll have some sent over, if you like.”

  I motion toward the couch I made just this morning, one Jonah and I picked together after perusing couch websites for a good hour in bed the night before. When we sit down, there’s space between us, several feet of it, but my gods.

  I’m sitting on a couch with my mother.

  Picking at stray potting soil on her slacks keeps her fingers busy. “I came to see you last week.” She clears her throat. “I’m really glad to know you’re doing much better, Chloe.”

  Jonah told me that she’d come nearly every day before she had to go on a quick mission. Just her, never my father. She was quiet during those visits, unsure of her place or right to be in the room with everyone else. Still, pleasure blooms through me, even if I temper the hope that comes with it.

  Little steps. Rome wasn’t built in a day.

  I make us tea and we talk for about a half hour. Every word, every gesture of ours is tentative and carefully made. I think we are both terrified of taking the wrong step with the other—me especially when I ask, “How is Dad?”

  It’s frustrating that my mind and mouth still refer to Noel Lilywhite as Dad. He hasn’t spoken a single word to me in over a year now, not even during Council meetings. He’s barely even spared me a glance. I’m his greatest disappointment, after all. And that cuts to the bone, even though I’ve long come to accept this is how our relationship is. Because, despite how Noel Lilywhite and I may be related by biology, Cameron Dane is more my father than he ever was or will be.

  My mother sips her tea slowly. “As he always is, I suppose.”

  As I figur—Wait. She supposes? I set my own tea down and ask warily, “Why does it sound like you don’t know?”

  Her nails click quietly against the china mug as her lips purse together. Finally, she says, “Your father and I are currently not residing in the same house. But as he is fairly consistent in his health, I am assuming he is the same as always.”

  It’s a good thing I’m already sitting down, because HELLO? WHAT?

  “But,” she says more firmly, “that is not a conversation for today. That said, I want you to know that, no matter what, you must never fear you are to blame for anything that happens from here on out between your father and I. We have made our cho
ices in our lives, just as you make yours.”

  I fear my jaw has come unhinged.

  Jonah comes strolling into the room, pages spilling out of one hand while in the other he holds his cell phone to his ear. But the moment he sees my mother, he cuts off whatever conversation he’s in the middle of and says, “I need to call you back.”

  “Hello, Jonah,” my mother says.

  He looks to me first before saying, “Hey, Abigail. What brings you by today?” The papers and phone are deposited onto a stack of boxes nearby as he comes over to where I’m sitting.

  The question rattles my mother. While polite, it’s also got just a hint of warning: he’s in no mood to tolerate any shenanigans, especially as he currently can’t pinpoint my emotions to ascertain how I’m dealing with her visit.

  I take his hand and squeeze it lightly; I’m okay, I reassure him silently. “She brought us a plant for the apartment.”

  He doesn’t look at the beautiful plant, though. His attention is solely on her.

  “It’s a lovely place you two have here,” she says calmly. “I bet you’re looking forward to decorating it together.”

  I tug him down next to me; now I’ve shifted much closer to where she sits. “We are, actually.” And then, hesitantly, “Where are you staying right now?”

  I feel, rather than see Jonah’s surprise at my question. “I am splitting my time between the house in California and the apartment here in Annar. Part of why I wanted to stop by is to let you know I’m slated to go off on a mission in Belize in the next few days; I’ll be gone for at least a month. I’m to introduce some new species I’ve been working on in the rain forests there.”

  She hasn’t told me about her missions since I moved to Annar two years ago.

  Her fingers curl in and out as they twist together in her lap, reminding me of hand games Cora, Lizzie, and I used to play as children. “I wanted to let you know I’ll have my cell phone with me if you ...” A pause accompanies a glance toward the plant. “Have any questions about the plant I gave you.”

  Oh.

  “Or even just want to talk.”

  Oh.

  I want to ask her where Dad is staying if he’s not with her, but she stands up, smoothing her slacks. “Thank you for the tea. I better get going; I have a dinner engagement I must go to in the next hour that I should get ready for.”

  I stand up, too. It’s lame, but all I can manage is, “Thanks for the plant, have a safe trip,” because I genuinely have no idea what else to say.

  She touches my shoulder, just tips of fingers grazing the cotton of my blouse. And then she’s gone.

  “Uh, what was that?” Jonah asks me once the door closes shut.

  I drop onto the couch next to him. “I have no idea. I actually have not a single clue.”

  “Am I misunderstanding this, or did your parents split up?”

  I tuck my legs under me. “I think so.”

  He’s just as stunned as me. “Wow.” And it’s funny that we’re both shaken by this revelation, because I’m not the only one who witnessed my parents’ cold marriage in action. Jonah lived with us in high school for a little bit and saw it on a daily basis.

  It’s highly unethical for me to pry, but I can’t help but ask, “What was she feeling? Did she give you a hint about whether or not she’s upset?”

  He considers this. “No, not by the separation. I do think she’s upset, though—and I think it has to do with you. Your mother is finally seeing things a little more clearly nowadays. She’s disappointed in herself. She also knows that sometimes we must own our decisions, and that too little, too late is applicable far too often.”

  As always, I marvel at how nuanced Jonah’s craft is and at how good he is at it. “She brought us a plant, Jonah.”

  His smile is adorably crooked alongside his dimple. “She brought you a plant.”

