Chapter 3 - War Across the Dining Table
The kitchen in Blackwood Ridge was a war zone of neglected wealth.
It was massive—easily three times the size of Aunt Sarah’s bakery kitchen—with commercial-grade stainless steel appliances, dark granite countertops, and a magnificent double-oven range that looked like it had cost more than my annual salary.
It was also completely filthy.
Unwashed cast-iron skillets sat stacked in the massive copper sink, coated in cold grease. Countertops were covered in ring marks from coffee mugs, spilled cereal, and dried breadcrumbs. A half-empty box of store-bought donuts lay crushed on the center island, surrounded by a swarm of tiny fruit flies.
Vincent stood in the doorway, his tall frame blocking the faint light coming from the hall.
“Mrs. Gable was supposed to clean on Thursday,” he said, his voice flat, though I detected a faint edge of tension in his jaw.
“Mrs. Gable is sixty-five and has bad hips,” I said, walking over to the sink. I turned the copper faucet handle. After a violent gurgle of pipes, hot water burst forth, steaming in the chilly room. “She probably took one look at this sink and decided her hips hurt too much.”
I found a bottle of dish soap beneath the counter, poured a generous splash into the skillet, and grabbed a stiff bristled brush.
“You don't have to start with the dishes,” Vincent said.
I didn't turn around. “If I don't start with the dishes, I can't cook lunch. If I can't cook lunch, those children upstairs will continue eating dry cereal out of the box until their teeth rot.”
I began scrubbing. The sound of metal against stone filled the quiet kitchen.
Vincent didn't leave. He stood by the island, watching my back. I could feel the weight of his gaze—heavy, measuring, relentless.
“My bedroom is on the main floor,” he said abruptly. “East wing. Yours is on the second floor, at the end of the hall past Emily’s room. It has its own bath.”
I paused my scrubbing for half a second. Separate rooms.
It wasn't a surprise. A man who advertises for a wife on a cork board isn't looking for a marriage bed on night one. But hearing it spoken so plainly made a strange, tight knot form in my stomach.
“Fine,” I said, resuming my work. “Where are the dry goods?”
He opened a door near the refrigerator, revealing a walk-in pantry that was almost comical in its disorganization. Boxes of expensive organic pasta were stacked next to industrial-sized cans of peaches, bags of flour that had been ripped open and left unsealed, and row upon row of canned meat.
It was the pantry of a man who bought in bulk because he didn't have time to shop, but had no idea how to turn raw ingredients into a meal.
“Go find your children,” I told him, wiping my hands on a dish towel. “Tell them lunch is at twelve thirty.”
He hovered for a moment longer, as if waiting for me to ask for help, or complain about the mess, or break down into tears.
When I simply pulled a ten-pound bag of potatoes from the pantry floor and set it on the granite counter, he nodded once, turned, and walked away. His heavy boot heels faded down the hall.
By noon, the kitchen smelled different.
The cold grease and stale sugar scents were gone, replaced by the deep, rich aroma of boiling salted water, roasted garlic, and searing beef.
I had found four pounds of ground sirloin in the deep freezer, two bags of carrots in the crisper drawer that hadn't turned to slime yet, and a five-pound block of sharp cheddar. I made a massive shepherd’s pie—the kind Aunt Sarah used to make on blizzard days—topping it with a thick, golden layer of mashed potatoes and browned cheese.
At 12:25 PM, I set the heavy ceramic dish in the middle of the dark oak dining table in the great room.
The dining table was long enough to seat sixteen people. It sat beneath a wrought-iron chandelier that held twelve unlit candles.
I went to the base of the stairs and looked up.
“Lunch!” I called out. My voice echoed off the high timber walls.
Silence.
I waited ten seconds.
Then, from down the east hallway, Vincent appeared. He had changed out of his duster coat into a dark gray wool sweater, his damp dark hair pushed back. He walked to the head of the table, pulled out his chair, and sat down.
He looked at the steaming shepherd’s pie, then at the five empty chairs.
He opened his mouth to call for them, but I held up a hand.
“Don't,” I said quietly.
He paused, a dark eyebrow pulling down. “They need to eat.”
“They will eat when they realize no one is going to force them,” I said.
I walked to the kitchen, fetched two plates, two linen napkins I had found buried in a sideboard drawer, and a pitcher of cold water.
I served Vincent a large portion, setting the plate before him with a fork and napkin. Then I served myself, taking the chair directly to his right.
For five minutes, the only sound in the massive room was the soft clink of our silverware against ceramic.
The food was rich, hot, and comforting. I hadn't realized how hungry I was until the first bite hit my tongue.
Vincent ate with terrifying efficiency—not like a man enjoying a gourmet meal, but like a soldier refueling his body for a long march. But after his third bite, his fork paused. He looked down at the creamy mashed potatoes, then at the tender beef beneath them.
He didn't say “This is good.”
He simply took another large bite, his jaw working methodically.
Then, a soft rustle sounded from the shadow of the archway.
Seven-year-old Ryan stood there, his thumb hooked into the pocket of his faded jeans. His small nose was twitching.
The smell of browned cheddar and garlic had done what his father’s voice couldn't.
I didn't look directly at him. I kept eating, taking a slow sip of water. “There’s extra cheese on the left side, Ryan. But the plate is hot, so you’ll need a towel to carry it.”
Ryan hesitated. He looked at his father.
