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9
Finn
Yesterday was an easy day. After the BBQ on Saturday, we all needed to come down from the excitement and take a chill-out day. Mom and Dad did what they always do on a Sunday, and went out for a drive. While they work at the same place, they barely see each other. Mom manages the diner and Dad looks after the garage and gas station. They’ve always made time to spend together on a Sunday, ever since Sylvie and I were old enough to be left alone in our teens. Sylvie and Emma hung out in the garden. I spent some of the day reading, and some of it checking out and answering emails.
This morning, everyone is back to work, and Emma and I are back to decorating. We still have the wooden coving that frames the ceiling to do, but we realized, while we were setting up, that we only have one stepladder.
“Dad says there’s another one in the attic,” I say, after texting Dad to ask. “Come on. Let’s see if we can find it.”
We head upstairs, and Emma follows me around the landing. I open the door to another flight of stairs, leading to the attic. Reaching a hand to the wall, I flick on the light to illuminate our way. I hear a gasp behind me. When I turn, I see Emma’s eyes are wide as she gawps at the stairs in front of us.
“I just thought this was a cupboard,” she blurts.
“It is. We’re actually going to Narnia,” I say in a whimsical tone.
She tilts her head to the side and playfully scowls. I chuckle at her, before turning to climb the wooden steps. Emma follows me, and I continue to tease her. “I wonder what we’ll find behind this door. Maybe a lion, maybe a witch—”
“Maybe a bucket of common sense,” she quips back.
But when I open the attic door, Emma once again gasps. “Oh my God.” Her eyes scan the huge room. “Look at this place. This is like an antique shop. Look at all this stuff.”
I suppose I’ve never really thought about it, but our attic is filled with all sorts of things. There are cupboards, wardrobes, generational stuff Mom and Dad want to keep - probably riddled with woodworm, but that won’t stop them. Emma has eyed a grandfather clock, which, bizarrely, belonged to my grandfather, fittingly enough. She’s looking at it in amazement, examining the tiny clockwork mechanisms on its face.
She swiftly moves on to pictures, and paintings, and pieces of furniture, gasping at all the things that clearly bring her a sense of wonder. I, on the other hand, have hardly moved. I’m still standing there, just watching her. She’s like a kid in a candy shop. Her innocence shining brightly now, as such simple things seem to please her. I can’t help it. I love watching the curiosity on her face as she slowly walks across the creaking floorboards, looking more amazed at each discovery she makes.
Then, I feel the strangest sensation occur in my chest. It’s like a flutter. I know what it is, I just can’t say I’ve ever felt it before. I certainly didn’t feel it with Miranda, and before that, the women I met left little impact on me at all. Yet right now, in this very moment, my heart is fluttering.
A part of me is worried, another part of me is excited, and a further part of me doesn’t want the sensation to end. Over the last eight or nine months, things have not been good. I used to be a happy guy with a sense of humor and an easy-going attitude. The divorce, and all the trouble and effort it has entailed, has dampened plenty of things within me. But since coming home, I’ve discovered, particularly when I’m in Emma’s company, that flashes of the man I used to be, have returned. In fact, I’m smiling again, laughing once more, and looking at things in a lighter frame of mind. I’m not going to say it’s all Emma’s doing, but she has definitely had an influence.
Besides all of that, Miranda and her machinations have not been in the forefront of my mind, as had been the case before my return to my parents’ home. In fact, I’ve hardly thought about Miranda at all these last few days. Emma has been like a breath of fresh air. Perhaps, and maybe I’m going a little far here, but needed air to reinvigorate me back to the man I once was. Sylvie’s warning is still there in the back of my mind, but I’m going to close the door on that for now. Besides, I don’t fully agree with her. I think Emma Bolton can handle far more than either Sylvie, or Emma herself, realizes.
Emma is now lifting large framed photographs of our family. They’re covered in dust, and she coughs a little as she wipes it from the glass. I move to stand beside her, and look at the people in the photograph.
“That’s my great-grandfather,” I say, pointing to the wizened old man standing beside an antique looking truck. “And my great-grandmother. And those children in the back of the truck are my grandparents.”
“Isn’t that amazing?” Emma breathes, seemingly besotted by the picture. “There’s just so much history in this one photograph. Is this your father’s side or your mother’s?”
“Dad’s side,” I reply, before bending toward a few more frames that stand, leaning against an ancient wooden table. Selecting the one I’m looking for, I lift it up to show her. “These are my mother’s grandparents and parents.” I wipe the dust off the glass, and we both cough and splutter again. Emma carefully places the picture she’s holding, back down on the floor, before taking hold of the one in my hand. Her fingers brush against mine, and a tingling sensation runs up my arm. It takes quite a bit of self-control not to take in a breath at the pleasant feeling.
After gazing at some more old pictures, Emma moves further around the room. “You have no idea how lucky you are,” she says. “You have all this space,” she gestures widely, “to store all these precious things. Our attic back home is literally the roof of the house. Not an entire room.”
I’m following her around like a puppy. Just happy to be in her presence. It’s another thing I haven’t felt for a long time. Happiness in the presence of a woman, family not included. She’s admiring trinkets, and ornaments, and paintings, especially the older ones. No surprise there. She takes a step to the side, and catches her foot on the debris that’s lying about the floor. I don’t know what she’s tripped over, and in that second, I don’t care. I’m too concerned with what’s going to happen next. Her arms are flailing as she loses her balance backward, and all I’m thinking about is trying to stop her from falling and cracking her head against all the dangerous and spiky things that are behind her.
Throwing one of my long legs forward, I launch myself toward her, my arms outstretched to try and reach her. By some kind of miracle, I get to her in time, and she lands heavily against my body.
“Oh, God. I’m so sorry,” she blusters, scrambling to push herself back to her feet.
I’m struggling to notice anything else, however, as her warm body is pressed against mine, and the soft aroma of blossoms and coconut from her perfume, dances up to my nostrils. My arms are tucked beneath hers, and her back is pressed against my stomach. At that second, I have the overwhelming urge to pull her in closely and hold her. Instead, I use a combination of my body and arms to get her back to a perpendicular position.
Emma is embarrassed again, and can’t lift her eyes to look at me. Clearly, she’s flustered, and I know I need to break the tension that’s building. I’ve got used to her reactions now. How easily she becomes self-conscious, and the expression she displays when she’s very uncomfortable.
“Thank God I caught you, and you didn’t land on that thing,” I joke, pointing down to a piece of woodwork I did at school. It’s an abstract piece, and while it is funky looking, it could, at a stretch, pass for a display in a gallery. Especially with the weird and wonderful things they have in galleries these days.
“Oh,” she gasps. “Is it expensive?”
“Very,” I say, trying to keep a straight face. “Do you know how much that thing cost?”
Only then, does she raise her eyes up to me. They are wide again, and looking at me expectantly.
