Chapter 3 - The Hearth and the Ash
"Put that down, Leo," Lauren commanded gently, stepping behind him and taking the piece of wood from his grip. She wiped his hands with the hem of her apron, but her eyes never left me.
Leo didn't look at her; he looked straight at me. His blue-gray eyes—the exact shade my father had given me, the shade I had cursed in the mirror for decades—locked onto mine with an unblinking, curious intensity that pinned me to the floor.
"He's wet," Leo said plainly. "Is he Santa?"
A strangled, hollow sound escaped my throat—half a laugh, half a sob. "No, buddy. I'm... I'm not Santa."
"Santa doesn't wear Carhartt," Leo remarked with the solemn wisdom of a seven-year-old. "And he doesn't have holes in his boots."
"Leo, go into the kitchen and wash your hands with soap," Lauren said, placing a firm, protective hand on the boy's shoulder. "Now, please. The hot water takes a minute."
Leo hesitated, glancing between me and the fireplace. "The log rolled out, Mom. It's smoking on the slate. It's gonna ruin the floor."
"I'll take care of it," I blurted out before I could stop myself.
Lauren’s eyes snapped to mine, sharp and defensive. "You don't touch anything in this house, Liam."
"It's an ember," I said, my voice cracking. "It’ll crack the slate if the heat concentrates in that seam. You have the cheap quarry tiles from Miller’s supply—I installed them, Lauren. If the sap pops, it’ll catch the rug."
For three agonizing seconds, we stood locked in silence. She knew I was right about the tile. She knew because seven years ago, I had spent three weekends leveling that very hearth with my own hands before we ever bought the house, back when we had dreamed of remodeling it together.
Without waiting for her permission, I kicked off my wet boots at the door and stepped into the living room in my woolen socks. I crossed the room, picked up the iron tongs from the stand, and expertly seized the glowing birch log. With a practiced twist of my wrist, I set it back behind the grate, adjusted the damper to let the chimney draw the draft properly, and used the brush to sweep the gray ash back into the pit.
The fireplace settled with a contented sigh of crackling cedar.
When I turned around, Leo was still standing there, watching me with awe.
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"How did you know how to do that?" Leo whispered.
I swallowed past the lump in my throat that felt like broken glass. "I used to build fireplaces, Leo. A long time ago."
