Chapter 5 - The Shadow of Another Man
The living room was small, but it possessed a warmth that money simply could not buy.
In the corner stood an eight-foot Douglas fir, slightly crooked, adorned with mismatched handmade ornaments—popsicle-stick snowflakes, dried orange slices, painted dough stars, and glossy school portraits of Toby from preschool to the first grade.
At the very top, tilted slightly to the left, sat a silver star fashioned from wire and aluminum foil.
"I made that in Mrs. Gable’s art class," Toby said proudly, pointing upward. He was standing beside me, having forgotten his earlier suspicion in his eagerness to show off his handiwork. "Mom had to lift me onto her shoulders so I could reach the highest branch."
"It's the best star I’ve ever seen," I said honestly, looking down at him.
Up close, the similarities were uncanny. He had Lauren’s small, determined chin and the slight tilt of her nose, but everything else was mine. The way he shifted his weight from heel to toe when he was excited. The way his brow furrowed when he inspected something closely.
A profound, suffocating ache bloomed behind my ribs.
Seven years.
I had spent those seven years building a portfolio of acquisitions, flying to Tokyo, London, and New York, celebrating quarterly profits with high-priced scotch in penthouse suites, believing I was winning at life. Yet here, in this drafty living room with a crooked tree and a foil star, was everything that actually mattered. And I had missed every second of it.
"Do you want a cookie?" Toby asked, extending a plate of sugar cookies shaped like reindeer. Most of the sprinkles were clustered in chaotic heaps.
"I’d love one," I said. I took a cookie, my fingers brushing his small, sticky hand.
As I chewed, the crunching sound of heavy tires cutting through thick snow echoed from the driveway outside. Bright, yellow halogen headlights swept across the living room wall, illuminating the framed photographs on the mantle before shutting off.
Lauren immediately emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her face pale.
"Who’s that?" I asked, my instincts on high alert.
"It’s Calvin," Toby cheered, dropping his cookie and rushing toward the front window. "He brought the plow!"
Lauren swallowed hard, avoiding my eyes. "He wasn't supposed to come until morning. The roads must be worse than we thought."
Heavy bootsteps stomped up the front porch, accompanied by the dull thud of snow being knocked off leather soles. A firm, familiar knock rattled the door.
Lauren took a deep breath, composed her features, and opened it.
A man stepped into the mudroom. He was tall—perhaps an inch shorter than me, but broader, with thick shoulders clad in a heavy Carhartt jacket stained with diesel and salt. He had a beard flecked with gray, weathered crow's feet around kind hazel eyes, and a broad, capable face that looked carved from the Montana landscape itself.
In his gloved hands, he held a wrapped cardboard box and a thermos.
"Brought the spare kerosene heater, Lauren," the man said, his deep, resonant voice filling the entryway. "County dispatch says the power lines along the creek might drop before midnight with this wind. Didn't want you and Toby getting cold."
"Calvin, you shouldn't have been on the roads," Lauren said, her voice laced with genuine concern that twisted like a knife in my gut. "The storm is dangerous."
"Takes more than a foot of powder to keep an old Ford down," Calvin chuckled. He set the heater down, pulled off his heavy leather gloves, and ruffled Toby’s hair as the boy attached himself to his leg. "Hey there, buddy. Did you leave out the carrots for the reindeer?"
"Mom made cookies instead!" Toby beamed.
Then, Calvin looked up.
His smile vanished instantly. His hazel eyes locked onto me, taking in my tailored wool trousers, my designer sweater, and the unmistakable tension vibrating between Lauren and me. Calvin was not a stupid man; he saw the overnight bag near the stairs, saw the faint remnants of dried tears on Lauren’s cheeks, and saw my slate-blue eyes staring back at him.
The air in the room dropped ten degrees.
"Evening," Calvin said slowly, his posture shifting from relaxed neighbor to guarded protector. "Don't believe we’ve met."
"Calvin, this is... Liam," Lauren intervened quickly, stepping between us, her voice taut with nervous energy. "Liam Keaton. An old... an old acquaintance from Chicago. His car broke down near the highway."
Calvin didn't extend his hand. He kept his arms at his sides, his eyes narrowing slightly as he processed the last name.
*Keaton.*
The name Lauren had refused to talk about for seven years. The name on the boy’s birth certificate that had sat blank under *Father.*
"Keaton," Calvin repeated quietly, the single word dripping with unspoken warnings. "Funny night to break down in Billings, Montana."
"A terrible coincidence of weather," I replied, meeting his gaze squarely, refusing to back down, though I kept my voice polite. "Thank you for looking after Lauren and Toby’s heat. I appreciate it."
May you like
"I don't look after them for your appreciation, mister," Calvin said evenly, taking a slow step forward. "I look after them because they’re family to this town. And around here, we don't take kindly to ghosts showing up uninvited on Christmas Eve."
***
