She debated asking, but he wasn’t likely to give her a straight answer. They’d argued enough in the past two days. Instead, she rushed upstairs for her phone, shot Sarah a quick text to check in on Dad, and dashed out to join Duncan in the car.
She couldn’t figure out what made him so reticent to see his family, but whatever the cause, she wasn’t eager to meet them either.
7
The mountain roads were going to kill her. There was nothing more to it. Rosabel attempted to keep her attention on the solid white line, and having a singular focus helped to abate her queasiness somewhat. She attempted to instigate another riveting conversation by asking Duncan what music he liked, but he only grunted.
They passed a few hotels when an old-fashioned trolley pulled into the parking lot of some kind of depot. A trolley? She was in love with this place already.
One home in particular caused Rosabel to gasp. She scooted closer to the window for a better look. “That house!” she exclaimed. Her eyes couldn’t seem to take in enough of its features. It was a Queen Anne Victorian, buttery yellow, with crinkle-cut siding, a tower situated atop its circular porch, and gables made of burgundy. The elaborate dream home was encircled by a low wrought-iron fence above a stone retaining wall.
Wonder and admiration brimmed within Rosabel. A keen desire to tour the interior taunted her. Even as they passed, she rotated in her seat, not wanting to let the structure out of her sight. Too soon, it was behind them.
“Oh my goodness,” she said, patting Duncan’s knee repeatedly. “Did you see that house? I’ve seen places like that in pictures, but in person? Ohhhh my goodness, it’s stunning.”
Duncan grunted again, pushing her hand away from his leg.
“Are you kidding me? Turn around, Clive! We have to go back.”
Clive chuckled from the driver’s seat, but Duncan signaled him on. “My family is expecting us.”
Rosabel sank against her seat in shock. “I can’t believe you’re this impartial. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me there was a house like that on the way to your parents’, after I gushed over houses just like that on the way here.”
“That’s not the only one around here,” Duncan said. “Just wait until we go downtown.”
Excitement speared through her. More? Like that one? “Let’s go,” she exclaimed. “Right now!” She was probably overdoing it, especially since this was Duncan she was trying to connect with, but still. That house. She couldn’t get over it.
Clive drove through the rest of the small town, turning at a fork in the road marked by a series of electric poles providing power to nearby buildings, and a large sign announcing Stuart’s Grocery.
A few more miles, and they pulled into a lengthy drive hidden from the road by its own personal forest. At the end of the drive lay a two-level Colonial home, dated but in excellent condition. Flower boxes spilling with begonias and popcorn-like hydrangeas lined the cobblestone sidewalk’s edges.
“This place is stunning too. No one builds houses like this anymore,” she added, thinking of the contrast between these historical structures and the modern mansions she’d seen back at his mountain cove. Perhaps their differences related to the conclusion she and Duncan had come to during their drive earlier. Each style, each time period, had its own charms and setbacks. She decided to appreciate the beauty in both worlds.
“This is where I grew up,” Duncan said.
Rosabel’s mouth dropped. It was doing that a lot lately. “This house? I never would have thought you grew up in a place like this. I mean, a mansion, yes, but in a little adorable, historic place like this?” She swept her gaze toward the upper balcony, supported by several statuesque columns. She pictured flags draped from those battlements during an earlier time period. This was Civil War territory, after all.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. You just don’t seem like the kind of guy …” He had let her ramble on about her interests and hadn’t said a word about his own. Realization opened a new file within her mind. She’d been nothing more than acquainted with Duncan. How much did she really know about him?
His jaw ticked. He didn’t acknowledge her before treading forward to the front door. When he lifted his fist to knock, she noticed his other hand clenched at his side.
Rosabel had watched him take on CEO tycoons from company after company, steering them—and in some cases bullying them—toward or away from certain investments. He’d never confronted them with hands fisted so tightly at his sides his veins bulged.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Fine,” he said too quickly.
She opened her mouth to press the issue when the door swung open. The thin woman standing there in a striped blouse and knee-length skirt and heels showed only a small spark of recognition. If anything, her already downturned mouth frowned a little deeper. Rosabel suspected her age lines were due more to stress and dissatisfaction than smiling. Though her complexion could make Audrey Hepburn jealous—if Audrey was the type—care, stress, and frustration dragged down the corners of this woman’s eyes and weighed on her shoulders.
“Hello, Mother.”
“You made it,” Mrs. Hawthorne said, feigning a smile. Rosabel waited for her to pull her son into her arms, or to express interest in his travels, or even say how glad she was to have him home again. She said none of these but stepped back and gestured for the two of them to come inside.
Rosabel followed Duncan’s example and removed her shoes on the marble entryway. To the left, the entrance lowered a single step into the living room. The carpets were greener than envy but clearly well cared for, shimmery in that just-shampooed kind of way. Floral curtains splashed a contrast to the carpet along the extravagant windows. A tiny clock on the marble mantel above the fireplace gave off little pinging noises every time the second hand moved.
Mrs. Hawthorne—Rosabel assumed that was who’d answered the door, since the woman had yet to say a word—strutted to settle herself onto the left side of a floral love seat situated at the room’s far end. A man occupied a high-backed velvet chair in the opposite corner. He kept his attention plastered to his phone.
Rosabel waited with her heart in her mouth. Duncan remained near the baby grand piano in the room’s left-hand corner. Tension didn’t ripple so much as seethe as every eye rested on him.
Why didn’t Duncan say anything? Were these his parents?
Why didn’t they say anything?
She got the impression that this was the family dynamic Duncan had grown up with. Was this normal to him? She couldn’t fathom being treated this way by her family. No greeting. No pleasure in each other’s company. No warmth.
Rosabel thought back to her earlier suspicions that Duncan was the way he was because of his family. She couldn’t remember a time she’d wished she was more wrong.
Pity swelled within Rosabel as she remembered her mother’s gentle, kind countenance and the way she pulled Rosabel into a hug every time she came home from school—daily. If Rosabel was correct, these people hadn’t seen their son in years! What happened between them?
Any minute now, his mom would crack her stony expression, call him out for believing the joke, cross the room and wrap him in her arms.