  “Nitpicker.” Still. It’s absurd, but I want to hug the damn thing. Just hold it close. It’ll never be just a plant to me, or the first housewarming gift I ever received.

  It’ll always be living proof of my mother’s love.

  Will wanders up the new staircase later that afternoon with a plate of cookies. I practically tear it from his hands and devour almost all of them nearly just as quickly.

  He’s amused. “Some of those were for Jonah, too.”

  Will’s oatmeal chocolate chip cookies are the best. Okay, not as good as his pancakes, but still pretty close. “He snoozes, he loses. We’re still waiting for that grocery shipment, I’ll have you know. All that we have is coffee and a bottle of wine Astrid gifted us with last night.”

  “You should have called. I made pancakes this morning for Dad and Kellan. It would have been no problem to make you two some, too.”

  I have never been as irrationally annoyed with Will as I am in this moment. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “So sorry if I thought I’d not interrupt you two during the first morning in your new place. For all I knew, you two were ...” His grin is inappropriately naughty. “Tired from a long night of unpacking.”

  My cheeks flame at his innuendo. “Oh my gods, Will. Just ... stop.”

  Truth be told, I think I fell asleep while hanging clothes in my closet late last night. The last thing I remember is pulling clothes out of a box; the next was waking up in an empty bed. Jonah was already in the office on a videoconference, working from home since he isn’t willing to leave the apartment or me alone quite yet.

  Will chuckles before pulling out his cell phone. “Hold on. Let me call Dad and tell him to get on the horn about food. Where did you guys order from, Timbuktu?”

  I’m forced to scrape crumbs off the plate when my conscience gets the better of me. I leave Jonah the last three cookies.

  That reminds me. I need to call Caleb and catch up. Invite him over. Pick his brain about how somebody or something could have gotten into my mind so easily.

  “I should have a housewarming party,” I announce when Will gets off the phone.

  “The food will be here in less than an hour.” He slides his phone back into his pocket. “Now, what? Are you mad? I can’t possibly see a housewarming party being practical.”

  “Why not? It’s not like this is a prison and I an inmate.”

  He wanders into my kitchen, opening up the empty cabinets. “Of course you aren’t. Nobody says you are. But you were recently attacked and beaten unconscious at your last party.”

  “Gee, thanks for the reminder. I still don’t see how that prohibits me from having a party.”

  “Do you want me to arrange the kitchen for you?”

  It’s cute how he phrased that as a choice. “Please, Will, would you like to arrange my kitchen?”

  “I’d be happy to. How is it you two have no cooking utensils? Not even ...” He opens and shuts a few more cabinets. “A single pan? You two are pathetic. Love alone won’t feed you, Chloe.”

  I make a pan and hold it out. “Voilà!”

  He won’t even take it from my hand. “Don’t insult me. This is a shoddy dime-store pan. If you’re not going to let me go with you to a proper kitchen store, at least let me show you some photos of what you really need so you can make the right ones.”

  The pan is gone in an instant. “Fine.”

  Over the next few hours, he and I construct a kitchen worthy of a professional chef. It’s hilarious, considering I can’t cook to save my life. Too bad cooking can’t be learned through osmosis. In the end, though, it’s beautiful: all clean, white lines with yellow and turquoise Italian accents.

  Now that the groceries have arrived, and I’ve sufficiently begged him, Will is hard at work making dinner for us. “You’re a handy woman to have around, Chloe Lilywhite.”

  “I could say the same about you.” I lean against the counter and smile up at him. I like watching Will cook; for months, when I was in Alaska, I’d spend hours just hanging out with him while he did his thing. “When you finally get your own place, I’ll return the f
avor and make you whatever you like.”

  “Ah yes.” He grins ruefully as he minces garlic. “When Will finally becomes a big boy and moves out of his Daddy’s place and all.”

  “That’ll be the day, right?” And then, sincerely, “I’m glad you two are nearby, though.”

  His knife scrapes the garlic into a new pan already heating on the stovetop that meets his exact specifications. “I would have expected you to want us far away by now.”

  “Don’t be stupid. I’m always going to want you guys nearby.” I lean over and kiss him on the cheek. “You’re my family. I love you two.”

  Even though he jokes about this, I know it pleases him. He loves me, too.

  Because I love him so much, I ask carefully, “How are you doing, anyway?”

  Delicious smells waft up from the sizzling pan. “Brilliant, thanks.”

  Liar. I pass over an onion I’ve recently peeled for him. “Tell me the truth.”

  A sharp knife slices through the onion’s skin as he considers our long standing game. Tell me has gotten us through rough times in the past, allowing us both avenues to express ourselves we might otherwise have closed off. I have to wait nearly a full minute before he says, “I’m at a loss right now, if you want to know the truth.”

  I get to work on cutting up pieces of chicken as I wait for him to finish.

  “History is a complicated thing,” he continues quietly. “It makes us who we are today.”

  Agreed.

  “History defines much of our actions, good and bad. It also shapes the way we see our world.” His knife flies across the brand spankin’ new cutting board I made just an hour before. “It’s funny how we often look at our past and the actions therein with rose colored glasses, even if we know better.”

  He’s talking about Becca, and of the rich and complicated history they share.

  “Sometimes, it’s hard to reconcile the present and a possible future you never expected with the past and all the wishes it held.” Tiny bits of onion join the garlic sizzling in olive oil. “Tell me: how did you know Jonah was the one for you?”