“Come through,” Damian says, leading the way. “Lina is in the kitchen.”
Taking Violet’s hand, I interlace our fingers and follow my brother past a cozy lounge with colorful scatter cushions and a bay window overlooking the river. We pass a playroom with toys littering the floor and wide, French doors letting in plenty of light. The room next to that has floor-to-ceiling shelves that are filled with books. A large desk stands on a Persian rug. Armchairs face a fireplace, and a daybed with a mohair throw stands next to the arched window. The house looks warm and well-lived in, like a true family home.
We enter a spacious kitchen adjoining a greenhouse with glass walls that allow a view of the lawn stretching to the river. A baby girl of about seven or eight months sits in a highchair next to a large wooden table, banging a wooden spoon on the tray of the chair. A slender, blond woman is bent over one of two ovens, removing a large casserole.
“Let me,” Damian says, rushing over. “That’s heavy.”
My sister-in-law straightens with a smile. “Oh. Our guests have arrived. You should’ve told me, Damian.” She removes her oven mittens and gives them to Damian. Turning to us, she says, “I would’ve greeted you at the door.”
“These are for you,” Violet says, holding out the bouquet of proteas.
“They’re gorgeous.” Lina’s smile is warm as she takes the flowers. “Thank you. Damian told me your name is Violet.”
Violet flushes, presumably wondering—like me—what else Damian told her about how they met.
Damian places the roast he takes from the oven far from the baby’s reach on a wooden board on the table, shooting me a look.
Addressing me, Lina says, “Finally. I’m so happy to meet both of you.”
“Likewise.” I hold out the gift for the baby. “And this is for…” I trail off, realizing I don’t know my niece’s name.
“Josephine,” Lina says. “We call her Josie. Would you like to give her that yourself?”
“I’d love to,” I say, going over to the little person who stops banging the spoon when she notices attention coming her way. “If you don’t mind.”
Josie sits quietly, staring at me with her father’s dark eyes. Damn. With her mahogany brown hair and olive-tinted skin, she looks so much like Damian.
“Hi, Josie,” I say, showing her the gift. “Would you like to open this?”
She doesn’t reach for it. She assesses the item in my hand before doing the same with my face. It seems she takes after her father too, analyzing every new situation with careful attention to determine the risks before coming to a decision.
I wiggle the parcel. “It won’t bite. I promise.”
When she still doesn’t move, I leave it on her tray table. After another second of staring at the colorful paper, she grabs the gift in her chubby hands and shreds the paper. Yellow and pink candy-striped pieces drift to the floor.
Lina laughs when Josie tears off a large corner and stuffs it in her mouth.
“No, sweet pea,” Lina says, leaving the flowers on the table before gently removing the paper from Josie’s mouth. “It’s not for eating.”
With some help from Lina, Josie manages to get rid of all the paper. She stares at the pink soft toy before curling her fingers into the fluffy wool.
“She loves it,” Lina says, smoothing a hand over Josie’s hair. “Thank you. That was very thoughtful.”
Josh darts into the kitchen, holding both palms up. “I already washed my hands, Mommy.”
“Good,” Lina says. “Then you can help with carrying the drinks outside.”
He runs to the fridge and takes out a large Mason jar. “Look, Uncle Leon. Ginger beer.”
“That looks delicious,” I say.
“I’m not allowed to drink it because when it ferments, it makes alcohol,” he says with a serious, grown-up voice.
“Be careful not to drop that,” Lina says as he runs for the backdoor.
“No running with jars in your hands, big man.” Damian stops him with a hand on his shoulder as he shoots pasts us. “You know the rules.”
Josh slows to a walk, concentrating on not dropping the jar as he goes outside.
“Can we help with anything?” Violet asks.
“Grab that tray,” Damian says to me, motioning at a tray with glasses that stands on the counter before taking two ice buckets and walking to the door.
Lina dumps the gift paper in a trashcan. “Violet, do you mind keeping an eye on Josie while I baste the roast?” Her eyes soften when she looks at the baby. “She hardly ever fusses, but she’s at that age where she sticks everything in her mouth, and we have to be extra careful.”
I do notice the scars on Lina’s arms, but I don’t linger there with my gaze. Like Damian said, it’s not our business.
“Of course not,” Violet says.