“You don’t have to. We live in New York.”
“What’s all this then?”
“I don’t know.” She’d surprised herself as much as him. “I guess . . . The Miras this morning, then this couple later. It . . .” Her mind, she realized, wasn’t as clear as she’d thought. “I’ll have that drink, and tell you.”
“All right. Let’s have it downstairs. You can come up with Mira if you feel you must,” he added, anticipating her protest, “but we should go down, greet them first, as friends.”
“You’re right.” She wrapped around him again, just to hold. “We’ll go downstairs.”
He tipped her head back, looked into her eyes. “You’re not sad.”
“No, I’m not sad.”
Thoughtful then, he decided, taking her hand as they went back down.
Summerset had lit the fire, and the tree. The parlor looked, well, amazing, she thought. It looked like home—her home—despite its elegance, its exceptional taste and style, the gleam of antiques, the art, the color, the lovely blending of old and new.
“What is it, Eve?”
She shook her head, sat on the arm of a chair because you could do that at home.
“I was in the Miras’ house this morning, and thinking how pretty it is there, how calm and pretty and easy to be in. This is, too. Isn’t that funny that this is, too? They have a tree. We have a tree. Well, I don’t know how many trees we have in here because who could count?”
“Twenty.”
“Okay. We have twenty trees.” It struck her suddenly. Twenty trees. “Seriously?”
“Yes.” He smiled, as much at his own need to fill the house with Christmas as with her reaction. “We’ll go around and have a look at all of them sometime.”
“It’ll take a while. Anyway, they had a fire, and we have one. But it’s not that, do you know what I mean? It’s the feeling. I used to envy that feeling. I could recognize it. You’d go into somebody’s place to interview them, notify them, even arrest them, and you’d recognize the feeling of home when it was there.”
“I know that envy, very well.” Which, he understood, explained all the trees, among other things.
“I thought when I moved in here it would always be a house, and always be yours. I don’t even know when that changed, not exactly, and it became mine. Ours. That’s pretty amazing.”
“It was a house, one I enjoyed very much. But it wasn’t a home until you.” He looked around the parlor as she had. Candles and firelight, tree glowing, colors rich, wood gleaming.
“What I put in it was for comfort, for show, or because I could. It mattered to have it, this place. My place. But I could never quite reach that feeling, until you.”
“I get that,” she realized. “It matters that you mean it, and that I get it.” She took a breath while he opened a bottle of wine. “You know how they are, the Miras. So connected, so just right. I swear if I didn’t love you, if it wasn’t for her, I’d really go for him.”
At Roarke’s laugh, she shook her head again, took the wine he offered.
“I think I could take him,” Roarke considered.
“I don’t know. He might surprise you. Anyway, it’s not like that really. There’s just . . . he’s just . . . There’s something about him that hits all my soft spots. I didn’t know I had some of them.”
“I think that’s lovely.”
“He brought me those silly gloves and that stupid hat, and put them on me like I was a kid. I ended up wearing them because he can’t button his sweater right half the time but he hunted up a cap and gloves for me because it’s cold out. He’s so kind, and they have this amazing connection between them.”
She had to take a steadying breath, amazed at
how sloppy she felt about . . . all of it.
“I want that. I mean when we’ve been together like them a couple decades, I want that with us.”
“Darling Eve.” This time he pressed his lips to the top of her head. “There’s more every day.”