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Salad, beef bourguignon, plus a glass of wine for each of us.
Once I’ve served him a portion, Gus stares at his plate before looking up at me. “This is certainly edible,” he comments.
“Cheers, asshole,” I reply, raising my glass of wine.
We clink and drink, both of us unsure what to say. It’s a rare moment of peace. A stalemate, I guess—all brought on by a beef bourguignon.
As he eats, Gus groans softly. It’s nearly inaudible, but I can hear it over the sounds of his record player in the next room.
“Suck it up and tell me you like it, August,” I prod triumphantly. “There’s nobody here. I promise I won’t tell a soul that you have pleasant things to say occasionally.”
His glare is equal parts annoyance and amusement. “If being a professional rich man’s daughter doesn’t pan out,” he replies, smirking devilishly, “you could have a career in a kitchen.”
I refuse to take the bait. “Thank you, August. You’re so sweet,” I counter before taking a drink of my wine. I breathe out after the sip, exhaling into the silence that follows. When I look out the window, the night surrounds us and snow continues to fall in thick waves. My mind travels to the frigid, unforgiving air I felt this morning, and I’m grateful for the cozy refuge of the cabin.
When I face the table again, I realize Gus has been watching me.
“So, why Montana? I assume most people don’t immigrate to London just to come back to Montana, of all places.”
“I expatriated.”
“Just because we’re American doesn’t mean we get to use a special word for it.”
“Fair enough,” he murmurs. “Well, I grew up here.”
Several beats of silence pass before I realize he’s not going to say anything else.
“Like here?” I press. “In this cabin?”
He shakes his head. “I started building this place four years ago. I come back whenever I can to work on it.”
Skeptical, I furrow my brow. “What do you mean you ‘work on it?’ Like, you take conference calls from here instead of your office?”
“I build,” he clarifies like he’s teaching me how to use these words in a sentence.
“You build? Build what?”
“Rooms. Furniture. Whatever I want.”
My confusion melts into surprise—and then slowly into disbelief. My hand flattens on the tabletop of its own volition. “Did you make this table?”
He nods. That’s it—a nod is his way of telling me he constructed a gorgeous dining table. It’s intentionally unfinished: the natural edges of the tree remain along the edges. It’s stunning, honestly.
“You know you could buy any table you want,” I remind him, but I’m speaking for the sake of speaking. He knows he can buy anything, but we both know there would be no reason for him to pick a different table. The one he built couldn’t be more perfect for this dining room.
I drag my finger, tracing the grain. As my hand moves, his eyes track its path with deadly focus, like me caressing his handiwork does something for him.
“Where did you learn to make this?”
“You ask so many questions, Julia,” he replies with another sigh.
“Where did you learn to make this?” I repeat.
“Summer camp.”
“August,” I intone warningly.
He raises his wine glass and drinks deeply, blue eyes on me the entire time. “My grandfather was a carpenter,” he finally murmurs.
