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“That cost me three whole months of my life,” I declare.
“Really?” She looks from me to the wooden piece, and back to me again.
“Yes. It took me three months to make it in woodwork class,” I exclaim. I then go on in a serious tone, and try to ignore her eye-rolling and disbelieving laughter. “Although, I might have finished it earlier, if I had spent less time flicking small pieces of rolled up paper at Mr. Bailey’s head. He had this bald patch, you see, and we all made it a challenge to see who could hit it smack in the middle.”
“You are unbelievable, do you know that?” she blurts. The embarrassment has passed, and she’s smiling. Mission accomplished. “You had me scared to death.”
“Hey,” I continue teasing her, “I only saved you, so you wouldn’t break my precious creation. I mean, look at it. It’s a masterpiece.”
She giggles then. It’s this delightful sound that I’ve become quite partial to over these last few days. A light and airy sound that seems to dance on the air.
“All right. Well, our visit to Narnia is over.” I turn and start scanning the room. “And as exciting as it was, it’s time we found the stepladder.”
The next couple of days fly by, and we finally finish the Den. Moving the bookshelves took some effort, but we got it all done in the end. As we’re putting the finishing touches back on the room, Emma’s phone rings.
“Oh, I have to take this,” she says, walking from the room.
Now, ordinarily, I wouldn’t be interested in another person’s phone calls. But I cannot help myself when I suddenly hear a barrage of what, I am certain, is Italian, coming from Emma’s mouth. And I don’t mean broken bits of Italian, either. I mean, full on fluent speech in an entirely different language. She has moved from the Den into the kitchen, but the doors are still open, and having moved into the hallway, I listen with utter astonishment.
“Ovviamente. Grazie mille… Si, capisco. Sono stato da un amico, ma sto ancora cercando un posto tutto mio. In ogni caso, entrare per vederti non sarà un problema… Mi piacerebbe venire a dare un’occhiata alla galleria. Quando ti andrebbe bene?... Oh, capisco. Sì, naturalmente. Non vedo l’ora di farlo. Grazie… Ciao.”
I’m still standing in the hallway when Emma walks back out of the kitchen. Her head is bent, and she’s looking at her phone as she continues, until clearly, she’s aware of my presence. She looks up as she continues toward me. I know I’m gawping. I just can’t help it.
“You remember when I said you were a dark horse,” I say.
She grins then, and shrugs. But she doesn’t stop. Walking past me, she continues back into the Den. There is no way I’m leaving it at that.
“Hang on.” I rush in after her. “Are you going to tell me how long you’ve been able to speak fluent Italian?”
She throws her eyes up to the ceiling, thinking about the answer to that question. “Oh, from about seven months old.”
I frown at her now because, clearly, I have missed something. It then occurs to me that perhaps, it’s not something I’ve missed, but something I have not yet discovered. She’s talked about her mother being religious, but it had never occurred to me that she might not be English.
“Your mother?”
“My father,” she says. “My father was Italian. Is, Italian,” she corrects. Her terminology intrigues me a little. Was, and is, are drastically different terms where the existence of a person is concerned, and now, I’m curious.
“So, that was your dad?” I point to the phone.
“Oh, no.” Emma shakes her head. “That was the art gallery. My new job. It’s run by an Italian woman, and they have a lot of Italian clientele. It’s one of the reasons I got the job. Because I’m bilingual.”
“Good lord,” I exclaim, suddenly feeling like I don’t know this woman at all.
“What?” She smiles, showing off those delightful dimples.
“I don’t know.” I shrug, now not really sure what to say. “I suppose it’s just a little unexpected. Then again, I can’t say, you haven’t surprised me before now. You have a Fine Arts Degree, and your favorite band is Led Zeppelin. You’re this quiet, and frankly, easily embarrassed Brit, but you speak Italian like it’s your first language.”
“You thought you had me all figured out, did you, Finn?” She winks, still grinning.
“Clearly not.” I smirk back.
The rest of the afternoon was going wonderfully, that is, until a text from Gary dampened my mood. “We’ve got to talk soon. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
After dinner, Dad and Mom want to see the Den now that it’s finished. Emma is her usual self, coy and self-conscious, and I nearly have to drag her in with us. She deserves most of the praise, seeing it was all her idea anyway.
Mom is delighted, and gushes at the new paint. “Oh, you two have done such a wonderful job. Thank you so much.”
I’m hoping she doesn’t notice that her favorite lamp is missing. Ben hasn’t let me know he’s finished my commission yet, and so, there is a bit of a gap on one of the tables. Clearly, the freshened room takes all of her attention, however, because she doesn’t mention it.
