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Emma smiles at his quip, and as she does so, deep dimples sink into her cheeks. I hadn’t noticed them before now, and it does nothing at all but add to her pretty features.
“Danny,” Emma repeats emphatically. “If I am honest, I do think I will quite go out of my mind if I have nothing to do for the next few weeks. I have always worked or studied, you see. And I struggle with the idea of sitting and doing nothing. I will be bored to death. Please. Give me something to do. It won’t even be for your benefit, really. It’ll be for my own.”
I can’t hide my smile this time. She’s nothing if not a good negotiator. Changing Dad’s mind is no easy task, and yet, as I glance over at him, I can see the conflict in his head. Sylvie sees me smiling and grins over at me. Clearly, she’s amused by the same thing.
“Well,” Dad begins, his earlier conviction waning, “I suppose we could find something. I know the frustration of waiting and having nothing to do in the meantime. Maybe.” He looks over at Mom. “What about the Den?”
Mom shrugs and half-nods. “We have been wanting to do it for some time,” she acknowledges.
Mom and Dad’s house is huge. It’s an old timber-framed house, built in a French Colonial style. A lot of the houses in Sharon Springs are the same. It has two living areas. One living room has a huge TV hung over a large decorative fireplace; there are sofas and furnishings and all the usual sort of stuff one might find in a living room.
The other living room is affectionately known as the Den. It was Dad’s idea. He’s a big reader. On the outside, he looks like the average mechanic, but his head is full of interesting facts, and he’s actually a very smart guy. He wanted the Den to be a place for people to relax. There are shelves upon shelves of books on every subject, from astrophysics to history and everything in between. He raised us to believe that we should never stop learning.
The room has tables with lamps—no bright lights. He has a thing about all the artificial light we’re exposed to, from the TV to laptops to mobile phones. In fact, he did try to make a rule that no technology was allowed in the room, but there was some resistance. I was all for it and totally understood his reasoning. Sylvie, on the other hand, lives with her phone attached to her. In fact, it’s a family joke that to separate her from it, we’d need the services of a surgeon. I’ve spent many an hour in the Den. Like Dad, I read a lot. But sometimes, I like to just sit and enjoy the quiet. It’s like stepping off the track and leaving the rat race for a while.
Emma is now looking eager. “I’d love to help,” she gushes. “What needs doing?”
“We’ve put off decorating because we just haven’t had the time. So I suppose”—Dad shrugs—“it could do with a lick of paint. You know, a freshen up.”
“I can definitely do that,” Emma says, now beaming that dimpled smile.
I’m a little transfixed by those dimples, but I pull my eyes away. I might not have been in any kind of relationship for over a year and a half, but I don’t need the hassle of another one. Women have been the bane of my life. Cute dimples and a pretty face or not, I’m better off on my own. I’m back home to gather my thoughts, get my act together, and return to the real world feeling a little more whole. The less time I spend with the opposite sex, especially one with a cute British accent and dimples, the better.
“Oh, Emma, that would be right up your street with your Fine Arts degree,” Sylvie declares.
I’ll be honest, I nearly choke on my peas at that comment. My eyes fly up, and I can’t help but look over at her. Though she was looking at Dad before, her eyes now glance over and catch my wide-eyed gaze. I quickly look down again. I don’t know why I don’t want her to see how impressed I am. Maybe I’ve just gotten used to hiding how I feel about anything these days. An expressionless face gives nothing away, which comes in handy when paparazzi jump out at you and snap your picture without your consent.
“All right,” Dad says. “But you’re not doing it on your own. Finn is back home for a while.” Dad gestures to me. “He can help you.”
Fantastic!
I don’t move from looking at my plate, but I roll my eyes. That’s just what I need to help get my head sorted. Paint fumes and a pretty woman.
