“Don’t run,” I warn. “You’ll spill it everywhere.”
I close the door again behind him, leaving Blair and me alone in the kitchen. The silence stretches, filled only by the sound of Gus’s hopeful panting and the tick of the wall clock.
“That was nice of you,” Blair says finally.
“What was?”
“Looking out for your neighbour like that. Even grumpy ferry captains have their soft spots, apparently.”
I raise an eyebrow at that, but she smiles innocently.
“Flora’s been very good to us over the years. It’s the least I can do.”
“Still, it’s sweet. Very . . . community-minded.”
“Hmm.” I turn to the hob and busy myself wiping it down.
A minute later the back door bursts open and Finn crashes back in, cheeks flushed, obviously having run the whole way back.
“Flora says thank you and that it smells brilliant,” he announces, kicking his shoes off. “Can we eat now? I’m starving.”
We settle around the kitchen table and tuck in.
“Wow, this is really good,” Blair says after her first bite. “You two are quite the cooks.”
Finn beams proudly.
“It’s just bolognese,” I mutter, twirling spaghetti around my fork.
“Still, it’s delicious.” She nods toward the window. “And what a view to eat it with. I bet you never get tired of looking out at the water.”
I glance out at the grey sea, choppy with whitecaps. “It’s all right.”
Christ, I sound like a right misery. But something about having her here, in our space, at our table, has me on edge. This is where Finn and I have our best conversations, where he tells me about his day, where we make our plans. It’s ours.
Finn, thankfully, seems oblivious to the tension. He’s already got sauce around his mouth and is slurping up long strands of spaghetti, not a care in the world.
“Finn,” I warn. “Manners.”
“But it’s more fun this way.” He demonstrates by sucking up an especially long piece, which snaps back and flicks sauce onto his chin. Blair laughs, the sound warm and easy.
Finn isn’t the only one playing up. Gus positions himself by Blair’s chair, chin resting on her thigh, angling for scraps.
“Gus, no begging,” I say.
“It’s okay.” Blair reaches down to give him a pat. “He’s not bothering me.”
“Trust me, he’s shameless. Don’t encourage him.”
“All right. Sorry, Gus. This princess isn’t sharing with the castle guard dog. But Finn, why don’t we tell your dad about our adventure at the library on Thursday?”
And just like that, Finn’s off. Between mouthfuls, he gives an animated account of their trip to see Blair’s friend Ellie, how they picked out new books, how Blair helped him find a series about Vikings he’s now obsessed with.
He doesn’t stop there, though. He tells me all about the other stuff they’ve got up to these past few days, with Blair chiming in now and then, reminding him of things he’s left out, like their failed attempts to teach Gus new tricks, or the hot chocolates they sipped down at the harbour. Soon the two of them are talking over each other in their excitement, swapping memories and nudging each other’s laughter along until it’s like I’m eavesdropping on a secret world they’ve built together.
And as awkward as it feels having Blair in our space, I’ve got to admit I enjoy these glimpses into my boy’s days. Aye, I heard bits and pieces the last few evenings from Finn, but Blair has this way of telling stories that makes me feel like I was there, experiencing it all alongside them. She remembers the little details, and finds humour and wonder in ordinary moments.
It’s a gift, really. Her ease with words, her ability to bring stories to life. No wonder she used to work with books.
