“This piece,” she said after a pause, “is an oil painting calledThe Word.”
Jameson studied it again. “And what exactly isthe word?”
“The Word of God,” she explained softly. “The brown you see here is a wooden table. I’ll add an open Bible at the center, maybe candlesticks on either side.”
He leaned in, eyes following the brushstrokes. “So you see it all in your head before you start?”
“Yes. My process is simple. I envision it, then I paint.”
“Incredible,” he whispered, almost to himself.
Daisy pulled her blanket around her shoulders and curled back onto the couch. “So what about you, Jameson Kingston?”
He sat beside her, stretching an arm lazily across the back cushion. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
And so he told her.
Jameson was born in Surrey, England, to Neil Benson and Margot Kingston. His father, a musician in a moderately known English rock band, passed down a love for music. They would often spend late nights strumming guitars and scribbling lyrics together while his mother slept. But his father’s substance abuse and hard-living lifestyle eventually shattered the family. By the time Jameson was nine, his parents had split. His mother, determined to start fresh, followed her brother to Boston.
While their parents worked to carve out the “American Dream,” Jameson built his own kind of safety, teaching his cousins to play instruments and forming a ragtag band they called The Kings Court.Music stitched their lives together, even as everything else shifted.
After six years, opportunity pulled the family west—his uncle was offered a position at UCSF Medical Center, and his mother, a nurse, found work at a hospital in San Mateo. Without hesitation, they packed up and left Boston behind.
Daisy listened, rapt. His voice was low, threaded with the weight of memory.
Suddenly, a realization hit her. “Oh… it all makes sense now.”
Jameson quirked a brow. “What does?”
“Your accent. I’ve always wondered why you didn’t sound more… British. I can hear it, but it’s softer. Living here for six years, it’s no wonder it’s a little watered down.”
He smirked. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Please do.”
Their laughter faded into quiet comfort. Daisy hesitated before asking, “So why do you have your mother’s last name?”
He shook his head. “Short version: my parents were never married. So Mum gave me the Kingston name.”
“I see.”
“Honestly, I’m glad she did. ‘Bensons Court’ doesn’t have quite the same ring.”
Daisy grinned at that, then gathered her courage for a more delicate question. “Can I ask you something else? Unrelated to family?”
“You can ask me anything.” He stretched out, draping an easy arm around her shoulders.
“Why do you sometimes call medarlin’?”
Jameson’s expression softened. “Because my dad used to call my mum that. Every time he said it, she lit up like a bulb. I loved seeing her happy.”
“That’s… sweet.”
The tenderness in his face shifted, clouded. “Yeah, it was. For a while.”
Daisy reached for his arm, her heart aching. “I’m sorry.”