Vincent didn't move. He kept eating, giving his son space.
Slowly, like a wild deer approaching a clearing, Ryan edged toward the table. He pulled out the chair across from me—the one farthest from his father—and climbed up.
I stood up without making sudden movements, walked to the sideboard, poured him a glass of milk, and served a generous helping of pie onto a small blue plate. I set it in front of him.
“Thank you,” he whispered, barely audible.
“You’re welcome,” I said.
He grabbed his fork with both hands and dug in like he hadn't eaten in forty-eight hours.
Two minutes later, Emily appeared. She was still wearing her oversized red blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a cape, her blonde hair messy and tangled. She didn't look at me. She simply sat beside Ryan, pulled her knees up to her chest, and waited.
I served her without a word.
Then came Ben, three years old, wearing footie pajamas with dinosaur prints that were two sizes too small. He was holding a small, ratty blue blanket that smelled faintly of sour milk. He didn't sit down; he walked straight to Vincent, tugging on his dark pants leg.
Vincent reached down with one massive arm, scooped the toddler up effortlessly, and set him on his lap. He picked up a small piece of cooked carrot from his own plate and offered it to the boy. Ben took it eagerly, chewing with his front teeth.
Only Noah was missing.
I looked up toward the balcony. The boy was standing in the dark upper corridor, leaning his hands against the wooden railing, watching us like an exiled king watching a revolt in his courtyard.
His face was hard, cold, filled with a deep, furious betrayal.
He looked at his brother Ryan eating happily. He looked at his father feeding Ben carrots. And then his dark, piercing eyes locked onto mine.
You don't belong here, his eyes said. You’re just another intruder.
I didn't look away. I held his gaze until he scoffed, turned his back, and retreated once more into the darkness of the upper floor.
That evening, the promised snow arrived.
It came not with a gentle drift, but with a roaring mountain gale that rattled the heavy timber window frames and set the stone chimney groaning. Within two hours, Blackwood Ridge was cut off from the rest of the world beneath six inches of blinding white powder.
I spent the afternoon exploring my room.
It was large, rustic, and cold. A massive king-sized bed with an unpainted pine headboard occupied the center wall, covered in a heavy navy-blue wool blanket. A small iron wood stove sat in the corner, cold and unlit.
I spent an hour cleaning the small bathroom, scrubbing the clawfoot tub, and laying out my clean wool socks.
At 8:00 PM, after putting Ryan and Ben to bed—a process that involved Vincent sitting in a rocking chair in their room for forty minutes in absolute silence while they drifted off—I came down to the great room.
The fire had finally been lit.
Vincent was sitting in a massive leather armchair near the hearth, a thick stack of manila folders resting on his lap. A single iron reading lamp illuminated his face from above, highlighting the deep, sharp angles of his cheekbones and the dark stubble outlining his jaw.
He wore reading glasses—small, wire-rimmed frames that made him look surprisingly academic, a stark contrast to his massive frame and scarred knuckles.
I walked over to the wood box near the hearth, picked up two small logs, and carefully tossed them onto the blazing fire.
“You don't need to do that,” Vincent said, his voice deep, not looking up from his file. “Noah stacks the wood in the evening.”
“Noah is fourteen and currently hates my existence,” I said, sitting on the stone hearth near the warmth of the flames. “I’d rather not rely on his goodwill for heat.”
Vincent closed his folder with a quiet snap. He took off his reading glasses, resting them on the arm of his chair, and looked down at me.
The firelight reflected in his pale gray eyes, turning them into pools of molten silver.
“He doesn't hate you,” Vincent said quietly. “He hates that his mother died. He hates that he remembers her voice, and the younger ones don't.”
The room quieted, save for the crackle of the fir logs and the howling wind outside.
“And you?” I asked, leaning my shoulder against the warm stone chimney. “What do you hate, Vincent?”
He didn't answer right away. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out an old silver pocket watch, and ran his thumb over the scratched casing.
“I hate people who talk too much,” he said flatly. “I hate men who make promises they can't keep. And I hate the fact that my daughter Lily has had a fever of a hundred and one since five o’clock.”
My posture straightened instantly. “Lily is sick?”
“Her ear,” Vincent said, his jaw tightening. “The doctor in town gave her amoxicillin two weeks ago, but it ran out yesterday. The mountain road is blocked. I can't get the truck down to the pharmacy until the plow comes through tomorrow afternoon.”
“Why didn't you tell me?” I stood up, my skirt rustling against the stone.
“Because you’re not a nurse, Claire,” he said, his tone cold, defensive—the tone of a man who had spent three years carrying every burden alone and didn't know how to share the weight. “You bake bread.”
I looked down at him, my fear for the baby momentarily swallowed by a sudden, hot flash of temper.
“I was a pediatric nurse’s assistant at St. Peter’s in Helena for three years before I came back to take care of Aunt Sarah,” I snapped, my voice ringing out clearly in the large room. “I’ve treated ear infections, high fevers, and croup in fifty children whose parents couldn't afford a clinic visit.”
Vincent stared at me, his mouth slightly parted in surprise.
“Where is she?” I demanded.
Vincent stood up slowly, his massive frame towering over me. But the coldness in his eyes had flickered, replaced by that same desperate uncertainty I had seen in the bakery on Friday.
May you like
“In my room,” he said softly.
I didn't wait for him. I turned and walked straight toward the east wing.
